Poker At The Mansion

False advertising alert: this post is not about poker. It's just the
only title I could come up with. Said Hillbilly Mom, ending yet
another sentence with a preposition. Two, in fact.

HM is a KnowNot. She has lost all creativity, even the portion in
her little finger that was more than HH has ever had in his entire
body. She can not think of anything today that could possibly stir
even the faintest interest of a studyhall teacher who has finished
reading the USA Today from cover-to-cover by the start of
2nd Hour.

Tralala...what pops into my mind? Academy Awards tonight?
HoHum, who cares? I haven't seen any of the movies. TV?
There's not much on TV these days. I watched an old ER on
DVD. What's with the charcoal, people? We know you give it
to the overdoses to pump their stomachs. So why do you leave
it all around their mouths? Do they drool it out all day? Do they
not feel it, and wipe it away with the backs of their hands? Do
those caring nurses ignore the black gunk and make faces behind
their backs, like, "Heehee! Look at that black drool! These ODs
are a riot!" It just seems that they would wipe it away.

The boys have been sick, and not up to their usual hijinks. My
mom's FAT RED PINKY FINGER is normal again. No gambling
trips on the horizon. The Annie dog hasn't eaten any UPS packages.
No trysts with my Sonic manboy who used to discount my sodas.
No drama at work that involves me. But Mabel, I've got a story
for you. No freakish weather. No Hot Cabana Boys. No stray
dogs or kittens to adopt. No LandStealer feud. People just have
not been Pissing Me Off at the usual rate.

So I'll have to turn to my surefire source of entertainment: HH.
Perhaps I mentioned that HH spent 4 days at home with the
plague. Or what he seems to think is the plague. He also came
home early the other day. HH spent most of this time sleeping,
sometimes in the bed, sometimes in the recliner that makes a
deafening ratcheting noise when he throws it back. Thursday
evening, HH said he had trouble getting any rest during the day
when we were all at school..

"Every time I get into a good sleep, something pokes me." He
pointed to his arm/shoulder area, the deltoids, like where you
get a shot. "It's like this...like the end of a finger poking me to
wake me up."

I don't know what to make of this. I would say he was crazy if
there hadn't been other odd things happen around the Mansion.
Or I would think he was just falling into that REM sleep, and it
was some kind of recurring dream, or that he wasn't getting
enough oxygen and his brain was having some kind of hallucinatory
spasm. All I know is that I've never had anything TOUCH me,
thank the Gummi Mary, and I've never seen or heard anything
in our end of the house. This is a new one on me.

Perhaps something from beyond is telling him to get off his lazy
butt and quit sleeping 20 hours a day.