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.
Photos
Haizea Amezaga
RetBaron
Posts
1 comment:
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.
J
Post a Comment