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A sinking feeling

A few years ago, Mr. B flew his ultra-light airplane all over the place…until he sank it in the Bayou Macon (pronounced By-Mason).

On a Saturday afternoon Mr. B headed toward the By-Mason looking a wildlife in his ultra-light.  He had his coat on, his laced up timberland boots, his phone, his camera, and his seatbelt fastened.  He was ready to film some wildlife.  He said he was flying a few feet off the water taking in the view of animals.  At the end of the Bayou he started to come up when a crop duster flew out of a field….

Mr. B dropped the plane down and one wing caught the water.  Mr. B said that he realized he was in trouble when the plane flipped, but did not panic because he had his seat belt fastened.   THEN HE PANICKED…because he had his seatbelt fastened.  On the way to the bottom of the By-Mason, he frantically tried to unfasten the seatbelt.  

Finally, Mr. B got free of the seatbelt.  Then he had to struggle free of the wreckage.  But…the Timberland boots would not budge.  Mr. B swam to the shore with the boots that felt like cement shoes.  He reached the shore and struggled through a briar patch to reach the road that follows the Bayou.  As he collapsed on the side of the road a farmer stopped.  “Wow…Did you see that plane go down in the By?”  asked the farmer.

“Up close and personal” Mr. B replied.  “Really up close.”

The farmer called the police for Mr. B.  The police called me.  I thought it was a joke…like an Ashton Kutcher, not funny, punked joke.  I’m still not laughing.  But then neither were the cops nor Mr. B.

Was that the end?  No. The next day Mr. B and a few friends went back to By-Mason and raised the plane and brought it home.   They were so excited that it came up in one piece and the most of his stuff was still intact. 

Me?  I would have left it…

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s#!+burger, get my pot off the back porch!

A few years ago SB began staying at my house.  As a matter of fact, during this time the house was lousy with males of the teenage variety.  Probably because I had two teenage daughters…But I digress.  SB became such a fixture that I told his dad that I would be claiming SB as a dependent if he did not stay home at least one evening a week.  

SB was around so much that I decided he had to have a “love” name.  He became s#!+burger.  Now, as per usual, everyone in Louisiana has a favorite gumbo pot.  Mine is red ceramic over cast iron. I’m proud of my pot.  I was perturbed when it went missing.  

About two weeks after it went missing I happened out on the back porch.  There was my pot!  Then it hit me…SB was supposed to take the shrimp and crawfish tails out into the field and dispose of them.   I yell “SB, get my pot off the back porch and clean it!”   I was very loud and unhappy.

I came to my senses when SB  snarkley  remarked that the neighbors might misconstrue my message.  Glad I didn’t finish my rant about having burnt my pot… 

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surgery, drugs, and the Winchester boys

So, it turns out the ad “get on the bus, these ten minutes could save your life” were spot-on.  I think everyone might want to be screened.  I had one lobe of my thyroid out last Friday.  I was sooooo sure that this was an exercise is overkill.  Nope. That little surgery revealed cancer.  So, I guess I wait for Tuesday to hear the other shoe drop.

Shout out to supernatural seasons 1-5!  If you have enough people waiting on you, and enough pain meds, meaning can be found in entertainment.  Now, if I could only throw salt and holy water on cancer…

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