Ode To Trendy Socks

ODE TO TRENDY SOCKS

I do not like funny socks,
Les I am.
They are not edgy or cool,
Don't give a damn.

I will not wear in church.
I will not wear them in a lurch.

Pinks and purple dots you see
Are way to juvenile for me.

Comfy black socks are all I need.
Stay off of my lawn!

Mr. Skinny Pants

After one of those days where anything that could go wrong did, I headed to the house. It was terrifically humid and blazingly sunny, with an odd breeze. I walked at my usual steady clip while thinking of nothing in particular. I was in my own little world.

About half way through my little journey, the weirdest thing happened. I have sad many times that the stranger the occurrence, the more the universe is inclined to make me a witness.

To my left were large older city clapboard houses. Most of them have lost almost all of their charm from a hundred years ago. Staring straight ahead, I heard a heavy door swing open, and what sounded like a child's heavy landings on steps. I didn't turn. "Hey there, Mr. Skinny Pants," a child's voice demanded. I still walked swiftly without turning around. I heard it again, this time while running behind me. I looked across the street and about for this skinny pants fellow. No one filling that description... I looked over my shoulder, and there was a girl of roughly six or seven years. She stopped in her tracks and pointed up at me, with a half smile and cutest pigtails secured with pink barrettes. "You, I mean you! Where you goin', Mr. Skinny Pants, where you goin'?"

I didn't know what to say. Mr. Skinny Pants? I stared at her for a couple seconds. She was still pointing with her right hand on her hip. "Well, Mr. Skinny Pants? No answer, huh"? I must have looked frightened, because I was a little. I turned and hurried across the busy intersection. I didn't look back.

Respect the Hostas

Picture this... Syracuse. It is 2:30 in the morning and I am startled by the most ungodly of wretching noises. They were so loud and ghastly that under different circumstances I might have thought I was in a theater experiencing Hollywood Special fx. No. It wasn't that.

I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. Even though I just plagiarized that line, it is what actually happened. I looked out my window into the darkness, illuminated only by a silver Honda Accord.

This house is situated atop a great hill. A block below two city streets which climb the hill at an angle, resulting in but two houses at the top. There are no houses directly across the street. This is of interest in that there should be no reason for a strangers car to be parked outside at this hour. -Weird car and the horrible wretching continued.

I grabbed by robe and headed to the living room. There I pushed back the curtains, which startled a drunken 275 mound of blubber, vaguely formed as a man. He was now hacking and dry heaving. His drunken brain hadn't notified his stomach that he had nothing left to give. *Note: he is hovered roughly 35 feet from where he parked out front, and he is disrespecting Hostas, that are used to much pampering. This plant bed is right under the livingroom window.

I raced for the front door, but by the time I shut the alarm off and unlocked the thing, he was both lumbering and hunched over moving as quickly as he could to his vehicle. He really looked like a bear in a white dress shirt. He sped way before I could defend the Hostas' variegated honor.

Who does that, drives up to the top of a hill in the night; parks in front of a random house, walks past the street drain next to their car, and marches thirty-five to a planting bed to puke their guts out on lovely green things?

I crawled back into bed, then was unable to fall back to sleep for another three hours.

I am fortunate in that I already know the universe loves me, or I would wonder. 

Market watch...

So, I select five small on the vine tomatoes at a local Tops market. I take them to the only digital scale which does not work. The produce dude and the manager, plug and unplug the thing, which has no on/off switch... Nothing.

I look around for those hanging produce scales. "They took them out," produce dude tells me.

I put them in my basket. At the counter, the young lady rings them up. The price is $6.90, for five small tomatoes. Dah fuk? I tell the young woman that I don't want them, and apologize like those memes suggest Canadians do. She acts like I asked for her last kidney. I explain about the lack of weighing devices.

She then placed a gallon of skim in a bag that was completely split, end to end. Because I was sent from the future to screw up her day, I asked that she re-bag the milk. She handed me a bag to complete the task myself. I couldn't get the bag open. She finally handed me an opened bag, as she and the cashier from the next lane smiled at each other. I guess I am funny without trying.

In addition, they over-charged me for the bread that I accidentally left on the counter in my attempt to get out of their as quickly as possible. 

I know they aren't Wegmans, but they could and should at least try.