Seasons in Hell

Holy mother of pearl, what a wretched couple of weeks. And I’ve not even been enmired in an interesting hell, a hell providing interesting anecdotes, no, it has been a tedious hell full of cars breaking down and workplace meltdowns. So sorry, I had nothing to say, so I didn’t say it.

I actually get a three-day weekend this week, during which I’ll be doing some housecleaning, in an effort to lighten things up on the homefront. For once, the meltdowns weren’t confined to my workplace, and my wife is heavily leaning toward apoplexy.

I guess there was one thing to relate: I totally understand why the US Postal Service jumped up their rates. Since my check to the Water District took over a week to deliver, resulting in my water being shut off, and since my wife’s Mothers Day present, ordered two weeks in advance, arrived the Tuesday after Mother’s Day… obviously, they needed that extra money. Surely everything will be copacetic from now on, especially since I’ll now be motoring the damn water bill over to the district’s night deposit box.

But not for a couple of months, as I was required to pay the supposedly delinquent bill in full, along with the reconnect fee, in cash. And what of my errant check? What happens when it arrives?

“Oh, we’ll credit that to your account.”

“So… I’m paying this bill twice, then.”

“Well, you could look at it that way…”

And oddly enough, I do.

So Jerry Falwell died. That would have been an interesting palaver at the pearly gates- but then, I am a cynical, bitter heathen – which is why I am not completely surprised that Fred Phelps is planning to picket this funeral, too. Read the press release and go “Huh? Whuzzah?”

Surprised, no. Bemused? Probably.

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