So, I'm going to have my reservations for the long journey home made today. I'm a bit concerned about several things, though. Who's going to pick me up from the airport? Will that person be willing to take me directly to Target instead of home? I may need some kitchen crap. I may need to lug a microwave oven around in one of those hand baskets. Will Katy speak to me when I get home? Will she avoid eye contact for a month to punish me? Will Buster have crapped all over the deck? That's not even a question -- it's a statement of factuality. When I get home, will anyone remember me, or will they all have assumed that I died/was fired/wandered away? Can we have a big ol' redneck party? Is the General Lee really the sexiest car ever? How long will it take me to get the good cable installed? Will my car start?
I have become addicted to Lyle Lovett.
Radio 1 did another fabulous thing this morning. It was really the same fabulous thing Chris Moyles did a couple of weeks ago -- some over-produced, mega-orchestrated, synthesized Ashlee Simpson-wanna be was being played, and he just stopped the song and said it was rubbish. I just lurve that.
While we were
making our holiday on vacation, the greggers found a new author that anyone who likes Bill Bryson will love: Pete McCarthy. He's British of Irish origin and is wear-an-adult-diaper funny. But here's the crap part: He's dead. He died in October last year after having written only TWO books. Jeezy Chreezy. Just find something good, and there's no feckin more. That's all. You like this? Tough shit, it's all gone. Suck on that, princess. What? Not fair? Ha!
35 days to go. I wonder if I'll be overwhelmed and do some Vietnam POW maneuver in my emotional state, like kissing the runway. Of course, in San Antonio, I'd have to kiss the Jetway or the floor of the airport, and that's just disgusting. I'm getting home on a Tuesday, so I think Wednesday should be Steak Nite. That way I can see little Scrumpy! Here's a picture of Scrumpy:
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