Paging Belle Starr

While waiting for the guy at Sudden Link to run my credit report, I noticed his fingernails.  They were long, shiny and tapered.  His disturbing nails distracted me from wondering what Equifax had to say about  my lax commitment to timely bill paying.   I keep waiting for the day when sirens blare and heavily armed men from Reader’s Digest Deadbeat Elimination Team Bravo Disney come crashing through the ceiling, blasting sterile office ambience with stun grenades:  the target is secure but shitting profusely. 

Exhausted after the eight minute ordeal, I decided to take a respite inside Jim’s Tavern.  Conveniently located several hundred feet from the county jail, Jim’s will more than likely become the place I brood over Bud and eventually get right enough to recount my encounter with Steve Martin.   It’s within staggering distance from  Don Birnam Manor.  Built before steam was considered useful, the damp structure would be perfect for filming reptile noir horror flicks.  The basement sounds like a crocodile is dragging its struggling dinner out to deeper water.   I won’t describe the kitchen.  Just thinking about and I subconsciously bend pipe stems into furry nooses.    Don Birnam Manor does have a Turkish toilet.  Try as one might, they’re damn near impossible to find.  The great thing about a Turkish toilet is that only women with natural panache will squat atop a rather small hole when performing numbers one or two.   Although I’m not judgmental, it is a feather in Madame’s cap if she doesn’t need a seat to drop a deuce.   Perhaps it does stretch the normal boundaries of physical attraction but I’m immediately smitten by any lady eager to give a Turkish toilet another go.