So I'm out in the land that is suddenly on the map . . . due to all the news coverage and a now destroyed horse barn. Figured I'd come back tomorrow and troll the bars, hoping to pick up some F.B.I. guys. Maybe at the Dairy Queen.
No one at Stately Wayne Manor knows exactly where the farm is, that is being dug up in search of bones that are probably not there . . . but as we recall, there are bones everywhere here. Perhaps Z. and I were actually playing with the bones they are looking for. Deer bones, Hoffa bones, who can tell? Oh well, Z.'s mom threw out the bag of bones ages ago. Destined for the landfill off of Five Mile, I'm sure.
Quiet night with the 'rents. On a Friday night . . . I'm so lame, but I haven't seen them in a while and I missed them (and the yelling . . sorry Dad).
It has been brought up that it is strange to call your father "Mr. Crabbypants", especially to his face. But it must be understood that it is said with the upmost respect and love. And he is a crabbypants . . . sometimes. And sometimes, being called a Crabbypants will knock you down a notch when a person is being crabby. Just sayin'. He does the same for me. Honest.
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