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Unreal expectations. That'll be the motto on my tombstone. Or maybe the theme of an upcoming tattoo... to be discovered centuries from now, the last remaining clue on my leather-like flesh to the motivations of a disappeared culture. Nah. Gonna be the oven for me, anyway, and a sprinkling. Too real an eventuality, so let's drop the expectation part. All this, 'cause I woke up at nearly eleven this AM... though 4AM sacktimes are not unusual for me. I blame it on the beautiful game, catching the end of LAST DECEMBER'S Celtic v Aberdeen macth before succumbing to slumber. Plus nearly getting suckered into the Arsenal v Man U spectacle. Now, you know this is an obesssion... watching used football matches. Verdict... cool overnight means cocooning in the sheets, head buried in pillows. Sleep and dream incessantly. About trucks? Whu'th'fuck? 'Til almost noon. I did my horticultural duties. Pulling chlorophyll bandits from the gardens X 3. Muck + thorns + sun + hoses = everybody is probably convinced I'm a hillbilly. Sheeee-it. I'm a pepper-growin' sumbeeaych. Last stop on the hayride at Slick Willie's... whose vast fortunes arise from catering to Jaguar owners. I used to own a '67 sedan, so I know what type of person is drawn to that type of torture: callous nouveau riche, or someone without the presence of female charms. Guess which one I was. Either way, gather a stack of fifty-dollar bills and set them aflame, or give them all to Slick Willie. So he and the Contessa can enjoy four separate vacations a year. Sounds bitter... but he is good for a laugh. And a beer at 3PM. Until he told me about a '67 Ford pickup he's going to sell. Not THAT motif, again. This would complete the yahoo ensemble. Southern Culture On The Skids. Grits for brains. Makes me want to scratch my ass in public places.
Did my best to emulate a good husband, accompanying Miss Jane to the Fewd Loin. Instant Lobotomy. My usefulness for the day, effectively over. A joy, wading through the riot of day-glo products and sullen cashiers... the only bright spot, Style Council crackling over the PA. Later, after playing caveman at the hearth, I dug into the vinyl collection. At high volume, featuring some vintage Annie Haslam... she of the four-octaves, and the striking eyebrows. This is one of my Achilles Heels. The arch of a glamourous eyebrow framing some bottomless peepers... second only to the smooth roundness of a hip. This must make me a freak among men... yes, ladies, a perky bosom is an inspiration, but you throw those two into the mix, and I'm Love Dumbass. Which leads to unreal expectations. Doomed,I tell you. Radio, tomorrow. Will the FCC be planning a surprise raid? Stay tuned.
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