Monday, December 28, 2009


ME:  Grammy?  (cough, hack)  Grammy, are you all right?  Where are you?

GRAMMY:  In the kitchen.  Where else would I be?

ME:  What’s going on? (cough, hack)  Where is all this smoke coming from?  I thought there was a fire.

GRAMMY:  Right.  Like I’d sit here having coffee if the place was burning down around me.  Lord, Barbara, get a brain.

ME:  Then what’s all this (cough, hack) smoke from?

GRAMMY:  (wagging cigarette in the air)  Gee, Barbara, where do you think it came from?  I had some company.  Typhus’ mother came over with a few friends who, unlike you, enjoy a smoke and the occasional shot of whiskey.

ME:  (opening window)  Really, Grammy, I don’t know how you’ve managed to live so long.

GRAMMY:  That’s easy.  Nobody wants me.  I’m too mean for God, and not nasty enough for the devil.  Yep, it's a fine line I'm walking, Barbara.  The way I see it, I’ll probably live forever.  Unless, of course, you push me into an early grave.  Now shut that damn window before I catch phneumonia or freeze to death.

Haizea Amezaga

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1 comment:

Jet said...

Gosh, Barb. Those photos would be enough to keep most folks from smoking. And, hey, is that really really old grammy smoke'n a blunt?

Myyers is the WV -- as in myyers hear. myyeyes see. myymouth talks.
Sorry, best I can do on a Monday. The last Monday of the first decade of the new millennium.