(My youngest son Bluce might start looking like a hillbilly.)
Yesterday, I ate beef and French fries for dinner. The meal was good. I'm a huge fan of starch. I dipped the fries in A-1 Steak Sauce. The effect was marvelous. They tasted both crispy and tangy. I washed my vittles down with several large glasses of Coke. Sugary soft drinks make me purr like a kitten.
My cold is clinging to me as if it were a tightly fitting shroud. I'll be dead soon. And good riddance. It's not as if the world loves me, anyway. No tears shall be shed. But that's OK. I could certainly use the sleep.
I crawled into bed and watched The Following. This particular episode featured many flashbacks. One of the agents was brought up in the midst of a strange religious cult. The powers-that-be tried to rape her when she was just a teen. However, she resisted, and her parents were almost kicked to the curb as a result. Mom and dad still hold a grudge. Why? They lost their standing among the drooling psychopaths. Being crazy ain't easy.
I paid homage to the Christ God. I said the Lord's Prayer on bended knees. No big surprise. It's not like I'm some filthy atheist. My youngest son Bluce is having some problems with his lower teeth. They became loose after his recent fall. I asked Jesus to help him keep his original choppers. He's far too young to go through life resembling a hillbilly.
I went to bed at 9 p.m. I brought my notebook and pen to log the carnage. I had a terrible nightmare about being tied to a large beam of wood. I was floating face down in a pond. I suppose the dream means something. But I'm too stupid to figure it out.
I woke up at 6 a.m. I read the paper while enjoying a bathroom break. The San Antonio Spurs are the kings of the Western Conference. Nevertheless, I still think Oklahoma City is the team to beat. Yet what do I know? I've got my own fish to fry.
I turned on Fox News. The federal government is having a conflict with a rancher in Nevada. Uncle Sam has confiscated his cattle because he wasn't paying his grazing fees. There are a lot of pissed off cowboys shaking their angry fists at riot police and snipers. I hope this doesn't turn into another Ruby Ridge. We all know what FBI stands for: Fucking Ball-busting Idiots.
Anway, it's time for the song du jour. Here's Balls to the Wall by Accept. God bless.