So we get back from the mainland, with our latest purchase–a new dryer and all stocked up, ready to feed my flock of deer and my covey of raccoon (please don’t correct me) and I’m tired ’cause I’m sickly today. Got a stuffy head, sneezy shnazz and a hacky cough. Poor me.
In my weakened state I still think I’m Wonder Woman and can huck a 50-pound bag of wet cob up and onto a shelf in the animal food shed. I grunt and toss the bag toward the shelf and land the God-forsaken bag onto my left hand slamming my index knuckle and my F-You finger knuckle (what’s that finger called anyway?) squarely on the corner of the shelving, splitting open my knuckle and whimpering to Bob.
“Dummy!” He’s compassionate that way and says, “What were you thinking?”
“I’m thinkin’ I’m still Wonder Woman but apparently I’m off a squigdy.” Hack, sniffle wheeze.
It hurts to type. At times like this I wonder, what would Hemingway do?
Oh yes! Scotch it is! But he also had this warped animal-killing thing and that rubs completely askew to my beliefs. In fact, it rubs SO askew that I cold-cocked a friend who once said bad things about an elk. I think the statute of limitations has expired on that so I can write about it publicly (and, sort of boast too) now.
Anywhoohoohooooo… Later lovelies. I need to wrap up my fist, sling my arm and medicate. 🙂
While I’m doing that, you can do something too! You can buy my books. See what I did there? I’m THAT good at marketing. Do you think Hemingway had to market like this? Pfft.