Funky, Funky, Funk.
To blog or not to blog–
Whether t'would be nobler to keep my funk to myself, or share it with my twelve readers who count on me for regular pithy yammerings.
Oh, what the hell, I'll blog.
First of all, a splinter is no big deal, unless it's a catnip splinter that has remained lodged deep in the fold of my right index finger for three days now.
I am tired of yelping every time I bend my finger, and I can't find the little bastard with even the sharpest needle.
Second of all, my stooge repairman Robert the Liar never did show up yesterday and still hasn't called.
I wish I could blame it on drugs or some other external thing, alas, Robert is just a lazy, irresponsible lout who has been this way since he used to mow my lawn at age 12. Trouble is, he's mechanically gifted and can fix anything for about 10 dollars.
Finally, my car is back in the shop a week after I shelled out 1,500 bucks for Paul the Mechanic to fix or replace everything but the drivetrain and engine block.
The car was originally leaving tiny dots of oil on my driveway.
After repairs to things called gaskets and head seals and drum heads and flabber gussets and rocker covers and whatever other term he could coin, my car came home and started leaving big ass driveway stains the size of small pizzas. I think it's oil, but I am not going to hunker down and touch whatever it is.
Paul said I could easily drive the car to Canada if I wanted when I last picked it up.
I am glad I didn't try- I would have been shooting fire out of the exhaust pipes somewhere in Deliverance Country and having to trust some toothless guy named Joe Dick or Darryl to fix it.
I hate being without a car. I HATE IT.
Even as I write, I am sure crack addicts and burglars have driven by my house, seen no car in the driveway and have earmarked my home for a late night break-in.
Kids are using my oily driveway as a skateboard track.
Dogs are stopping to deposit steaming piles of crap on my lawn. Even they know a driveway without a car designates a safe shitting-spot.
Kitchen staples deplete exponentially when they realize there is no car to bring home more. I am out of essentials like Cokes, mineral water, fruit and fresh vegetables.
Oh, I could walk, except it's drizzling outside and threatening to rain. Plus my strong right hand is injured with the likely poisonous catnip shrapnel, so carrying bags could be painful.
Even if I did walk and returned home damp, I couldn't use my brand new dryer to dry my clothes because Robert the Liar flaked out on me. If I hung my wet clothes somewhere to air dry, my kitten James would jump up, pull them to the floor and leave kitty fuzz all over them.
I can't even shake my fist at the sky because, you know, the splinter.