I Can Call This Place Home
Taco meat is on the range: nachos for the superbowl.
I have a nice screwdriver at the ready-- replete with a very smooth Russian import.
But those aren't the reasons.
The folk lovingly refered to as "the Trolls" [they roomed in the downstairs section of the casa] officially moved out. But that's only a contributing factor.
"Contributing how, oh Swan of Swans?" I can hear you asking thru the eather-- or ether, or airwaves, whatever your modus communicati.
Well, I could tell ya, but wouldn't you rather I show ya? Hun huh wouldn't ya huh??!
Well, okay then...
Several stack-racks of bowling balls -- one of the trolls is an avid bowler-- and large tool boxes were cleared from the garage. No, I dinna move my vehicle in; I did something far, far more important with the space...
Now to stock the reefer with frothy adult beverages and get an erasable board-- but even those are extraneous. Well, not really, but...
I DID throw my first round,
and it only took me four darts to find me mark:
The fifth woulda been there, too, mais alas-- wire-spit! So it goeth sometimes...
Anyhow, folks, y'all have a good night. I gotta go make coconut margaritas in honor of the Lady of the House's watching the game from somewhere in the Carribbean Sea-- we'll be watching together, if vicariously! ha!
Slainte, folks! Hope the Saints not only lose but loose hard! HA!!!
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