So I’m laying up in the bed with Chuckweasel (like ya do), and he’s perplexed as to how I managed to fuck up my shoulder muscle Saturday when he knows all I did was lay on the couch and watch TV to rest up for the bar. And I had already done told him that I was playing Neanderthals and Cro-Magnons in the living room and I drew my
TV remote spear back too far and pulled something (TV told me the ability to use a spear as a projectile weapon instead of just a stabbing weapon was part of the reason the Cro-Magnons out-survived the Neanderthals, so I had to check). And I probably made it worse by then playing Last Stand of the 300 and figuring out how to deploy my sword and shield guys and my spear and shield guys.
So that’s when Chuckweasel rolls his eyes and calls me a nerd! Which is true but it didn’t need saying. So’s I told him, “You’ll thank me when the zombies come,” and he replies, “Well, they better, ’cause if they don’t come I’m gonna be pissed I had to listen to all this.” And I was irate… but then I reconsidered; you know, the spear-and-sword phalanx really ISN’T practical for fighting zombies… so I’m sorry, Chuckweasel. You were right. But you’ll still thank me when the looters come. The phalanx’ll fuck up a looter.
PS I saw a commercial that says you should “Make your kids’ big days Mini-Wheats days.” Aren’t you supposed to feed the little bassurds EVERY day?
PPS I had to go the the Exxon to get gas yesterday because my usual Speedway was chock-full of the po-po and white trash hollering in the parking lot, and I wanted no part of that. But then the Exxon was jammed up with Mennonites. In a VAN. It’s like I had an appointment to see something fucked up yesterday and I wasn’t allowed to get out of it.