Tuesday, October 8, 2013

Lolly, Lolly, Lolly, Get Your Ends Tied Here

You there! Hand me that roll of twine. What's that? Magic word? Who do you think I am, David Copperfield? Doug Henning? Lance Burton? You can take your magic word and shove it up your wand, and see how many scarves you can pull out the other end. Magic word. Oh. Wait! Could you there, perhaps, if you're not too involved with berating folks for a magic word, PLEASE hand me that roll of twine?

No. I'm not upgrading my cell phone to two tin cans with a hank of twine strung between them. That only works for local calls. I need to disburse this info to the masses. We're using that twine today to tie up a couple of loose ends. And I don't mean tie Hick's pants around his waist so he can't take them off and hang them in the garage and parade about the grounds in his tighty-whities. Heh, heh. Thought the nightmare was over, didn't you? Sweet dreams, part deux.

Speaking of Nightmare on Val Street...Hick's spirited pants still hang in the garage. The garage I pulled my T-Hoe into this afternoon, where I spied a box from Amazon on the generator that acts as a holder for the nonstick saucepan used to dip dry cat food from the sealed-lid mini trash can it is stored in. That poor UPS driver. At least she likes animals, and always brings a handful of dog biscuits to toss the fleabags. The FedEx dude is deathly afraid. He yanks open the garage people-door, and flings in whatever he's delivering. He says he saw eyes in the garage one time. Imagine seeing a pair of ghost jeans without eyes.

A new box of MY books is being shipped my way, thanks to a kindhearted publisher and CEO who must also be a card-carrying member of Mystery, Inc. The original box of books was last scanned in Hazelwood. Shame, shame, U.S. postal workers between Hazelwood and Backroads! Everybody knows your name, and it's Careless With Val's Books.

My mom talked to her neighbor, who did not leave three bags of hedgeapples on her porch. The neighbor thinks it's the guy down the road. Johnny Hedgeapple from 12 years ago. She thinks that, because he's always out walking. Yeah. Carrying three Walmart bags stuffed with hedgeapples? What is he, a bodybuilder? A bodybuilder with a memory like a rusty 12-year-old steel trap? I wouldn't want anybody traipsing up on my porch, bearing bags of precious insect-repelling hedgeapples or not.

That's about it from the Backroads Hometown Gazette string reporter. More news as it develops.


  1. Val--A box of books? Now you can schedule that book signing.

    (And with every book purchase, they can get a complementary hedgeapple...)

  2. Aww, that's a crock about hedgeapples.We had water bugs in our city basement, so we put hedgeapples down there. The waterbugs played king of the hill with them.

    Yay! You got your books. I am so happy you are happy. Now go make others happy by signing autographs and distributing your tomes.

  3. I'm glad you're finally going to receive your books. How irritating to go through so much only for the mail people to lose them. Take care.

  4. Sioux,
    I have no venue. The gas station chicken store has aisles too narrow. And the fresh broasted chicken aroma would drive my visitors straight to the counter, where they would spend money better spent on books to feed their new-found addiction. That hedgeapple is weak sauce for Backroads promotional purposes. Everybody has a grandma with a big ol' hedgeapple tree growing beside the sinkhole.

    Well, you must have been host to tough city waterbugs, all swaggery, with packs of cigarettes rolled up in their t-shirt sleeves, and toothpicks dangling from their lips.

    I have several books spoken for already. Reserved. TAKEN! Saved like a seat in a movie theater showing "Checkmate," until they can be saved no longer, when the savees will have to settle for "Rochelle, Rochelle: A Young Girl's Strange, Erotic Journey From Milan to Minsk."

    The U.S. Postal Service, much like The Universe in general, conspires against me. Today I got ANOTHER Victoria's Secret catalog that is not addressed to me. Back in the old mailbox it goes.

    It's not like putting pieces of mail in order by number is rocket science. Or even delivering a box full of books, rather than ripping the invoice off and mailing it back to the sender. Let's hope the delivery driver is not high on the two tubes of Clearasil that mysteriously disappeared within two hours of him recording that he left them on top of the mailbox.