Drinks, Doctors and the Price of Love:
Thought for the Day:
Know how to listen, and you will profit even from those who talk badly. Plutarch
(I know you would like to join me in dedicating this day to Mr. James Hoffa. Where are you when we need you, Jimmy?)
My Humanitarian Mission to the Deep South (Vol I):
As you the avid reader know, I have been on the road these past few days. Spreading good will and love for this great nation, much the same way I imagine Johnny Appleseed must of with apples.
Allow me to take you back to last week, Wednesday last, to be precise. After a normal day of labor here at the salt mine, I was invited across the street to my favorite bar to enjoy the company of my fellow workers. I met all ready in progress, Pastor Bob, The Dungeons and Dragons Player of the Week and the Bitter Red Headed Lady.
Our discussion took on an Oz theme, when we debated at great length as to who really is behind the curtain (so to speak) at our place of employment. That followed by spreading vicious rumors about co-workers not present. They took their leave, sadly I did not.
M. Chamberlain, serving in has capacity as bar man, was attentive to my every need. Friends, at that point in my life I made what I would come to recall as a regretful decision, that being that I needed more hard liquor. Somewhere during this pre-trip preparation, I slipped into a time warp and was struck deaf, so much so in fact that I some how missed my loving a dutiful wife’s 14 calls to come and join her for our evening meal.
She took it upon herself to hop upon her bicycle (the one I bought from the pimp last Fall for 15 dollars, still in the box) and peddle uptown to my favorite bar to retrieve yours truly. Pickled, was I. Let’s just say, I was in what even for me was “rare-form”. The Crosses this woman bares in the name of love.
Thursday morning, I had a doctor’s appointment, which I am sure I looked and felt my best for. I was sweating out the hard charging of the night before. While at this apointment I received what can only be termed the very best medical care they are able to soak my insurance provider for.
After a two hour wait, spent reading several two year old Newsweeks, I was called in. After 7 and a half minutes of double speak and two new scripts, I was sent on my way. Friends, I did not go on to work.
After a detailed discussion over the results of my testing with My Flower and her extreme displeasure at my reticence to heed the doctors instructions (as you know I have several advanced medical degrees of some of the finest medical schools in the Bahamas, what the fuck do they know.) I went to eat.
You see a trip to the south for me requires some seasoning, of the mind, body and soul. My mind, still reeling for the abuse I put it through, my liver spanked and sent to bed, my kidneys, working mandatory overtime, I decided it was time to focus on my stomach and all associated organs (which I might add are some of my favorite). Sadness to he, who doesn’t prepare his stomach for the fine dinning experiences of the Deep South.
I lunched at a famous hot dog stand in this my fair city, eating 6 Coney dogs with extra onions (onions clean the blood, or so I was told when I was but a strapping young lad). I then retired to a rare book store where I am well known, followed by a trip to an Army-Navy surplus store and finally a gun shop (I had to stock up on much needed supplies for my trip).
Afterward, I found myself once again driven by this beast called hunger, and only one destination would do, this great city’s version of a White Castle. Which I should note was the very first time I had ever eaten at this particular establishment sober. I would recommend to you the reader to refrain from ever doing so; there is something much more palatable in intoxication that makes this a better dinning experience than in reality it is. I ate 12 sliders, and friends they did their duty.
I then retuned to the manor house, starting my packing and making my calls. Confirming our departure time with Pastor Bob, who agreed to drive, since this was after all a humanitarian mission, J. Thomas, to let him know I was in fact going to be in Memphis, and to the local Baptist Church’s prayer tree, since, knowing me, any little bit might help.
I turned in early, sharing nothing but loving thoughts and positive energy with my Pretty Bride (ie: we were still not speaking to each other, since my doctor’s appointment that morning). It was with visions of sugar plums dancing in my head that sleep finally took me.
Indiana
http://www.hollyeats.com/ConeyIsland.htm
http://www.hollyeats.com/Powers.htm
Stay Tuned to this Bat Station for our exciting next edition, when we hear our protagonist say “…oh, no you didn’t muther-fucker…”.
"What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other word would smell as sweet."
--From Romeo and Juliet (II, ii, 1-2)
Quote of the Day:
The more passions and desires one has, the more ways one has of being happy. Charlotte-Catherine
I remain, much like the shameful wet spot on the front of the chinos of your soul:
JQP esq.
