There use to be a time I would be out there with a lawn mower, till, or chainsaw, doing whatever it took to prove my love, sweating like a Coke-bottle-in-the-sun, visualizing the blow job I might earn when it was done (in a kind, loving, mutual oral-sexual relationship way, that is to say).
Now, however, I have this issue. The Doctor's not sure and so of course I'm fearing cancer because, well, she's got this new yard guy. I take it as one of those angelical signs that the gods are sending my replacement to her now while I'm still alive so they'll be able to talk about what a great guy I was over a pitcher of lemonade at the wake.
Ever wonder why they call it a Wake? I do. Shouldn't it be called a Sleep?
I haven't met the new yard guy yet, but I'm sure he's one of those well-built Latin guys with long black hair and an oxygen-depleting smile. He won't be a hunchbacked Quasimodo looking for sanctuary in a belfry from having overreacted to the tenderness of a woman. No.
That's me.
Oh! que ne suis-je de pierre comme toi!
Oh! why am I not of stone, like you?
The Hunchback of Notre Dame bk. 9. ch.4 (1831)
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