This morning I was backing out of the driveway to take Boo to school. We were discussing the virtues of building a rocket to get to America quicker than an aeroplane, cause I had a dream that I went to America to stay the night at Bossy’s house, but she had to take her dog to the vet so I ended up staying at Lotus’s (Lotus’? Lotuses? Lotii’s? Whatever, bewbgirls house…) and we went to a field to pick Reeses Pieces from sunflowers.
Cause that would be awesome.
Boo didn’t like the idea of being cooped up in an aeroplane for hours, hence the rocket theory.
We were chatting and I was being an excellent driver and looking out all my mirrors and driving slowly down the long driveway wondering what shoes one would wear to pick Reeses Pieces from sunflowers, when I came to the end and saw the postman/postlady/postfucker waiting to the side behind the six foot fence that obscures my view.
I waved and she/he/fucker shook its head like I was not in fact an excellent driver but a hoon barrelling out of the drive hoping to hit a puppy or an old person with a walking frame or something…
And I ask you, what is the sport in that? It is only 5 points if you hit an oldie with a walking frame. Twenty points if you hit a jogger. Especially one wearing these:
I resisted the urge to flip the bitch on her motorcycle ON THE FUCKING FOOTPATH at 10 to 9 in the morning on a foggy day, lest she decide to not deliver my mail or spit in it or some shit and then as I was driving down the road and looked back in my mirror and it is still fucking shaking its helmet covered head I realised that all the mail I get is bills and bad news and I should have hit the bitch and then reversed over the motorbike.
I reckon I would have got the keys to the city or an Order of Australia or a free donut and chocolate malted milkshake as a thankyou.