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Day started out rough, got worse then Miller time arrived and not a pop top to soon. Not that it ended up makin' one dad burn bit of no never mind.
Me and Tug been out diggin post holes for the new beer deck addition to the Knemesis Cave. Got real needful to build it in as much as my spare parts room got annexed and I had to give room up for my manlies in the cave. Manlies being spare bike parts, outdated issues of JC Whitney catalogs, a partially consumed Snickers and my beer fridge. It was either build the deck to actually put the patio furniture on; that or lose a beer fridge. Not going to happen. Beer aint worth swallowing iffn it aint got sweat on the bottle within seconds after it hits the real world. Some things are just meant.
Now diggin post holes aint no heel for a high stepper long as the post hole digger has gasoline and the six pack still has a couple cans in it but when both run out at the same time ya know troubles brewing in the worst kinda way. Special since it was her knittin circle day down at a place called the Flaming Ice Cube. Got no problem her shacking up with her knittin buds for an afternoon. She took off with one of her blue bunned cronies around nine and half that morning and the day had real promise as I sat pattin the side of that ice cold beer keg Tug has just pulled off the back of his pick em up. Day was lookin real good.
Now Tug aint the sharpest tool in the shed despite his opinion to the contrary. But this AM he forgot the keg tap. A truth that came to light just about the time the digger ran out of premix and the last gulp was swallowed from the last cold beer on the premises. Now heres where things go bad to badder in about a nano second shorter than no time at all. My sig other left her keys in that feed sack she calls her knitting bag. Dang thing could hold the Good Year flying billboard with room left for a couple six packs of Sobe's finest. Still, she complains it cant hold all the yarn she has to have for one group gig. Hint here, she used my appliance dolly to get it in her friends car.
No keys to her now blocking the drive mini van, no fuel, no beer, six more holes to dig and Tug smells bad unless there a strong breeze blowing and your well upwind. Getting him to bust a sweat is no easy thing to do but when theres promise of beer, forget faith to move mountains, give Tug a shovel and a Coors and the planet itself doesnt stand a chance. Once the sweat is free flowing, it pays to be able to hold your breath and be real mindful where Mariah is makin' for. About noon the wind died.
Tug tipped over with no further motivation to do anything with the beer pipeline all dried up. I still had six holes to dig and not more than an Armstrong post hole digger and a spud bar to work with. Knowing I had to get the lumber in the ground before the sig other returned, I laid a luggie between my hands, skowered it in for the proper grip and made for China one scoop at a time.
She didnt know I copped the last of the checking account for the wood for my annex replacement space. Shed had it earmarked for a few skeins of something called Opal. I figured if the posts were in the ground she couldnt lay me out with one of them. It was a race for survival. Tug just snored or passed gas. I was still up wind so I didnt much care either way. I had serious hole makin to get done.
About five I had em dug and the lumber in'em. Tug woke up scratchin in places where guys have to after a beer induced coma. About that time my sig other pulled in with her friend. Both had a sorta starry eye glaze thing going on when they got out of the car. They walked right passed my construction zone. Tug didnt miss a beat in his exploratory as they passed not even seeing they were tracking post hole dirt on the freshly waxed laminate in the kitchen. Sig had a few new bags with her and her bud had a few more weighing her shoulders to an un-natural downward slant.
No way she could have spent the money for that much string. I had the check book, paid for my deck at the local HD at seven that morning. Then it came home. Frantically I dug my wallet out of my sweat soaked jeans, flipped it open and fell to the ground on weakened knees. She copped my debit card. Got no idea when or how, had to be an osmosis thing. Got me to thinking some kinda Yarn Force must exist. I shuddered involuntarily at the mere imagining. The check I wrote for the lumber was destined to challenge Sputnik for a place in space.
An erie mewling was coming from the dimly lit front room as the two string demons marveled at their new found treasures. I stood and staggered into the Knemisis Cave hoping against hope of of finding one last beer. No such luck.
I had to cover the check, My manly manhood was at stake. You just dont write bad paper for lumber. I reached above the ladder hanging on the wall and found my mason jar of emergency funds. I had enough to cover the check. It was going to a dry rest of the month. Make it worse, Tug relieved a few pounds of pressure about that time. I was downwind, walled in on three sides and I hadnt inhaled since I found my debit card had gone MIA.
