Let's see, I've waxed philosophical about my sitch, posted poetry, commented on essays, catalogued W's emails, discussed articles from Oprah (or is that just O?), b*tched, complained, rambled, and generally just wasted time while I'm waiting for the 6 month waiting period to run out (3 months) before my D is final.
So, what will it be tonight? How about a story?
I used to live in a small town (pop. 300) in the SW. Don't know if you guys know much about small towns, but in the western states they tend to be filled with individuals, and my town was no different.
Meanest people in town ran a restaurant attached to the gas station - it was called the Turquoise. It was awful food but it was on the main drag so got fairly good business.
The H was the nastiest piece of sh*t you've ever met. Had big handle bar moustaches twirled up with wax. Could change a tire in 3 minutes flat. The W had her hair all piled up and sprayed into place; she tended to hide out in the house, watching TV. Went into the restaurant every now and then to raise hell with the staff. Or the customers - it didn't much matter.
Well, also in this town was the river company where I used to work. Of course, one of the pastimes on the river is sittin' around on the boats late at night drinkin' a gin drink while you and everyone else tries to best each other at story tellin'. And the stories about this little town were always the best ones.
So one night I asked, "How come there are those big concrete posts outside the Turquoise? Everyone else in town has a log or something to define the parking area." One of the old timers turned around and looked at me. Said, "You never heard about those concrete posts?" He grunted, said, "Those owners have always been the meanest sonsab*tches around. Used to piss the old man off (his dad started the river company). One night the old man had gone over to the bar in the next town to drink. He'd had one whiskey shot too many and as he passed the Turquoise on the way home, he started thinking about how many of his clients had complained about how nasty the owners were. And he thought about how bad for business that was. And he thought.
"Well, all that thinking started eating at his insides, and it did it's job fast on account of the whiskey shots. So he suddenly decided he had to do something, threw the truck in reverse, squealed it around until it was facing the Turquoise, shoved it into gear and stomped on the gas. The tires squealed, the truck lurched and went hurtling across the road towards the entrance of the Turquoise.
"In a second it was all over - that ol' GMC hopped up the stairs, sailed over the porch, glided right through the front door and one of the plate glass windows, and landed in the middle of the pie display. The old man got out, grabbed the bottle of whiskey, looked at the truck, and said, 'Well, there'll be hell to pay but it sure was worth it.'
And that, said the older guide, is why the owners of the Turquoise put concrete posts outside the restaurant."
