The Nastiest Month

Here's the sign for the Johnsonville Rod and Gun. Everyone has a gun out here. They're hunters. Not me, though. I don't hunt, and we have no guns in our house. If it ever gets to the point where I feel like I need a gun for protection, it's time to move to somewhere where I don't feel like I need a gun for protection. There are still those places on this sweet Earth. And right now, I feel, Johnsonville is still one of them.

Now a ROD, that's another matter! I'm talking about my beloved Chevy HHR, not my "johnson." I'm thinking of souping it up and entering a race over at Road America this summer. I guess that's what you-know-who's boyfriend does for a living. Or should I say soon to be ex-boyfriend. As soon as she gets her tax return she's moving out to her new place, and then things will be much much better!

As it is now, though, there has been a lot of talk about April being the cruelest month. Well, I want to propose that April is the Cruelest woman! I'm talking about the object of most of my waking concentration, when I'm not providing quality time for the kids, arguing with my wife, or half-heartedly grading pathetic homework. I know I said her name was Laura, before, but I'm changing that tune. Her real name is April. Actually, I'm going to keep changing her name, the same way I change the password to this blog. You can't mess around in suburban America these days. Everyone is under survealance. Fuck!