The Intergalactic Mr. Met

Dear Bloginistas,

Hey it's been awhile since my last communiqué hasn't it? Well things are still just peachy here on planet Wes. I've decided to now claim that I'm my own planet after being so inspired by some hippie fruitcake mystic who just died per the New York Times.

Hey what the heck if this loon can claim such, who am I not to think that I'm any less sane?

So now I'm intergalactic - sweet!

Um, now to more earthly matters. Oh yeah I had a birthday since we last smoozed. I'm not actually getting any older, I'm just falling apart at a faster rate.

Since I'm taking such great care of myself, at this pace I should last for about another 5 minutes or so.

What else is happening? Um, I've been in Detroit a couple of times. And believe it or not the Detroit area actually is as depressing as Chamber of Commerce would have you believe. Nuf said.

My new mission impossible has me back in Metro NYC and somehow Long Island makes EWR and it's environs seem almost quaint by comparison. "Hey Guido (or fill in your preferred kamakasee inspired wild ass driver country's male name here), do you really think that zooming up and sitting on my bumper is going to make me somehow hurdle the line of traffic ahead of me? Hey, "key fa ah wah" (wild hand gestures) to you too buddy! (you punk). ....There, I feel much better now.

What else? Hans and Bell. (the dynamic canine duo) are still cooling it and enjoying the pending spring. Witness the numerous winter mummified animal carcii left on our front porch. Let's eat.

We finally and unfortunately had to have cut down (this would have been sure death if I tried this) the 45 year old pine tree out front. Real sad but the last 2 years' ice storms have left it almost totally limbless on it's south (?) side.

Her Hotness (pant) as always, is still storin food awaitin the global (now intergalactic) meltdown. Since Barky has his foot to the floor and is ridin our economic bumper (so to speak), it ought to be no time at all before I can buy a loaf of bread with a wheelbarrow full of Deutschmarks. Since I'm a known idiot, even I, Your Humble Servant (YHS), is scared at BO's Machiavellian (uh, what?) approach to all of this.

Not that I'm doubting that Hopey McChangie's approach has not worked elsewhere (ie France) just that I'm not sure I have enough bullets to ride it all out "night of the living dead" style, as the roaming hordes attack the Casa du Her Hotness. Just a thought.

Hey, speaking of guns, since da Bomba is such an advocate of the 2nd amendment (with muy grande red line edits of course), I'm now a certified gun nut.

Using the old adage, I better go get em, while the gettin is good, I now own a shotgun, 2 rifles, a 22 cal revolver, a 38 special revolver and a 44 magnum revolver. Plus a pile of ammo. All of this within the last year. And primarily because DB (da Bomba) is continuing to delivering us all in a hand basket.

As a side note, the 44 mag is really really cool. It has all the things a 15 year old could ever want. It makes a huge sonic kaboom noise when fired and it pretty much explodes/destroys anything it hits. (Geez, I'm even smiling as I write this). Of course, because of the HUGE kick that this hand cannon has, it takes both hands (or more) to even just hold onto it (more smiles) and actually hitting anything your aiming at is all relative (an in-law maybe?). But what the heck, you even get 6 chances before you have to reload.

Of course, I'm thinking I'll have to have all of these armaments buried somewhere out back sometime soon, as presumably Barry's Americorp will be here any day now to collect them. The future seems so bright I have to wear shades.

On a happier note, JFK (the aeroport du joir) is a whole lot nicer then EWR and LGA put together. Cept it appears to be the United Nations preferred port of escape also. Seems I appear to be the only one in line without some kind of really cool head adornment (my orange Mets cap not withstanding). To make do, I wonder if I can get an orange towel around here somewhere and just slap a sticker of Mr. Met on it? Just an another thought.

More random thoughts: Does anyone else get real bad gas from flying or is it just me? Somehow this isn't covered in the Stewardperson take off/landing debrief nor the flight card conveniently located in my seat back.

Anywho, I think that's it for now. And with an equal nod to Rudolph the Red Nosed Gas Cramp and happy interplanetary flying, see ya.

YHS