Crumby Fusses with the Recycling Plus Digresses

Dern it! The dern paper mail sure stacks up in these parts. And I got to sort it plus recycle the dern stuff. How annoying is that? Yet, when nobody is watching, I may be prone to chunk a wad of it in the garbage. Cause that’s what it is, garbage.

Hold it! What’s this flyer? The Fellowship of Christian Warriors is meeting at the Holiday Inn Express. Dern! I’m too late. I could have took this flyer to that hootnanny and got the free sermon of my choice on CD.

Here’s the dern newspaper, more trash to recycle or chunk. Hold it! George Will is doing movie reviews on the editorial page. I better read that. What’s George directing my attention towards. Er. Compartmentalized family values? Gasp! Does anyone read George Will besides me?

What’s this? A demonic imp disguised as the Rev. Robertson has endorsed Rudi the Fascist for Kinglet. Gaaaaaaaaa! I better toss this paper right now. Er. But I need to have a plausible excuse for tossing it. I know. Bacon grease. The bacon grease accidentally got spilled. This particular paper was handy and got used to blot up that bacon grease. Here now. I shall just spoon a little bacon grease onto the front page. Into the garbage it goes, none the wiser.

Crumby! Have you seen today’s paper?

Uh oh.

Later.

Then after I was brutally chastised for spilling bacon grease on the idiot daily, I resumed my career as designated shopper. Rayetta's lens is currently up the bunghole of the Chief Pirate so it is for sale, of course, but not available. It may be available once the Chief Pirate extracts it.

Futile desperation led me to shop locally. A call to a local suggested, We have one left. So I actually drove over there. Of course, as it turned out, the one they had left was pre-ordered for someone else. Sorry Mr. Ovate. The one left is for another customer and we can't let you look at it.

Yet, according to the employee of the local that fills the bill as the Olympus expert, a big Olympus order may arrive simultaneously with the big E-3 demo, Saturday. Reckon Rayetta's lens will be cleaned up, presentable and available.

Actually, I knew before I drove over to the local that Rayetta's lens was not at that location. Ovates know shit like that way beforehand. But sometimes we torture ourselves anyway for the sake of appearance. Hellfire! I may even drive over there again on Saturday to gawk at the E-3. But, fer sure, I won't count on Rayetta's lens being on site. That puppy is stuck up the Chief Pirate's bunghole.

Some day I may get another job. Then, I may get another digital camera, a Pentax or Nikon camera. Except that, my last Pentax camera was a dud. So that leaves Nikon. I sure do like my Nikon Superior 10x42 bins. Or, I may get the C 5060 WZ fixed. Whatever! Jeez Louise, like Rayetta spells, I need to do something useful for myself.

Later still.

My dern worse leg is sure aggravating me. Why, I can barely hobble. Plus, I had to cook a meatloaf. The onion that went in the meat loaf made my eyes water. Rayetta, the pain in my leg has brought tears to my eyes. Can you or one of the other ladies, or anybody besides me, finish up fixing this dang meatloaf? I am pretty sure that my daintier leg is further severely aggravated by the continuing meat loaf preparation.

Nobody ever crippled themsleves fixing a meatloaf, Crumby.

Dern it! How could Rayetta possibly know that? She doesn't know that! A great many have probably crippled themselves fixing meatloaf.

Well then, somebody needs to fetch my staff. I need my dern staff if I am to hobble all over the kitchen wrestling this giant meatloaf on one spindly leg, blinded by tears of excruciating pain.

Nobody is fixing to at least fetch my staff, fer me. Dern 'em. They are all pretending not to hear my anguished cries. I know. Lulu, go fetch my staff.

Good girl Lulu. Go fetch.

Dern it. Go fetch my staff.

All righty then, Lulu, if you go fetch my staff, I'll make you a nice meatball out of the meatloaf.

There she goes. Here she comes. No dang it. Not that staff. I want my juniper staff. No Lulu. Take that one back where you got it. Then fetch the juniper staff. Dern dog.

OK. Thanks Lulu. Good dog. Lulu want meatball? You do? Yer such a good dog.

Can somebody help me? I can't get this meatloaf in the oven by myself, you know. I'm crippled up. Plus Lulu could jump me when I bend over to pry open the great oven door and get the meat loaf away from me. How about that, everybody! Do you want Lulu to get the dern meatloaf?

After supper, which nearly killed me, I went back to my regular chore, designated shopper. Guess what? That lens is for sale, but nowhere available. The pirates or commies still have Rayetta's lens.

But before all that, I had to rouse the sweet potatoes that some call yams.

Yams! I see here a whole lot of you yams assembled before me. What will you yams do if you don't go into the oven?

We shall live!

Yes that's right. If you don't go into the oven, you may live. And if you do go into the over, you may die. Yet many years anon, lying in your basket, rotting, what would you give to come back here, and tell me, Crumby, Bake us up Crumby, at 400 degrees, then serve us up with blackstrap molasses. That's right yams, your ticket to immortality is in that oven. Will you go into the oven?

Yaaah! Yes Crumby, we shall go into the oven. Crumby! Crumby! Crumby! Crumby!