small brush shouldn't fuck with big timber

Death's Door, the view from the Spanish announcers table: <strong>sweatin the small stuff</strong>

Friday, October 1

sweatin the small stuff

Hey, it’s fuckin Friday and I haven’t climbed the bell-tower or tried to walk out my ninth floor window. Muthafuckin sweet sweet fuckin Friday at fuckin last, so how bouts we do a special edition of sweatin the small stuff.

Monday me and my boy Dave had to drive a truck down to beautiful Springfield, Missouri to pick up some shit for the Man. I normally look forward too and dig driving trucks and shit but after the first fifty miles or so I turned to Dave and said, “you got a CDL don’t you? Good, you can drive this muthafucker”. Ryder went out of their way to make sure we were driving the biggest piece of shit truck they had on the fuckin lot. Between the top of the truck sounding like it was gonna blow off any minute, and the stinkin electronics going out and shit. And don’t even get me started on how slow the muthafucker was. It was flat assed embarrassing when the mini van full of old blue hairs stopped playing cribbage long enough to flip us off as they blew past us at a lip peeling sixty miles an hour. But the drive back was real cool cause it was getting on toward evening and shit and we had the full moon as a driving companion. I don’t know if it was the country air or what but the moon was huge. At times it seemed that if I could just stretch my arm out of the window far enough I could touch it. Another thing I dig is looking at all the farmhouses, especially at dusk. I always imagine everyone sitting down to a home cooked meal around the big table in the kitchen. Ma, and pa, just back from a long day in the fields and all the kids. I wonder what would happen if I just pulled over and knocked on the back door? Would they give me a country greeting and invite me in to sit a spell? Or would they just shoot my black ass up off their doorstep and slop me to the pigs? Such food for thought huh?

Another thing looking at all the farmhouses brought to mind. Remember back when you were a kid and you had this old mutt dog for a best friend and pet? And one day your father walked up and you went,
“but daddy, why did Sparky have to go away”?
And your father told you that Sparky was in a better place cause he found a farm where old Sparky could run to his heart’s delight and chase rabbits and cows and shit? And you felt better cause even though your best pal was gone, he must be having the time of his life cause he had this huge farm to run around on and all kinds of neat shit to do. Kind’a like doggy heaven. (hint) (hint). Well I got to thinking on all that and mentioned to Dave how wasn’t it something how so many father’s living in the inner city just happened to know all these muthafucker’s with farms? All who were owned by kind old farmers more then happy to give shelter and a new home to any old hound that needed it? I mean like how often was it that whenever the family pooch went missing that the kid was told that it’s on a farm out in the country living large like a muthafucker. Fuck, that shit was so common that you figured somewhere there’s this one farm just full of hoards of the furry muthafuckers. How is Sparky anyway?

Anyway, the next day we had to dump off Ryder’s crappy truck and since we weren’t too far from my mother’s house where my bike was parked I decided to stop by and show it to Dave. It was kind’a early and I didn’t want to disturb my mother, so I parked in my sister’s driveway and we walked on around to the back yard. We’re standing there talking and fuckin with the bike when my mother appeared from around the side of the house wearing nothing but her house robe.
“Boy, you better start letting me know when you’re coming back here”
I apologized and introduced her to Dave and after a bit she went on back into the house. Later in the van Dave made mention of how he noticed that my mother never showed her right hand. That all the time she stood out there talking to us she never once took her hand out of the pocket of her robe. I said yeah, plus instead of opening the back door, which makes noise, she came thru the front door and snuck around the side of the house where we had our backs to her. It’s a good thing we were who we were huh?

"and the monkey flipped the switch"

2 Comments:

Blogger your brother said...

You had a similar incident with the old man some years back I believe. The Beck family,we'll greet you with a handshake or rounds of .38 or .45ACP,(my own personal favorite.) your choice.

1:07 PM  
Blogger joe said...

I think that might be the best essay on heaven I've ever read.

5:30 AM  

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