June 7, 2004
I Could Use a Good Yak
And so:
I find myself sitting alone on the lanai, the party having pooped, the other combatants writhing in silent agony in various cubbyholes of the Velocihovel.
I truly love my brother-in-law and sister-in-law, but they are 10 years younger than me, and better equipped to weather these storms. My diet over the last 72 hours has consisted of chuck steak burgers, vodka, Ballpark franks, vodka, Fritos, vodka. My aged sweetmeats cannot process such disgusting swill with any manner of efficiency, and yet I am the Last Man Standing. Hah.
I knew to take a vacay day today, Monday, I say. Recuperative necessity.
About that vodka: the Ketel One was osmosed by Friday night, then we reverted to foul breeds of unknown lineage. I don't think grain or potato played in the mix. I suspect it was something more along the lines of essence of Norwegian wharf rat.
Bonus: as we had the Velocigirls' dance recital Saturday night (for which we were clean, sober, and respectable) The Bride's parents were in town. They smoked out the game early on, however, and took a room at the local hostelry. A good thing, however I am somewhat chagrined that they were not around to hear one of my forty or fifty screaming renditions of "Mr. Gorbachev, Tear Down This Wall!"
I'm also a bit smoked that my brother, Shelley, and Puddyhead are in Antigua, and did not invite me. It wouldn't have worked anyhow. I meant to tell him to find Clapton's house, and break in and grab some axes, Clapton being in Texas for that 60 guitarist shindig of his. Wouldn't want a Peter Tosh thing going down over a simple B&E. Sinful? Oh, yes. Criminal? Absolutely. But somehow I think Eric would overlook it, he being such a fan of the blog.
I almost forgot to mention the bullwhip injuries. Ah. Yes. We had the leather working last night, stupefied as we were. I got by with a small chunk of flesh excised from my left ankle. My brother-in-law was less fortunate. He managed to crack the thing around his upper arm, right where the barbed wire tattoo was going to go. He doesn't need the tattoo now, as the scar tissue will provide a reasonable facsimile thereof. Ouch. Some of my tears of mirth were actually tinged with sorrow.
I must close. There is one more lichen-encrusted Ballpark left, and it is calling my name.
Posted by Velociman at June 7, 2004 9:30 PM