Once again the volume of our things threaten to overwhelm us. We have too many trucks (3) too many dogs (3), too many cats (5), and too many ducks (18!). We have exactly the right number of turkeys, though. One per lap.
And much, much too much working. I've saved every freakin' life in Southern Illinois. Twice. Screw 'em. Next time one of you crybabies shows up in my E.R., it better be with your arm amputated and in a plastic baggie. I don't want to hear about your flu-like symptom or your vaginal itch. That's why they invented primary care doctors.
Since we're not going to winnow the pets or the poultry, the only thing that can give is the trucks. And the work. But the work, unfortunately, is firmly tied to the eating and the indoor living.
So I'm planning to round up a couple of the trucks and trade them in for one shiny truck made in this millennium. This will require a couple of things; it means that I'll have to make a Sophie's Choice about which ones to part with (Which do you love more...Cow or Chicken?). It also means that Lori and I will have to march down to Cape Girardeau and pretend we don't notice we're being swindled by a dealership that we now own, thanks to whichever round of bailout caused us to own Chrysler and G.M.
Oh...and we need to not scare the salesguy with Teh Gay, so that he doesn't screw us on our trade-in or spit in the soup or do whatever it is that Missourians do to show their disgust for the marriage sanctity-ruinin' Homosexual Agenda. Maybe the really risque Missourians make their bold statement about the sanctity of hetero marriage by plowing their fields in uneven rows.
Get it? Not straight? The rows? (sigh)
So...less trucks. Next, the ducks will have to move outside. They've spent the last couple of weeks growing to adolescence in our spare bedroom/weight room, and now we've pretty much had it. They're slobs. They mix their food, bedding and drinking water into a paste that they use to paper mache the wire of the pen every day while we're at work. Even Lori's had her fill of it.. They'll have to move out to the dome like big ducks or they'll be the duck version of veal by the weekend.
So...less trucks and less indoor ducks. And less other things that end in -uck.
By the end of this week, we plan to regain some control of our lives so that we can have out-of-town company and not look like Zsa-Zsa's lesbian neighbors on Green Acres. So consider yourself forewarned: if your name ends in "uck"...you can expect a change of venue soon. I'm just sayin'.