I rarely if ever take vacations. I'll take a day or two off here and there but not usually a vacation because I am so vital and terribly important in what I do for a living that my place of work simply cannot get along without me for any prolonged period of time. I come in every morning, six days a week and Sunday afternoons and push the five-story brick building in which I work up the side of the hill on which it's situated. I am indomitable and indefatigable (and other words I spell less well than those two).
And if you don't think so, just ask me and I'll tell you. As a matter, as you just learned, you don't even have to ask, I'll tell you anyway. But if I went on vacation, and that's a capital B for a reason, pardner, I'm thinking I would go to Portland. Not the Portland of the IFC show that I DVR every week with the full intention of watching because I've heard so many great things about the series though I've yet to view a single episode, I'm talking about Portland, Maine.
My brother flagged this item the other day but then it showed up in one of the (actual) newspapers I read daily and all I could was shake my head. The sad thing about small towns and small cities is they are filled with small people. That's why we're always going to stay this way. "And he would follow people who gave him a wrong look." Seriously?
Trish, if you're looking for sympathy check in the dictionary between syphilis and sh---just look in the darn dictionary. And learn to breathe. Does some of my animus and annoyance about this story stem from being an inveterate whistler in the hallways of the building in which I work more often than not to the withering looks of approbation and disapproval I receive from people whom I pass in the hall?
Yeah, probably. That and I wish I had a bat so I could go out to the parking lot and, while whistling even louder and more off-key, break all the glass, headlights, windows, mirrors, disco balls in their cars without being caught (much less punished). I'm already practicing my whistle of incredulous surprise for when someone comes back from lunch and reports in disbelief what happened to his car.
You go Bob and I'll support you...from a more than safe distance and decent interval. Think of me as your Dark Knight oder Dunkle Ritter. And I ain't whistling Dixie.