June Cleavered

I’ve been away from the computer for awhile. Combine hedge trimming miscue that transformed an extension cord into sparkly horror with spastic rottweiler trying to eat the electricity spewing extension cord and you have moi fleeing to the creek. Not that I was completely out of touch. Luckily, the hovel is within staggering distance from Chicken Poop Creek so every day at eight I make sure that my Charm’s work clothes are washed and tumbled in an inexcusably half-assed manner. Of course ‘eight’ can mean AM or PM; and because of rum it usually does. Attempting to serve my Light breakfast in bed would only aggravate our union’s spotted liver.

It’s hard for me to deal with political mendacity during the summer. I am a sun bunny. Basking in the glow of my god’s UV radiance, I melt away winter blues with Sol’s star power. Newt may think my religion pagan but Newt can kiss a particularly pale body part pining for segregation and Judge Bork. In case “Uncle Jed” is reading this, I am referring to my butt. Although I often fantasize that I am of French-Italian descent, my hillbilly genes will not permit nude sunbathing -- or paying that little extra for dental implants. It goes without saying that should someone bold enough to paddle through Chicken Poop Creek’s fecal current without obligatory surgical mask espy me insensate-upon-inner tube, please do not attempt CPR. We Solist’s communicate with our deity through Jamaican lager. It’s best to keep trucking and ignore the fact that my swim trunks are tight-fitting jockey shorts. (Those of us bred near Carterville’s spiky strip pits call them cotton Speedos).

Who knows when I’ll wear shoes again or sully my chi with Ed Whelan’s noxious online chatter?
Perhaps if I steer clear from talk radio for several months I’ll lose prurient interest in Mark Levine’s psycho-tropical drug regime. There must be other, more constructive, things to mull over.

I did hear that the pro-life Christian who murdered Dr. George Tiller isn’t happy with his jail accommodations. Maybe he can trade places with one of the terrorists imprisoned in Guantanamo. To hear Limbaugh tell it, “Club Gitmo” is quite nice -- kind of like a Sandals Resort without all the torture.

Juan Don