For real? What a washout. By the time I got home, we all needed big baths. The dogs got one first. Then Barnacle, then me. (Oh, wait. I was too lazy to actually get into the shower. I sniffed myself, decided that I was okay, and just got into bed. )
The one highlight of the day? My across the cully neighbor, Scary Gulf War Guy, just got some settlement on some workmen's comp thing, so what's he do? Pay his bills? Paint his mailbox? Fix his hang-y door? Hell. No. He buys a brandnewscreaming red corvette.
So he's out dicking around with it in his driveway. Nothing neat, new or special about that. It has also happened with the Harley, the four-wheeler, and the big lawnmower that he refuses to use. He's always out, playing with something.
Here's the thing, though. He has the radio blasting. Eardrum-bleed-inducing decibel levels. Wanna know what he's playing? C'mon, guess. Okay. I'll tell you. He was desecrating one of my most favored CD's. The man was blaring Prince, dammit. "Little Red Corvette" won't ever be the same.
Wonder if he'd think he was so cool if he knew the song was about vagina?
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