"Damned lousy weather." Thirty days of rain, dark skies and darker moods. Can't get anything done. Normal weekend... Clean the kitchen, take a nap. Do some laundry, take a nap. reading and research, take a nap.
Wake up to whinning dogs and look at the alarm clock. "Awww, come on... it's 6:00 in the morning! What are ya wakin' me up for? Alright, let's go."
Take them downstairs and stand on the patio while they stand in the mud and stare at me. "Go on... do what ya gotta do. It's cold out here." They just stand there and watch me. "Ok... fine.... you can hold it all day. Inside!"
...heading back upstairs, stop at the front door and put on my last pair of flipflops... one red leftie and a blue righty.(thanks dogs!) With my socks wedged painfully between my toes, I grab a flashlight and hobble out in the pouring rain to get my morning paper.
"Damned jerk kid..." Where's my stinkin' paper? (And I gave him a tip at Christmas, too!) Can't deliver a lousy paper 'cause it's rainin'? I head back to the house, stepping in every puddle that I'd sloshed through on the way out.
In the kitchen, I feed the dogs their breakfast and get the coffee going. Without my morning paper to read, I eat my peanutbutter and jelly toast staring out the window into the morning darkness. I soon switch to staring at the wall. I should call the paper and complain about a missed delivery. Of course... the only number I know to call... is the one listed in the paper, which I don't have.
Grab a cup of coffee and head back to my room. Fire up a smoke and fire up the computer. No better way to start the day than by reading my hate mail.
The dog's ears perk up, and I hear the front door open.
"Stand or die!"
"It's me, Pops... Karl."
"What are you doing here?"
"Umm... coming home?"
"What do you mean 'comin' home'? Where you been?"
"Umm... out with friends."
"It's 6:30, son. I've told you before...this ain't Joe's Flophouse. If you're gonna go out 'slidin' with your white hoodlum friends' all night and come crawling in here at 6:30... you can go stay at your Ma's."
"Pops... are you OK?"
"No... I've had a sh*tty day so far. It's rainin' out side... my paper didn't come... and you come waltzin' home at 6:30 in the morning."
"Dad... do you know what day it is?"
" What am I, an idiot? Am I OK?... Do I know what day it is?... Did I have a stroke or something? It's Monday, Pal... 6:30 in the morning, to be exact."
"Pops...it's 6:30, alright. 6:30 at night. It's still Sunday! What'd ya do all day, sleep?"
The tragic part of this story is that it's true. Equally tragic is that it's now 3:30am and I'm wide awake.
Wake up to whinning dogs and look at the alarm clock. "Awww, come on... it's 6:00 in the morning! What are ya wakin' me up for? Alright, let's go."
Take them downstairs and stand on the patio while they stand in the mud and stare at me. "Go on... do what ya gotta do. It's cold out here." They just stand there and watch me. "Ok... fine.... you can hold it all day. Inside!"
...heading back upstairs, stop at the front door and put on my last pair of flipflops... one red leftie and a blue righty.(thanks dogs!) With my socks wedged painfully between my toes, I grab a flashlight and hobble out in the pouring rain to get my morning paper.
"Damned jerk kid..." Where's my stinkin' paper? (And I gave him a tip at Christmas, too!) Can't deliver a lousy paper 'cause it's rainin'? I head back to the house, stepping in every puddle that I'd sloshed through on the way out.
In the kitchen, I feed the dogs their breakfast and get the coffee going. Without my morning paper to read, I eat my peanutbutter and jelly toast staring out the window into the morning darkness. I soon switch to staring at the wall. I should call the paper and complain about a missed delivery. Of course... the only number I know to call... is the one listed in the paper, which I don't have.
Grab a cup of coffee and head back to my room. Fire up a smoke and fire up the computer. No better way to start the day than by reading my hate mail.
The dog's ears perk up, and I hear the front door open.
"Stand or die!"
"It's me, Pops... Karl."
"What are you doing here?"
"Umm... coming home?"
"What do you mean 'comin' home'? Where you been?"
"Umm... out with friends."
"It's 6:30, son. I've told you before...this ain't Joe's Flophouse. If you're gonna go out 'slidin' with your white hoodlum friends' all night and come crawling in here at 6:30... you can go stay at your Ma's."
"Pops... are you OK?"
"No... I've had a sh*tty day so far. It's rainin' out side... my paper didn't come... and you come waltzin' home at 6:30 in the morning."
"Dad... do you know what day it is?"
" What am I, an idiot? Am I OK?... Do I know what day it is?... Did I have a stroke or something? It's Monday, Pal... 6:30 in the morning, to be exact."
"Pops...it's 6:30, alright. 6:30 at night. It's still Sunday! What'd ya do all day, sleep?"
The tragic part of this story is that it's true. Equally tragic is that it's now 3:30am and I'm wide awake.
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