So. Have you missed me as much as I’ve missed you? I had to take an unplanned travel sabbatical back to Texas for awhile to settle some business issues and I haven’t had the time to write to you.
OK, I just lied. I likely could have found the time to write, I simply chose to do other shit. Like sleep.
Unplanned sabbaticals are difficult times for me, what with the ADHD and all, because planning and organization are the keys to my abilities to control my mental facilities, and faculties as well. Said another way, should I think of my brain as my computer facility and my thoughts as my program faculties, unplanned events are like that Trojan Horse Virus that invaded my Word Press bloggie control systems awhile back.
One minute I’m standing at the checkout counter at the Sprouts over to the Arboretum in Austin, Texas, with a basket full of ripe avocados, onions, jalapeños and cilantro, and the next minute I’m sitting in the back seat of Deputy Sheriff Delroy Armstrong’s black-and-white 2009 Ford police cruiser.
Have you ever been held for further actions in the back of a four-year-old police car? Imagine the ambiance of the mens’ room at Chuck’s Chug-A-Lug—located three blocks off Bourbon Street down to New Orleans—the early Wednesday morning after Fat Tuesday. Take that sensory fodder and pack it into an institutional vinyl bag, toast the bag in hot Texas sun for two weeks, then open the bag. Let the opened bag sun-bake for another week and then clean it with institutional bathroom scrub, re-bake sunnyside up, and then use the vinyl to upholster the back seat of a Travis County Sheriff’s car.
It was a good thing that I allowed for some extra ripening time for the avocados. Deputy Delroy “Can I Take the First Whack at ‘Em” Armstrong is a badged member of law enforcement with whom I’ve numerously encountered previously. At our first meeting, Delroy wanted to, and here I’ll give you my best quoted memory of Delroy’s actual words, “Let me cuff this here Hippy an’ take ‘im out back, Sheriff Wozniak. Beat a little sense inta his thick skull.”
Anyway, I’m back to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe with no obvious damage other than the thick, black bruises on my wrists and the knot on my head just above the hairline where my skull “accidentally” banged the door frame of a 2009 Ford Crown Vicky.
When finally eaten by the crew ranch side there to Austin, it was a rich and creamy guacamole, and a perfect condiment for the slow-grilled goat I cooked while visiting. Gram patted-out fresh corn tortillas and Aunt Hilda made the beans and salad. The Squirt made me keep my window cracked on the drive home as Aunt Hilda’s tasty frijoles give me the gas.
Eye-watering, gag reflex farts. Farts I love to loosen into the tight, sealed confines of an old GTO doing 75 MPH between Abilene and Lubbock, Texas, at 10 am the morning after.
For those minds inquiring, I didn’t visit Mother while there, and nobody is sick—unless, of course you count the assholes who broke in and stole all of Sister and Anna the Amazon’s stuff. That’s the reason for my unplanned visit. The girls were on an anniversary trip down to Mexico when the robbery occurred, and they called to ask me to look into things for them.
If you’d buy my stupid fucking book, you might find the hidden reasons why these two lovebirds would choose Mexico for an anniversary trip, and I’d earn a couple bucks I could donate to the Food Bank. Then again, you can be a tightwad asshole and remain in the dark.
Maybe you’re a right-wing Christian Republican Tea Party shithead, in which case you can kiss my rosey-red ass and then go fuck yourself.
Anyway, I’m still too busy to write, but I am back to Santa Fe. I’m re-pissed at the Holy Roman Catholic Church, the Boy Scouts, and Wal-Fucking-Mart.
OK, stop. Can you be re-pissed at something whereat your being pissed was a preexisting condition having been exacerbated upon receiving new pissing-off inputs?
Fuck Walmart, fuck the Pope, fuck the BSA, and I’ll be back manana, y’all.