This hurricane stuff is beyond old. Way more than enough already!!!
The old woman who used to live across the street from me in Starkville used to corner me and scare the shit out of me with her strange theories. We used to get her something for Christmas every year, and my mom would make me go over to deliver it. I HATED it yo. She'd get me in there with her Weird Sister and play videotapes of some Armaggedon conspiracist dingbat who claimed that the Russians had a weather machine that was fucking our shit up. And of course I was too polite to say anything to the woman; I'd just sit there, shake my head, and wonder if she'd slipped anything in my beverage.
Damn, she was a weird old lady. When my mom had the house painted blue, the woman told me one day, "Well, I don't want to say too much . . . but it looks like death." Yeah, that's it--don't say too much. You wouldn't want to give a 12-year old NIGHTMARES, would you?!?
That was the same woman whose niece came over to take care of her quite a bit. She was another nutcase. She caught me outside one night at 2 a.m. when I was drunk as a preacher, and she bent my ear for a good half hour about how the homofags were infiltrating the schools. I hate that shit. Hell, for all she knew, I might have been gay my damnself. I would have told her to get stuffed, but it was all I could do to stand up straight.
Huh huh huh, straight.
If we hung out together, what would you call me? Heller? Critty? Flea? Daddy? Chris? Fuckass? Something else?