Tuesday, February 5, 2008

A-Voting I Did Go

It is a dark and stormy night. I'll hurry, before my power goes off. I have already instructed the men that when it goes, one of them should come to my basement lair with a flashlight.

I drove through a tornado warning to vote after school. Not a watch. A WARNING. I haven't been this excited since the Old Man Bush/Bill Clinton/Ross Perot election. I do not like my polling place. When I lived in town, I voted at the firehouse, a mere 3 blocks from my home. My first home. My $17,000 home. It was OH SO CONVENIENT to pop in there before or after work. Even when I worked in the city. But now, I have to go out farther into the sticks, past my Mansion turn-off, to a little church-basement venue. Oh, the red-cushioned pew is comfortable if you have to wait a while, but the parking is atrocious. It's a little church, by cracky. With a parking lot that holds 18 cars if they are not all LSUVs. There are about 5 more spaces out front, but you have to back onto the county highway to get going, which I definitely do not recommend, because folks around here equate 'county highway' with 'autobahn'. And they equate 'autobahn' with 'how fast can I go before I blow the engine in this-here mo-chine?'

The last two times I voted, the old blue-hairs didn't have my name in their book. It was like I was on the naughty list, and I had to jump through numerous hoops to exercise my right to vote. As if all the hoop-jumping wasn't enough exercise. Third time's a charm, baby! There I was, right under HH. No comments on that, you perv-type people! I took my ballot, filled in my little oval like a champ, and fed my ballot to the Hungry Hungry Vote-O Eater. Mission accomplished. The problem was, I was faced with another trip back to town to pick up the #1 son from his Academic Team meet. Thank the Gummi Mary that my mom volunteered to risk her life to go out in the tornado warning and pick him up. That saved me 90 minutes. My mom ROCKS! But not on Guitar Hero. HH was commanded to pick up the boy on his way home from work, even though my mom's house is not on the way. HH rocks, sometimes. Lower-case rocks.

On the way to vote, I deposited my check in the bank, gassed the LSUV, cashed in a $10 scratcher and won $20, bought The Pony a donut, picked up some sweet, sweet Histinex for me, and an antibiotic for #1, spied on The Shootist, and picked up the mail. Now I am going to have some pizza, enjoy a coughless few hours thanks to lovely lady Histinex, and kick back to watch some election returns.

Don't hate me because I have captured the elusive sweet, sweet Histinex. Hate me because I possess the cracky meth-man neighbor that all of you yearn for.


Marshamarshamarsha said...

I have methycrackpothead neighbors who let their youngest son spray body parts with labels and other misspelled curse words on 29 boards of our privacy fence between us and them. Still haven't seen the money or replacement boards. Did get two slashes off a knife in our pool and the lounge chair was found in the pool twice. But your neighbor still tops man. Glad you have HH.

Hillbilly Mom said...

I left you a reply, but it seems to have disappeared. Or else I put it on the wrong day. Blogger has been a b*tch to me lately.

You've got me beat with these neighbors. At least our home is not on the land next to The Shootist.