Sunday, March 12, 2006

god bless global warming

It isn't like we've had much of a winter, but the eighty degree weekend was certainly welcomed.
I spent today mowing the west lawn we relinquished to the rabbits last year. They proved to be poor stewards of their allotted land and did little more than reproduce and pockmark the terrain with their abandoned nests. However, I pushed through unleveled land and came in smelling of gas fumes and freshly chopped wild onion. My balding head was considerably pinker, and I opened all the windows and finished off half a sixer of Miller High Life while playing the upright bass for a while.
I take it that the the plan to use heavily sedated mink as a makeshift hairpiece didn't work out.
The common mink under heavy sedation may seem quite docile, and I suppose that it is, but what they don't tell you is that the slumbering bastards are gassier than Ed Asner.
There are birds in the bird house. They spent the day copulating on top of the bird house and taunting a neighborhood cat that sat perched along the back fence. I walked in on my own cat in an intimate embrace with one of my shoes. He shamelessly continued while staring me down. It was both amusing and disturbing, and I thought for a moment about giving the other shoe to the neighborhood cat in the back yard.
It's hard out there for a pimp.
I suppose so, but it would be hard for even unfulfilled wildlife to complain on days like these.
I'm still living under the oppression of March's six day workweek, but the representative of the current project's hated client has returned to the hell from which she had crawled and thus made the workplace a more tolerable environment. I had a doctor's appointment on Friday morning to check up on the stress-related mystery illness and was thus able to catch most WRVU's Nashville Jumps. The only drawback was having a nurse jab a needle deep into my veins for a few blood samples only to complain that there was little more than bloody mary mix flowing there.
She had only told us that we couldn't "eat" breakfast.
She had, and we obliged.
The twitching eye and dizzy spells have yet to completely leave, but a few eighty degree afternoons with beer, the upright, and copulating birds outside the window has made for some effective therapy.


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