You Wouldn't Like Me When I'm Angry

It seems alot can happen in a week. Since my last post, scads of bombs have gone off in Baghdad and far too many people have been killed (not that this is any different than most weeks, but the violence has been extreme as of late), the good folks on Capitol Hill are still bickering about things that NPR repeatedly reports on morning, noon, and night, and I've seen so much roadkill this week that, if I were an enterprising young man, I would have started my own roadside cafe specializing in carrion delicacies for Turnpike travelers.


Pictured: David Banner (Bill Bixby) transforming into the Hulk.

This morning, I had the privelege of witnessing a public works employee clutch a deer carcass by the ankle (hoof?) and drag it through cinders and across rumble strips as if it were a bag of garbage. He was also chomping on a cigarette and waving his free arm around while apparently telling a story to his co-worker buddy. Really, what else can the guy do? I just didn't feel like seeing it on my way in to the meat factory this A.M. Oh well, I suppose I'm a better man for having seen it.

So, I think a weekend recap is in order. But don't worry, I'll keep it brief: Michelle and I worked on our yard all weekend. No, really, that was almost the entire weekend. I'm am now a student of The Mulch. I've mulched every fucking thing in site: bushes, hedges, plants, flowers, the list goes on. Our neighbor, San Juana, walked outside her house and said hello... but all I could see was yet another receptacle for more mulch. So I ran at her, arms flailing, mulch spilling from my clenched fists as I screamed at her, and she screamed back at me.

We also managed to hit up a bunch of garage sales, estate sales, and flea markets. We scored some okay stuff, nothing golden. At the flea market yesterday, I picked up an old wooden swivel desk chair to match the one I already have. Exciting. Well, kind of.

The best part of the flea market is watching in amazement as the most horrifying gathering of people attempt to present themselves in public. I saw more slimey ass cracks, sweaty cleavage, extreme cameltoes, oversized warts, gooey open wounds, and awful prison-like tattoos to last a lifetime. But that was only in a two hour period. But, all grotesque visuals aside, it was the overheard conversations that really kept me going. Of course, I can't remember half of what was said, but here's one:

Mother to 7-year-old son: "You can pee when we get to the car."

Eww. I hope I park in that spot.

Oh well, there's gobs of work to be done. So back to it.