I’m telling you, if my brain was just a tad better than it is, I could be rich. I don’t mean, a few-million-dollars-rich, I mean filthy, stinking rich, or FSR.(1) Actually, all of you dear TIT readers could have been FSR as well, if you and I had just thought a little bit about an incident I reported to you in January. I’m just going to do a “copy-paste” from that blog post right here.
“Sometimes I get the feeling I just can’t catch a break, and you know, I was really optimistic about the new year. But so far, here’s how it’s going. The Princess and I were out driving somewhere, and a stinking (literally) VW Rabbit diesel was in front of us. It just absolutely galls me to have to drive in the trail of someone else’s stink. As we drove, it seemed that every turn we wanted to take, this guy turned the same way. I started belly-aching, and that naturally led to The Princess getting on me about the belly-aching, and then of course I got out of joint telling her that, well, I can say whatever I want, so you know, “shut up.” Things were getting pretty testy. So in the icy silence that followed we came up to an intersection, and I said that whichever way this guy went, I was going the other way. Fine, he went straight, and I turned. A few blocks further on, I was sitting at a T-intersection and now, to get where I want to go I have to turn right. I’m waiting for the traffic to clear through and what’s the last car by? Yup, that damn stinkin’ Rabbit.”
Once again, your idiotic author was on to something, but his synapses didn’t close properly, or maybe they closed too soon, whatever, had I reported this incident to the federal government (as a whistle-blower) INSTEAD OF TO YOU PEOPLE WHO DIDN’T THINK IT THROUGH EITHER, right now I could be the most FSR blogger on the planet. Oh well….
Next topic. Want proof that the world is moving too fast, well, at least too fast for your idiotic author? I went to the ATM at the bank branch. We seldom need cash, with almost everything going on the credit cards, but every now and then, we need a little cash. Even then, I save up reimbursement checks from the dental insurer, and cash those (gives you an idea about our dental issues), but still, sometimes I run out of barista tip money. Anyway, I did my “thing” at the ATM, and the receipt and cash popped out. I pulled the receipt from the slot, folded it up and stuck it in my wallet. I then looked down at the slot where the cash was sitting just in time to see it being sucked back into the machine.
AHHHHHHHHHH, GIVE ME MY MONEY BACK!
I couldn’t believe it, what to do? I went into the branch, and I’ll admit I was not pleasant, but my demeanor had nothing to do with the standard bank branch line, namely that they couldn’t do anything about it. I was told to call the bank’s toll-free 800 phone number and initiate a “fraud claim.” I just wanted to scream! I called the number and went through the motions, but what a pain in the ass. And it was three days before an off-setting credit popped into our account. Funny isn’t it, how that machine took the cash back so fast, but the bank gave it back REAL slow.
The side panels arrived, and The Princess was good enough to take a few photos for me. Here’s one of them that shows where the panels will fit on the Pony.
It was shortly after this photo was taken that I called the official Pony hauler to the blog, Gary Talbert, and made arrangements to have him transport the old boy back out to Gene’s. There’s some fairly heavy-duty work I want to do out there that can only be done where I have access to Gene’s jacks and tools. The move went without a hitch on a beautiful early October day.
After the Pony was tucked into his spot in the garage it was time for a “honey shot.”
Lynne took that photo of their beautiful grand-daughter, Sarah. They get them into tractor seat early down here folks!
On the subject of photos, here’s one I took just this week.
I’d made a bowl of cereal with fruit on it, and I guess I was so hungry that I didn’t notice this renegade blueberry had hopped out of the bowl. When I came back into the kitchen with my empty bowl, I saw it and thought, wow, that’s a little piece of art. So there it is friends, another piece for the Bruce Museum.
Thanks for reading.
1. I redefined “filthy stinking rich” this morning after reading an article in the Wall Street Journal. New definition: A person is filthy stinking rich if he or she can afford to pay $750 for a one-hour, combination psychic reading and massage at a hotel spa. I guess that could also be the new definition for PDS (pretty damn stupid).