Velociworld

IVY LEAGUE

I have some ivy in my yard that I stolded from William Faulkner's house about ten years ago, and transplanted here. A friend and I drove down from Memphis to watch the Georgia-Ole Miss game in Oxford, and went to Rowan Oak afterwards, destroyed by the demon rum, where I ripped some ivy up.

This was the game where the Georgia quarterback, Mike Bobo, broked his leg, and we had great seats about 15 feet from the Georgia sidelines, and they didn't know his leg was broked, and so he was on crutches, and I was screaming at him "Get back in the game, you fucking pussy!" because Georgia was losing. Not my finest moment.

Bobo was looking over his shoulder at me like I had a tit growing out of my forehead, and as we were in the Ole Miss section, the fancy ladies around us were virulent because I kept sloshing my liquor on them, and telling them Georgia would beat their asses, only our quarterback was a fucking pussy!

Did I mention my friend was an Ole Miss grad? And so he would look at the fancy ladies, and point at me, and then put his finger to his temple and do that circular thing, as if to say What the fuck do you expect from a Cracker?"

That was a great game.

And so I have this ivy, and whenever the muse leaves me I smoke a bowl of it. It doesn't do much for writer's block, but it does make me an idiot manchild, in true Faulknerian fashion.

And I've obviously partaken today.

Next week: our trip to Shiloh, wherein I personally beat back Ulysses S. Grant with a magnum of cider, and a cap pistol.