We
were all over at Schmoes Diner last Sunday evening for the super
bowl. That's quite the occasion for us all up here, with no TV
reception and telephone dial up internet that takes 3 hours just to
download the news. Schmoe phones up his bud in Pelican Junction,
that's about 70 miles down the road, he gets the Sunday long distance
rate, and his bud puts the receiver down beside his TV and the sound
makes it's way through the wires strung along the 2814 telephone
poles, and this number has been verified many times, to Schmoe's
phone where he lays it beside his little amp. And then just to make
the whole event more realistic Schmoe has this rectangular table all
divided up with masking tape into end zones and all the yard lines
labelled with a black marker, and he gets out his box of white and
green toy army guys and a black checker for the football, and we all
stand around the table trying to keep the lines in the right place
according to the sportscasters. There aren't enough plastic soldiers
for both offence and defence, so that makes it a little easier. The
most fun part is taking turns whenever there's a field goal, trying
to flick the checker between the salt and pepper shakers set up for
goal posts. For halftime, Schmoe brought out this cute little doll,
he does get teased for his fetish, and set her on the centre line as
we listened to Ms. Perry sing her tunes.
Speaking
of fetishes and dolls, our handsome Fritz who's this cross between an
Irish Wolf Hound and a real wolf, well he has this thing about our
wife's great stuffed pink teddy bear, and he's neutered, Fritz that
is. He stole that teddy bear out of the house and spends hours
humping it out behind the barn. Never mind, a Watkins man stopped by
and our wife was out in the middle of the yard discussing soaps and
detergents. Our Fritzy would not allow that Watkins man to come
within ten feet to our wife, and then just to make sure that fellow
got the message he lifted his leg and pissed all over our wife's
foot. He sure told that guy whose property not to mess with. She
felt so impregnable.
Since
we're several thousand miles from where either of these fabulous
football teams stem, us being about halfway between Boston and
Seattle and just a tad north, we don't have much loyalty to either
one. This kind of gets obvious when someone comes in from outside
and asks who's winning and the answer is “The little green guys.”
Even the exalted commercials lose a thing or two without the video.
We're all just there for the camaraderie, us all not being that
concerned over our Sunday penitencies since the young Baptist
missionary left his little church half built after the widow Rachael
showed up every day in her most salacious attire to help with the
rafters. We guessed he didn't wish to become a farmer having to
pastor on the side. That would be an undertaking.
So
it was back to work on Monday and Schmoe could put his Barbie dolls
all back in the closet. Keep that pot covered now, eh.
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