|Not our first choice for chariot|
Scott didn’t start up the pump at the dugout before leaving. Maybe he forgot, but more likely it’s because the gas can is empty. So I can hear the frogs! I’ve turned off the radio station, eschewing manmade sound, and opened the office window wide, instead. Between the determined croaking and the trilling harmonies added by the birds, me and my fluffy housecoat are firmly ensconsced in heaven, here.
Made Everett drive Scott’s red and white GM, his work truck, to town yesterday. That kid bitched all the way there, and all around town, about having to drive the truck. I told him I’d heard his message the first 10 times, and now Just Stop! But he couldn’t seem to. It was Bemoan This, and Belabour That. The truck felt different to drive. The brakes didn’t work properly. He can’t see out the back. There’s so much dust in the cab it’s hard to breathe. The signal arm doesn’t work right. No way he’ll be able to parallel park. It’s broken; you have to guess at the gear shift positions. Blah Blah Blah BLAH. Wash Rinse and Repeat, Drive Your Mother Insane.