Man, I am never going to trust those damn computer models in hurricane forecasting again. I swear to you that a few days ago every damn one of them (and there must be fifty) showed Isaac coming right through the panhandle. And now look- the storm is heading towards New Orleans and although they (you know- THEY) say that we're going to get some big ol' storm surges of salt and fresh water down at the coast, it sure looks pretty clear here today.
I am also never going to trust my gut again which is obviously as apt to err as computer models.
But we cannot say I am disappointed. Oh no. We certainly cannot.
Last night's rum did not kill me and I had a lovely dream about Keith Richards and I took an excellent walk this morning although it is back to being hot and humid as hell's own swamp. I have showered and changed and am starting to cool down and the gator hunters are packed up and have gone to the grocery store and by god, they're going down to the creek, the good lord willin' and even if the creek DOES rise. God bless 'em.
Here's a picture of my banty rooster, Fancy.
He and his wife, Baby, crack me up. They are miniature chickens for sure and are hanging with the flock these days. Elvis doesn't seem to care a bit although I'm not sure he views them as part of his responsibility. He tolerates them, I suppose. And when it comes time to go to bed, Fancy and Baby fly up into the trees and sleep there while the other chickens go into the hen house to roost, as domestic birds should, in my opinion. If Baby is laying eggs, I don't know where. Seems like she should be by now. Sometimes Fancy flies up and perches on the fence and crows in his little-rooster voice and and I could die of the cuteness. He thinks he's a full-sized rooster and so far, no one has dissuaded him from this opinion and I doubt they ever will.
Okay. I would talk about politics some more but my bile is already risen to a point dangerously close to boiling over. Let me just say that I am flabbergasted at the ignorance of a lot of people. Let me just say that we live in a nation of FUCKING MORONS!
Can you say moron these days? I hope so. If not, they let me say we live in a nation of FUCKING IDIOTS!
Here's another thing I'll say: Every time my dog Buster scratches at the door to be let out or in (this is the door to the porch and NO, I cannot cut a dog door into it) which happens about every three minutes, I think of Al Swearengen (Ian McShane) from Deadwood cutting someone's throat with his knife of death and I, well, okay, I admit it, I feel a little Al-ish.
And having said all of that, I am now about to become Mer-Mer, the sweet, sweet grandmother who is going to town to go to Target with her daughter and beloved grandsons because Owen pooped in the potty and that means he gets a toy!!!!
Let me reassure you that I do not have a knife of death.
Yours truly...Ms. Moon