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Yo No Quiero Skywalker 5.13.99
"I just don't see why we should drive so far to be around people like that," I was explaining to Shelton on Saturday as he pleaded his case for going back to the beach in Waveland, Mississippi.
"I don't want to go back around all them racists neither, " Lance said.
"Me neither," Glynn said.
"I just want to go swimming," Shelton said.
"And its not even a very good beach, I mean you don't start seeing quality beach until Gulf Shores, or Pensacola, but Mississippi ain't got no beaches..."
"We can go to them places?" Shelton said.
"No, they're too far away."
I was feeling pretty good about my progress with the yo-yo, got that rock the cradle down pat, and some other tricks too have me seeming pretty damn slick with a string, but Lance just did me a little instructive exhibition, not rubbing it in or anything, more just an underlining with pencil the fact he was explaining the other day--"you'll never be good as me, Mr. Jim."
And talk about gifts that keep on giving--that stuffed rat my brother Paul sent me has been quietly guarding my right flank for the past several days, waiting for the moment that came minutes ago when Erica, who, like Glynn, thinks it is a dog, picked it up and squeezed under its belly causing that clever rat to pipe--yo quiero Taco Bell.
It is nothing more than coincidence that has me sneaking out of here twenty minutes later for a burrito and taco supreme. The dining room was frigid, and the muzac was humming a teeth gritting rendition of the Star Wars theme.