Well, don't it look like New Jersey just sh*t-flung a water balloon packed with piss towards the air intermingling between there and the Pretty Man Building.
Be ready to duck, Leland.
My little man meat.
My little worry-stick, my fretting-post, my little "stress-reliever".
The tree-fif. Power steering hanging, lights on the dashboard coming on.
Soon I had the tree-fif on the shoulder, and was bemused, listening to traffic pass by mere feet away.
In taking care of the matter, "my own two hands", "these most unworthy hands", my truck, my humble transportation, became that institution and time-worn tradition in which good men repair.
I had tasty beverage, iced, two Iceds in the other truck, the rescue vehicle, the Chase Vehicle, "my support staff", and I was scraping knuckles, and musing all the while angrily to myself, feeling every bit, of sound mind, but probably sounding more like the docks on Saturday night.
There was language.
Also, I had a Mandarin lesson later that afternoon, and it was amazing, three words in English became seven or eight Mandarin standard Pinyins.
Oh, but I drove that tree-fif home. I always drives it home, as you may know already. I did that: I was up to that, and my muscles hurt for days after, my back pushing a bracing bar forward and down over the radiator cowl, most awkwardly, pushing and feeling the limit of the thing, the metal little plumb-bob in the thing, and I held it there, to the sticking place, for seconds, seconds seemingly on end.
The spirit of Ghandi was at my shoulder, looking on, and his placid eyes were a rebuke that in some ways threw fresh fuel on my ire. Mahandas, unfapped, gave me a Reese's cup, as I rested and took my Iced, got in my cups, got my drink on during the middle time.
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