Was the previous post a bit mean, perhaps? Disrespectful? Rude and cutting? Well, be assured, dear readers, that I have paid, and paid dearly, for it.
Yesterday I arose with a wave of nausea that not even the most saltiney of saltines could quell, so I was confined to the couch with cold water and a good book-not the worst thing in the world.
And then I heard a sound a bit like a crow. It didn't start low, but it continued to grow.
Was it the sweet Whos down from Whoville, with their sweet Christmas singing?
Why no! It was the annual outdoor, miked for a Metallica concert, Karaoke talent show held in the schoolyard across the street, with many Mily Cyrus and Rhianna classics, as well as 38 renditions of Hot Cross buns on every squeaky instrument known to man, with KS too sick to drive out of town.
So, elderhostlers*, your great-great-grandchildren have exacted their revenge.
*I once stole an elderhostler sign, but honestly, don't remember the exact meaning.
***Turns out it's not a real word, though elderhostel is. Perhaps one who attends an elderhostel?
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2 comments:
Elderhostels are underrated as a source of poontang. Bottle of Arbor Mist and some snappy banter about air conditioning and you're swimmin' in it like Wilford Brimley in Cocoon.
--T
Damn you make me laugh!
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