Beats the hell outta me, how a body gets up and out to work on frozen ass days like we’re
havin’. Bein’ retired and only dependent bein’ a cat, my presence and/or absence anywhere,
goes relatively unnoticed. Some would think at sixty-nine, I might’ve lost half a step but I’m
sharp as a tack. I got the cat from a ‘friend’ who said her boyfriend was allergic to it. Huh, not so
fast. The cat’s name is Pasha and that sounds Russian to me, so I’m careful what I say around
it. Wouldn’t the Kremlin like to know what I know about the American prison system, where I
counted convicts nigh on thirty years. When I wake up and the cat’s starin’ at me, I just start
ramblin’ ‘bout everything I know ‘bout women. Yep, they’ll get nothin’ outta me. Probably given’
them K.G.B.’ers fits.
Somebody at the utility company’s asleep at the switch, cuz I’ve still got power. Long as the
television works I’ll be reminded of how, as a human race we’ve certainly jacked this off. If the
civil war comes first, I’m gettin’ pretty good at lookin’ feeble minded, so maybe they’ll leave me
the hell alone. I’ve got plenty of windows in my house, so if it's a mushroom cloud, I should have
enough time to belt down six quick beers. I’d hate like hell to go to an interview like the one at
the pearly gates completely sober.
A fella should always have a plan and mine is to be a wealthy author. The industry has it in for
me though and they’ve set up every road block for me to fail. “You need to write a story. You’ve
gotta have discipline. You have no talent.” What a crock, huh? Did they tell Mark Twain that?
Nooo, and why? Because he was a big shot riverboat captain. James Patterson? Nooo. “I’m a
highfalutin’ best sellin’ author, people buy my books.” A little guy like me can’t catch a break.
Social security and a retirement check is not nearly enough for a guy like me. Luckily, I can just
about make ends meet, stealin’ tips left in local bars and restaurants. You guessed it, I’m an
entrepreneur. The best days are still to come.
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