I'se on mah third cup of cawffee.
The birds is hongry, but they'll jes' have to git to work the ole fashioned way 'cause I ain't wading into the humidity to fetch 'em no bird seed. I usually feed 'em, like the Dems feed their constituents, so I can watch them entertain me. Not today.
I sliced up some peaches (organic) an' added a few blueberries (not-organic)--t'were healthy 'til I drowned 'em in a creamy lake of half 'n' half (organic).
Can y'all tell? Aunty is in a mood. A dangerous place done grown up around me like Sleepin' Beauty's thorny thicket.
Inside this place, I'se nearly comatose.
I has so much to do that the brain be near'bout paralysed, so, I ain't doin' nuthin' (constructive).
Yes, 'course I see the porch looks sad--no flowers an' spath lilies droopy wif' this heat. The sky is white, humid heat white.
Yes, yes, the buggy barn is a horror show--Uncle an' me is both guilty (I can admit that right?)--all summer jes' tossin' stuff wherever, now it will be a weekend chore.
Of course thar's a deadline (two). Guess why it is called a deadline? 'Cause editors can kill yore article, thas' why. (fer the uninitiated, editors set yore deadline early so they have plenty of time to do their part wif' highball in hand, Cole Hahns restin' on a leather ottoman. I know this on account of a few editors who respond to mah pleas fer another 6 hours, "No prob, Belle. I have three other articles waiting for me anyway, jest shoot it over by Monday, 8 a.m."
What? I'se sleepless an' stiff, bent over the computer wif' nuclear panic, bald patches show whar' I'se ripped handfulls of hair from mah scalp while slinging words around, rearrangin' paragraphs, callin' on the gods of Thesaurus, prayin' fer the sun to stand still in the sky so Thursday 4 p.m. cain't arrive a'fore the last jot an' tittle be spellchecked?)
I'se limp. Not as in languorous, which can mean a dreamy inertia. Oh no, this heah is flaccid, a torpid stupor--think Dali clocks.
Ain't it jes' mah luck that Uncle is on Prednisone an' thinks he can leap tall buildings in a single bound. He gives me the pip.*
Uncle be off now to some pawn star thang or whatever such is held fer hunter-gatherer tools.
He has hisself a bag of ole funny guns that he's hopin' some folks will know somethin' about. That bag bidness? Y'all, I had to rouse mahself from mah enervative state to forestall an embarrassment of epic proportions.
Me: "Aloysius, whar's ya' goin' wif' that pink bag?
Uncle: "I found it lying out in the buggy barn. Doan need it do ya'?"
Me: "It's pink."
Uncle: "Well, I'se color blind. Jes' need somethin' to carry these pistols in."
Me: "Aloysius, on account of mah mercy, I ain't gonna let ya' go to no gun emporium wif' a pink bag full of
He is especially curious about one specimen wif' an octagon barrel an' the hammer under the barrel--say it be some sort of crude "coachman's gun."
I'se pleased to see him take his Prednisone jazzed up self off fer a spell. 'Cause, dear readers, I'se so swamped wif' chores the onliest thang to do is to go to bed wif' Aurelio Zen an' a Long Finish.