Me and Tug been out diggin post holes for the new beer deck addition to the Knemesis Cave. Got real needful to build it in as much as my spare parts room got annexed and I had to give room up for my manlies in the cave. Manlies being spare bike parts, outdated issues of JC Whitney catalogs, a partially consumed Snickers and my beer fridge. It was either build the deck to actually put the patio furniture on; that or lose a beer fridge. Not going to happen. Beer aint worth swallowing iffn it aint got sweat on the bottle within seconds after it hits the real world. Some things are just meant.
Now diggin post holes aint no heel for a high stepper long as the post hole digger has gasoline and the six pack still has a couple cans in it but when both run out at the same time ya know troubles brewing in the worst kinda way. Special since it was her knittin circle day down at a place called the Flaming Ice Cube. Got no problem her shacking up with her knittin buds for an afternoon. She took off with one of her blue bunned cronies around nine and half that morning and the day had real promise as I sat pattin the side of that ice cold beer keg Tug has just pulled off the back of his pick em up. Day was lookin real good.
Now Tug aint the sharpest tool in the shed despite his opinion to the contrary. But this AM he forgot the keg tap. A truth that came to light just about the time the digger ran out of premix and the last gulp was swallowed from the last cold beer on the premises. Now heres where things go bad to badder in about a nano second shorter than no time at all. My sig other left her keys in that feed sack she calls her knitting bag. Dang thing could hold the Good Year flying billboard with room left for a couple six packs of Sobe's finest. Still, she complains it cant hold all the yarn she has to have for one group gig. Hint here, she used my appliance dolly to get it in her friends car.
No keys to her now blocking the drive mini van, no fuel, no beer, six more holes to dig and Tug smells bad unless there a strong breeze blowing and your well upwind. Getting him to bust a sweat is no easy thing to do but when theres promise of beer, forget faith to move mountains, give Tug a shovel and a Coors and the planet itself doesnt stand a chance. Once the sweat is free flowing, it pays to be able to hold your breath and be real mindful where Mariah is makin' for. About noon the wind died.
Tug tipped over with no further motivation to do anything with the beer pipeline all dried up. I still had six holes to dig and not more than an Armstrong post hole digger and a spud bar to work with. Knowing I had to get the lumber in the ground before the sig other returned, I laid a luggie between my hands, skowered it in for the proper grip and made for China one scoop at a time.
She didnt know I copped the last of the checking account for the wood for my annex replacement space. Shed had it earmarked for a few skeins of something called Opal. I figured if the posts were in the ground she couldnt lay me out with one of them. It was a race for survival. Tug just snored or passed gas. I was still up wind so I didnt much care either way. I had serious hole makin to get done.
About five I had em dug and the lumber in'em. Tug woke up scratchin in places where guys have to after a beer induced coma. About that time my sig other pulled in with her friend. Both had a sorta starry eye glaze thing going on when they got out of the car. They walked right passed my construction zone. Tug didnt miss a beat in his exploratory as they passed not even seeing they were tracking post hole dirt on the freshly waxed laminate in the kitchen. Sig had a few new bags with her and her bud had a few more weighing her shoulders to an un-natural downward slant.
No way she could have spent the money for that much string. I had the check book, paid for my deck at the local HD at seven that morning. Then it came home. Frantically I dug my wallet out of my sweat soaked jeans, flipped it open and fell to the ground on weakened knees. She copped my debit card. Got no idea when or how, had to be an osmosis thing. Got me to thinking some kinda Yarn Force must exist. I shuddered involuntarily at the mere imagining. The check I wrote for the lumber was destined to challenge Sputnik for a place in space.
An erie mewling was coming from the dimly lit front room as the two string demons marveled at their new found treasures. I stood and staggered into the Knemisis Cave hoping against hope of of finding one last beer. No such luck.
I had to cover the check, My manly manhood was at stake. You just dont write bad paper for lumber. I reached above the ladder hanging on the wall and found my mason jar of emergency funds. I had enough to cover the check. It was going to a dry rest of the month. Make it worse, Tug relieved a few pounds of pressure about that time. I was downwind, walled in on three sides and I hadnt inhaled since I found my debit card had gone MIA.
. SOOO funny! Sounds like cowboy/ranch talk to me... giggling to myself cuz hubby won't appreciate this.
