I have several issues simmering on the front burner tonight. That
does not include the pot of vegetable beef soup, which was on
the back burner. I don't know why I make soup. #2 son had to
be threatened to eat five bites or go hungry. HH says he likes
my soup, he just doesn't like the juice. Umm...which I believe
IS THE SOUP. One time I caught him with a bowl piled six
inches high with an entire roast. The roast that I thought was
in the soup. He digs out what he wants and leaves the rest.
So my soup is kind of thick. This doesn't please #1 son, who
when asked how he enjoyed his soup, said, "Well, it was not
so much soup as it was a bowl of assorted vegetables." You
can't please all of the hillbillies any of the time.
The most pressing issue is this horrendously painful pimply-
ingrown-hair-thingy that is up inside my right nostril. I don't
know what it is. I can't see it. I can't feel a definite shape, even
though I've had my hand up in there almost to the elbow. It
has been marinating since Saturday. Each day is more painful
than the next. All I can do is coat the inside of the nostril with
triple-antibiotic ointment. I might be overdosing on it. I don't
want to take a chance on getting a staph infection and having
one of the local doctors tell me he must cut off my nose...
please return in seven days with a decision. Where, oh where,
is StewedHamm when I need him? I forgot how he solved his
nose-pimple thingy. I'm sure he would be a font of information.
Next, I have received a personal invitation from Harrah's to
join them for an evening of gambling on Friday night. Well, I
mean, it's an email with my name on it, for only $59 for a
Friday night, which usually goes for oh...let me see...I'm
thinkin'...about $169. Yeah! I'm a high roller, baby! They
just can't keep from begging me to play. Next thing you
know, Caesar's will be sending a private jet to whisk me
away to Vegas. Baby.
Now that I have sent in my official Design-A-Lottery-Ticket
entry, I am afraid that I might make the top 20. Oh, yeah. I
don't lack in the confidence category. Some say it borders on
narcissistic personality disorder. Go figure! Just because it's
all about me. Anyhoo...the reason I am worried about success
is that on the entry form, you HAVE TO include your date of
birth. And I've heard that it can be used to calculate a person's
true age. And then it will be in the Missouri Lottery news release
items that Hillbilly Mom, 101, of Fake Town, Missouri, is one
of 20 finalists in the contest. I will lie like a rug, people. I will
swear that those lottery people can't count, that they got their
facts wrong. Who are you gonna believe, a math teacher with
narcissistic personality disorder, or the commission that takes
candy from babies, cigarettes from adolescents, fast food from
the obese? I rest my case. Because I also fancy myself to be a
bit of a free-lance lawyer, without any formal law-school
education. A lawyer in the tradition of Perry Mason, not the
Ironside years. Stop objecting. It's MY winning-and-lying-
about-my-age fantasy, not yours.
Excuse me. I have some daydreaming to do.
3 comments:
The key to battling a demonically posessed nostril is paitence. Wait him out and force him to make the first move... then you can strike without hesitation or mercy.
Also, I like soup.
Who are you gonna believe, a math teacher with narcissistic personality disorder
I thought Mabel was the mathes teacher???
Stewedhammeringtherightbuttons,
Ahh...that's where I went wrong. I tried to strike first, and did a bit of damage to one flank. It turned tail and ran. But this other one is tough. I've been waiting it out since Saturday. It refuses to mount an offensive. It lurks, preventing me from even blowing my nose in the proper manner. I was tempted to stab it with a sharp needle today, but the thought of the repercussions deterred me.
Lantern,
Mabel is the REAL math teacher. I teach math to the kids who can't do math. So even if I'm wrong, they'll never know it, and they won't be able to repeat my mistakes anyway, because, HELLO...they can't do math. We also have another math teacher next door to Mabel, and two other math teachers in Lower Basementia. We mathies get no respect. The basement, indeed.
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