Know how to listen, and you will profit even from those who talk badly. Plutarch
(I know you would like to join me in dedicating this day to Mr. James Hoffa. Where are you when we need you, Jimmy?)
My Humanitarian Mission to the Deep South (Vol I):
As you the avid reader know, I have been on the road these past few days. Spreading good will and love for this great nation, much the same way I imagine Johnny Appleseed must of with apples.
Allow me to take you back to last week, Wednesday last, to be precise. After a normal day of labor here at the salt mine, I was invited across the street to my favorite bar to enjoy the company of my fellow workers. I met all ready in progress, Pastor Bob, The Dungeons and Dragons Player of the Week and the Bitter Red Headed Lady.
Our discussion took on an Oz theme, when we debated at great length as to who really is behind the curtain (so to speak) at our place of employment. That followed by spreading vicious rumors about co-workers not present. They took their leave, sadly I did not.
M. Chamberlain, serving in has capacity as bar man, was attentive to my every need. Friends, at that point in my life I made what I would come to recall as a regretful decision, that being that I needed more hard liquor. Somewhere during this pre-trip preparation, I slipped into a time warp and was struck deaf, so much so in fact that I some how missed my loving a dutiful wife’s 14 calls to come and join her for our evening meal.
She took it upon herself to hop upon her bicycle (the one I bought from the pimp last Fall for 15 dollars, still in the box) and peddle uptown to my favorite bar to retrieve yours truly. Pickled, was I. Let’s just say, I was in what even for me was “rare-form”. The Crosses this woman bares in the name of love.
Thursday morning, I had a doctor’s appointment, which I am sure I looked and felt my best for. I was sweating out the hard charging of the night before. While at this apointment I received what can only be termed the very best medical care they are able to soak my insurance provider for.
After a two hour wait, spent reading several two year old Newsweeks, I was called in. After 7 and a half minutes of double speak and two new scripts, I was sent on my way. Friends, I did not go on to work.
After a detailed discussion over the results of my testing with My Flower and her extreme displeasure at my reticence to heed the doctors instructions (as you know I have several advanced medical degrees of some of the finest medical schools in the Bahamas, what the fuck do they know.) I went to eat.
You see a trip to the south for me requires some seasoning, of the mind, body and soul. My mind, still reeling for the abuse I put it through, my liver spanked and sent to bed, my kidneys, working mandatory overtime, I decided it was time to focus on my stomach and all associated organs (which I might add are some of my favorite). Sadness to he, who doesn’t prepare his stomach for the fine dinning experiences of the Deep South.
I lunched at a famous hot dog stand in this my fair city, eating 6 Coney dogs with extra onions (onions clean the blood, or so I was told when I was but a strapping young lad). I then retired to a rare book store where I am well known, followed by a trip to an Army-Navy surplus store and finally a gun shop (I had to stock up on much needed supplies for my trip).
Afterward, I found myself once again driven by this beast called hunger, and only one destination would do, this great city’s version of a White Castle. Which I should note was the very first time I had ever eaten at this particular establishment sober. I would recommend to you the reader to refrain from ever doing so; there is something much more palatable in intoxication that makes this a better dinning experience than in reality it is. I ate 12 sliders, and friends they did their duty.
I then retuned to the manor house, starting my packing and making my calls. Confirming our departure time with Pastor Bob, who agreed to drive, since this was after all a humanitarian mission, J. Thomas, to let him know I was in fact going to be in Memphis, and to the local Baptist Church’s prayer tree, since, knowing me, any little bit might help.
I turned in early, sharing nothing but loving thoughts and positive energy with my Pretty Bride (ie: we were still not speaking to each other, since my doctor’s appointment that morning). It was with visions of sugar plums dancing in my head that sleep finally took me.
Indiana
http://www.hollyeats.com/ConeyIsland.htm
http://www.hollyeats.com/Powers.htm
Stay Tuned to this Bat Station for our exciting next edition, when we hear our protagonist say “…oh, no you didn’t muther-fucker…”.
Your Hairy Pits for the Week:
"What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other word would smell as sweet."
--From Romeo and Juliet (II, ii, 1-2)
Quote of the Day:
The more passions and desires one has, the more ways one has of being happy. Charlotte-Catherine
I remain, much like the shameful wet spot on the front of the chinos of your soul:
JQP esq.
posted by John Q. Public esq. at 2:20 AM
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