When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro. - Hunter S. Thompson

18 December 2006

My life, the sitcom

I am not fully in Raleigh, NC mode yet, and I must admit that ten years of New York life have corrupted me somewhat, linguistically. I swear a lot, among other things. And it takes me a few days to shift gears.

Late this afternoon, there was some commotion on the street outside Mom's house.

The nurse's aide who stays with Mom has a young dog, a boxer-pit bull mix, who is a delightful creature but VERY enthusiastic, and in his enthusiasm to see who was making the noise in the street, he bounded into my room, went straight to the window, knocking over a laptop table (sans laptop, thank God), a small folding table on which I had placed a fan, the aforementioned fan, etc. etc.

In short, there was a lot of loud crashing, following by some bellowed, colorful language (from me.)

To make this safe for the family hour, I will render it thusly: I first took the name of Our Lord in vain, and then inquired of Buster The Dog as to the precise nature of the reproductive act he was evidently performing.

My voice carries, and the window was open. I'm sure the neighbors heard me. They certainly heard me everywhere in the house.

A moment later, I heard hysterical laughter from the den.

Unbeknownst to me, Mom and the nurse's aide were visiting with our family's minister, who had dropped by to check on Mom, as is his wont.

They weren't laughing at me, by the way. They were laughing at him.

After I managed to combine blasphemy and obscenity in the same short interrogative sentence, he said, without missing a beat, "Oh, it must be nice to have Barry home."

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