Not going to go over the top here, but I am taking myself out of the ‘Daily Lenny Business’ business. (not many enjoyed it anyhow. I did. But I did not ‘write’ for Lenny. I ‘wrote’ for me, and for the edification of a few of my readers.)
No matters…
So.. This is your last ‘Daily Lenny’. I do hope you have enjoyed the previous seventy or so.
There will be no more.
This makes me sad. (because there is so much more Lenny I want to share, but alas, I am tired.)
–Lance
This video really sucks. I will search out a better one. (Maybe tomorrow) I do it for the children..
This is a tale of two blogs. Or perhaps a blog of two tales. Or perhaps…
“More matter with less art” may be apropos here.
Indeed Gertrude!
(This post will surely go ‘viral’. Which by my standards simply means, ‘Six will read it. Three will ‘like’ it, and one will comment on it. Yep. ‘Viral’)
So without further ado, here we go:
My English Girl Friend asked me to mow her yard (years ago). As I was dusting off the old mower she remarked,
“I like it stripey.”
“Huh?”
“You know: ‘stripey’, like a golf course.”
So I’m thinking, ‘Stripey. Do you see a fucking candy cane on my shirt woman?”
Now of course I did not verbalize my musings. Oh hell no! I have learned a thing or two about women in my time. (Well certainly not near enough, but enough to keep my balls away from them late at night when they, just maybe, have had that one-too-many-glass-of-wine and have been ferreting about in the utensil drawer, coming out with a steak knife and a Lorena Bobbitt frame of reference.)
Anyway, hoping to scare up some Karma and justification for a ‘Beer Run’, today I mowed the yard and by damn! I made it ‘Stripey’, and it cost me, by my estimation, an extra beer and a half in sweat. You see, it ain’t easy mowing greens.
The next bit involves Real Drinkers (Yeah, but Y’all probably knew that already)
I lived with a woman once.
Okay, more than once and more than one woman.
“Round Round, Get Around” I got around!
(Stop it Lance!)
OK
I lived with a woman once…
She was / is (probably still) my best friend.
We had a rather platonic ‘lationship. We were more or less (generally more) ‘Drinking Buddies’. (Please remind me sometime to tell you of the time we drove her new Jaguar through a brick wall)
While I was working in Iraq I would fly her to Europe when I took my R&R’s. I let her plan all the trips. (I could not be bothered you see? I was too busy trying to keep a relationship with my ass and trying not to walk over an IED, and other such things which tend to keep one’s mind occupied. No. Travel Plans and Itinerant Itineraries did not fall into my Top Ten Things I Need To Do Today.)
Once I found myself between gigs, as it were (And I had escaped my fourth marriage), I ended up at her house.
She had a huge, and yes, Texan-Huge, yard(s). She force-labored me (and herself, to be fair) to slave away in the yardI(s) until “Wine Time” Which was at precisely 1600hrs. Believe me: I was watching my watch all day, hoping Einstein would make an exception and speed up his Time/Space Continuum. Just for me.
I wanted that fucking ‘Wine Time’ and by Jove! I wanted it Now!
So, the two of us would shake (and rattle and prattle and roll) until ‘Wine Time’.
Who were we kidding?
I finally secured a new Gig in Afghanistan and escaped
And not one moment too soon.
The daily anticipation of ‘Wine Time’ almost did me in.
***
These two posts were inspired by my sometime muse, Mark.
Well, Mark’s site always seems to inspire me to write some reeeely stupid shit. And yes, I use ‘stupid shit’ as a term of Endearment, when referring to Mark’s Blog (and his column in ‘The Syracuse New Times’)
But, using Mark in this shamless fashion often gets me in Trouble with My Real Muse. Let’s call her Maggie, as that is her name. (shhhh! Don’t tell, but if you get ‘stuck’ with Writer’s Block head on over to Mr. Mark’s Page. You will depart with a month’s worth of shit to write about… Please don’t quote me. I have to live with my muse, and sometimes, well… She just ain’t amused)
She has been with me for some years (many years and beers).
Well, today, as I was laughing my ass off at something Mark posted, she woke up from her nap.
“Hiya Maggie. How was your nap?”
“I had a horrible dream,” she said.
“Oh, I am so sorry,” I said back. “What was your dream?”
“I dreamt you were cheating on me.”
“Nonsense!” I said with not enough sincerity.
“Yes! And I am a fucking Muse, and I know about these things. Back when I was working for Will, he used to cheat on me with that bitch Viola. I dumped his ass and he never wrote another play worth a shit or a cup of warm spit.”
(Opps! Nothing worse than a woman scorned for fury. Note to self: “hide the steak knives.”)
And just in case Y’all don’t yet think I have gone completely insane, I leave you with this:
