|I doctored it a little. |
I don't think anyone will notice.
|Not giving up the day job, though.|
given sales of It's Not Just a Job and Shag Carpet Toilet, odds are....
But....I have received an award (as you could probably tell above...no, above the toilet). Granted, it's Third Place which isn't such a big deal when you consider there were only three entrants.
And one of them was a monkey.
|"Okay, so is it 'i' before 'e' or the other way around?"|
"Screw it, who cares? Our competition is Penwasser."
NOTE: Chimps, not monkeys. Sue me.
Still, an award is an award.
I know, it's taken me quite a while to bring you the news.
Why has it taken me so long to tell you I won this honor in February?
|"It was a lot of fun, too."|
|"Till they started drinking."|
Between the run-up to the A-Z
Challenge, the A-Z Challenge, the "I'm Frikkin' Tired From the Exhaustion of Writing 26 Haikus for the A-Z Challenge," Memorial Day, 4th of July, the Penwasser Brothers Camping Trip, Labor Day, opening of the NFL season, and that I just forgot, it's been quite busy.
Plus, I needed to make up my mind just how I wanted to spend that $25.00 I got.
I filled my tank with gas.
Anyway, since I know you're dying (or is that 'dyeing?' I'm having a bad day with words this afternoon) to know what in the world was good enough to merit the honor of Third Place, may I present my entry.
It's completely fictional. Although I did have an Aunt May.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I have some vomit to mop up somewhere...
La Ciruela Pasa
|NOTE: Use of Clara Peller for entertainment use only.|
Aunt May was definitely larger than a bun with sesame seeds on it.
So Shrangi-La it ain’t. You have to admit, though, there’s a lot to like about a place with year-round warmth and drive-thru liquor stores.
The desire to relocate is even more pronounced once one turns 60. Heeding what must be a genetically programmed need to escape wind chill and lake effect snow, hordes of seniors annually follow the siren call of the Sunshine State.
One such senior who decided to trade her snow boots for flip-flops was my Great-Aunt May.
A sweet lady, she’d lived in the same house since before television was invented. First with my uncle then, when he passed, with a psychotic parakeet that flung himself against his wire mesh cage whenever I’d visit.
Eventually, when “Tweety” went to that Cuttle Bone in the Sky via the newspaper lining the bottom of his cage, Aunt May started to believe the infomercials exhorting her to leave the Rust Belt. After all, Wilfred Brimley hadn’t steered her wrong yet!
Energized, she tossed her medications into luggage she’d owned since the Cuban Missile Crisis and sold her home to my cousin for a sock of ribbon candy. Thus relieved of her financial burdens, she joined the geriatric land rush, never again needing to worry about breaking her hip on icy sidewalks while shopping for milk, peppermint lifesavers, and lottery tickets.
When I didn’t hear from her after a few days, I began to worry.
|That's okay. |
They've got it on Cruise Control.
After a few nervous weeks, I finally received a letter. Printed on rose-colored stationery from someplace called La Ciruela Pasa, it read:
To Be Continued...
Why? Because everyones knows that we (although is that 'us'?) bloggers like to skim quickly and move one. That's why I like to think my Captain Captions (Every Thursday at Penwasser Place!) are so wildly popular. Of course, I like to think Mrs. Penwasser married me for my looks, too. Since I devoted a lot of time to the introduction to this thing, I didn't want to run the risk of you getting bored.
So, I'll run the letter next time.
Hope the suspense doesn't kill you.
|"No. No, I'm good."|