The Time My Dad and Pastor Nickles Were Involved in Some 'Shady Activities'.

Even before she was small her son had spread malicious rumors about her parentage. Before she knew who to strike back at, things went postal and a Negro family at some distance decided to show her a (the) door. It was an oak paneled affair that really brought back memories in a silent, industrial throb. My Dad and Pastor Nickles partnered with a Scottish sock-her mob to distribute Rustoleum cookies on the rheumatism ward at Dale Werpner Memorial. This is where all my comforting memories seem to just go 'poof', but not before they came to a screeching halt. I'm not kidding. 

In the interim we hooted and we scooted, but all our soldiers still fell down in the mud like so many insolent playable functionaries. This isn't what 'the establishment' wants you to believe but if you're smart you'll tell them where they can get off, drug-wise that is.




By the time we stopped playing games our dusty partner had all but geared up for a monster truck event. One in which we were not included, sadly enough. But who's weeping now? One of the furniture boys? No, not really. Try telling this on your next vacation getaway and  see if you'll remain upright. A pony ride maybe? Yeah, right.



 By the way, if you want to know more about the Negro family I mentioned earlier, I can't tell you much (this was before Instagram), except that the Dad was a lumberjack. Anyway, so once we were in the car I decided to ditch my last remaining remedial sock on the Highway outside of Pittsburg, Ontario. When we arrived in Houston my Mom started to make fun of the way leaves looked if you squinted. At the time I thought maybe this was some kind of dirty joke. Now I'm not so sure. There is one thing I am sure about though. And that's the length of a piece of string that I'd kept safe from my brother Philip Gleason. It was yellow. Oh, you wanted to know how long it was? Okay, I'll bite. It was two measly inches/feet/miles. Satisfied? Thank you.

Did you think that would be the end of it? Well, think again, partner. Because. It. Never. Ends.

The end.