“Them steam trains don’t run through here no more, boy,” he said.
“Ger yer ass down the road.”
The railroad bull raised his club and brought it down fast to strike with authority. And right before his well-worn blackjack split my wig, I woke up.
It’s always under the influence of a fever that my dreams go into over driven technicolor; and where the long suffering hobo motif came from, I have no idea.
And that’s about it, unless you choose to count being flat on my back and coughing my brains out. I am, however, managing what will measure up as the world’s longest Anthony Bourdain marathon (thanks to Netflix and a Roku box) while the sputum flies to and fro.
Quite simply, if we were to examine a dog turd for the existence some type of rudimentary chordal nervous system. Say we were able to establish that it did indeed possess some form of receptor and effector organs; then there’s the part where you dissect it bluntly with a cold wire clothes hanger looking for hair and bone fragments?
That would be me………..today I am the turd.
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1 response so far ↓
1 Dick // Jan 30, 2010 at 9:30 am
Can’t see any issue with a day long AB marathon. I’ve done a few myself.
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