Some days I just want the world to go away. I don’t want it to cease existing, just to leave me the hell alone until I’m drunk enough to feel gregarious and okay with having company. All I’m going to say about that just now is that my shit stirring mother in law can kiss my hairy heathen ass, but only if she outlives me because she ain’t getting that close if I’m still alive and have anything to say about it.
Well, that, and: We just lost our favorite convenience store. It’s still there, but the couple who owned it until a few hours ago sold it back to the guy they bought it from, one of Amethyst’s former employers. The guy’s a bacon farmer, has a big old slab of it hanging off of the front of his body that makes me wonder every time I see the bastard how he can pee without wetting the back side of it. Could be that he can’t. He always looks like it’d take twenty bucks to get him reasonably clean at the quarter car wash. His two daughters are known to us (though few others) as The Hog Patrol. One of the Hawgs used to be routinely scheduled to relieve Amethyst at the end of her shift, was quite often two hours or more late, and when Amethyst mentioned it the Hawg’s response was, “Hey, I have a life, you know!”. Nah, we ain’t going back in there while Bacon Farmer Bob and/or The Hog Patrol own the joint. Besides, it will soon enough return to being filthy and hazardous — “Hog Patrol” isn’t about just their enormous girths.
Gawd but I’m a vicious bastard sometimes. Enough of that!
On the 4th I’m going to be cooking at the free barbecue that Johnny’s holding at his Chinese takeout joint. It won’t be free for us: We’re going to be about $150 into the Buzzard Wing sauce, which I’m providing. Johnny’s providing the wings, I’m providing the sauce and the frying oil (because soybean oil is the evil sweat that drips off of Lucifer’s disease ridden scrotum, and canola is from the pecker tracks). I might also end grilling the crab legs. Johnny also has in mind to grill some chicken wings, but I told him that once my wings hit the table no one’s going to want grilled chicken. I might be arrogant, but that’s not why I say that. Historically, when my wings hit the table everyone forgets everything else and I end up frying until the wings are gone even when I’ve begun with more than three pounds (raw weight) per person. I’m looking forward to it, and am hopeful that it will be fun.
I’m going to stash a little something in my truck, just in case it’s not fun. I’m thinkin…
The Cuervo Gold, the fine Coloradoan, make tonight a wonderful thing. 🙂