Once again, I find myself blogging from what I have to assume is the Midwest's most profoundly tacky store. There's country on the radio and, softly in the distance, I can hear their discount windchimes tinkling, powered by a nice boxfan that keeps them moving.
The heavy stench of $5.95 fudge hangs in the air along with the heady reek of my own expectation:
What will I find this time?
If you haven't guessed, I am on my way out to the wheat to visit the paternal unit for Thanksgiving. I have been assured that I will be, upon first light on Friday, finding myself on my father's roof stapling Christmas lights to his home.
The fact that copious amounts of beer have been purchased will surely factor into this equation.
When I am able, I shall return.
Until then, I remain,
Domonic (perhapsthereisanicepolyresinSt.FrancisofAssisitobefound) Potorti
1 comment:
You know, your dad's is not too far from me in CO. Nothing takes away the pain of the neverending wheat like the sudden uprising in the west of a beautiful snowy mountain range. And Im willing to bribe with alcohol. Lots of alcohol...
Think about it:)
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