I hope the Chinese never stop making these quilted hats.
We were enjoying the relative warmth yesterday evening, prior to heading into today’s miserable damp. Skinnerbox attacked my head, demanding some of my heavily diluted wine, a drink she’s become way too fond of.
This has the makings of a good parlor trick, except for the part where she shits on my shirt.
The bulls got out again briefly this weekend. It was my fault. There’s a double gate that opens onto the woodlot where I’ve been stringing some barbed wire, and I haven’t been using anything to close it but a thin gauge piece of chain with a snap closure. They busted it Saturday evening and Llewd followed the vapor trail directly to his daughter, Calpurnia, across the road. It was only a matter of a couple of hours in the rainy, cold dark; some windsprints, some applied blindfolded knot tying, and some plaintive barking of consonant laden words into the unknowing, uncaring void before we got them safely in their pen, the gate now secured with logging chains and a failsafe of stout nylon rope.
Llewd reminded me of a pool party my wife and I attended many years ago. One of the attendees was an outgoing girl with a pleasant face, a friend and coworker of one of my friends. When she stripped off to her bathing suit, we knew there was going to be trouble. She had been cursed with God-titties, and our friend Rob, whom we had already seen drinking earlier in the day, was on his way to the party.
Rob was always open about his sex life, tiresomely so, even.
We all knew he hadn’t had any pussy since 1980, or at least none that wasn’t proceeded by the kind of financial wrangling and sums one would usually associate with the presence of at least two attorneys and a notary public.
When Rob pulled his car into the ditch by the yucca border near the swimming pool, I thought about warning her to put on a shirt or something, but ultimately thought it wasn’t my place, and besides, we were all adults here. At least so far.
When Rob was introduced to her, you could see the bristles start to stand up on his shoulders and neck.
“Uh oh.” I thought. “Idée fixe, already.”
We tried to steer him to a table where there was some food, in addition to lighter alcoholic fare, like beer and wine, but he was sticking with his earlier beverage choice, probably Sauza Blanco.
It wouldn’t have mattered.
She was civil to him, which he misinterpreted. He didn’t do anything untoward, except dissolve publicly into a weeping puddle of hormones when she tired of him following her around with the bug eye, and left. The hostess of the party seemed to think the whole mess might be cleared up if he ate a lot of lettuce. She’d heard somewhere “It soaks up alcohol”.
Following her logic, I suggested that it in his case, it might take three or four cabbages. Stems and all.

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