Thrice In Nice. . .

Hey, I'm drinking beer at work, what are you doing?

Again, bloody hell, again. Last night I skirted the 4th level of salad hell inferno hoping to ride the momentum right the heck out of town, but little did I know that the inverse gravitational influence cubed of Bibb lettuce is the equivalent of doing a face plant into green Jello at 75 miles per hour.

So, now I'm stuck. In Gulfport. Still.

And to make matters worse, I'm out of clean underwear. Which gives me about three options.

I can walk around naked. I can go commando. Or I can buck up and shop at Wal-Mart on a Friday evening.

Neither of these options seem to appeal to my sensibilities. Just ask Nils, the Wal-Mart in Gulfport on a Friday night is a fairly frightening experience.

Yet, my boys down there rubbing against rough denim for a full day tomorrow sounds like. . .ah, forget it, this post is going nowhere.

I leave you with the kind words of my grandfather, Daddy Ray, who was more or less the human genomes of Archie Bunker and Fred Sanford photosynthesized in a petri dish full of bourbon:

Daddy Ray: "One of these days boy, when you get old, your balls are gonna sag."

Me: "But Daddy Ray, I'm only 8 years old."

Daddy Ray: "Son, trust me. I've got big balls and they sag."

Me: "Daddy Ray?"

Daddy Ray: "Yes?"

Me: "What are 'balls'?"

Daddy Ray: "Son, bring me another bourbon, I have to fire up the tractor and bush-hog the hill."

Me: "Neat or on the rocks?"