You have nothing to lose but . . . the chicks.

Via Insty, who cooks. Cooks, I tell you. Every now and then, that "men who cook" grass looks . . . moss green.

Then A the H makes a brilliant joke, and finds a dead rat in a trap somewhere that has to be disposed of. It isn't that I am unwilling to handle this task. It simply is that I haven't had to in this particular partnership—18 years down the line—and that's been fine with me.

I'm getting used to the idea that dead rats just get dispatched quickly somehow (from a pellet gun, I believe) and then are taken somewhere with healthy populations of coyotes and wild cats. Then they disappear. Poof!

Whose side am I on?—you know: truth, beauty. Shit like that.

Posted by: Attila Girl at 11:51 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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