I have to confess a problem. Have you run into Christians that have that ethereal voice when they talk about things they consider holy? I don’t have that. If anything like that came out of my say it like it is, secondhand country mouth it would be so bogus God himself would say “oh please!”
AJ borrows Uncle Randy’s shorts and the dynamic duo is off. Twelve minutes later through heaving breaths AJ declares “that old dude is fit!” Now he knows why I didn’t go running with them.
They thought they were being “too cool” to outwardly appreciate the joke. To the observers eye it looked like they had a synchronized gas passing experience.
That son of a gun hit the fly swatter dead on. It flew to the ground and the fury of every bug that scared me came out. Pwhap! Pwhap some more and just in case Pwhap. I think I was roaring because my friend across the street asked if everything was o.k.
My mind is saying ouch in three different languages. The arms go in the air like if I raise them higher, I’ll weigh less. At that moment one of the kids looks up, sees the pain in my face and the strappy sandal in the air and screams to the other kids, “She got out the chankla” That is spanglish for she is going to whoop us old school style.
Now we know from prior writings that my fat talks to me. Well it was not pleased with the sudden decrease in consumption of (of all things) bacon and fried chicken. Here I am trying to be more sophisticated and the country (as my dad likes to say, because he didn’t raise me ghetto) comes out. On Sundays people would talk about the great things happening in their lives. The wannabe holy Trish could only cry about the loss of a longtime love in her life…bacon.
