I
recently noticed Bainwarble weeding and sprinkling around a spot in
the yard. When I went to investigate, I discovered a foot-high clump
of marijuana, apparently thriving on his attention. “I talk to it
two or three times a day,” he said. “Sometimes I sing classic
country songs to it, under my breath.”
I’m
game I decided, and rendered a few bars of “Cowboys they are ladies
men alright…” but then I noticed Glassshard frowning and shaking
his head. “WHAT,” I demanded!??
“You
have to stop! You’ll make it sick! It only understands Welsh! It
was a gift from God, dropped by some bird, so I sing to it in God’s
own language, which of course is Welsh.”
Ducky
Bumps and I were returning from Colorado days later when, as we
relaxed at a rest stop, I told her about “Bainwarble’s little
acre.”
“Are
you going to turn him in,” she wondered?
“Spwffsss’
I sputtered! “You’re joking. He’ll never find a useful banker
in jail! No, I’m going to help him harvest.” Just then an Edsel
with a “Nixon” bumper sticker screeched to a halt nearby. The
driver raced into the restroom carrying something green. In less
than a second, a Highway Patrolman ran in after him, and hauled him
out in handcuffs, “groceries” and all. I looked at Ducky Bumps.
“Don’t
do it, NO,” She winced! She shook her head from side to side, but
I said it anyway:
“There
but for the grass of God go I !”
Groaaaan!
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