I was in KY for the last couple of days and I have noticed in small towns they seem to be really proud of their Walmarts. As if Saks had opened a retail outlet in Etowa, AL or something. Every direction they give you is somehow based off of the local Walmart’s geographic location.

“Yup….go on down yonder thar bout 17 malls or so til ya get to the Walmark there by the truck stop. That’ll be Tapp Road. Take ya a lefty right afore the Walmark and keep a goin. Bout maybe 3 miles from the Walmark, when yer fixin’ to go round the second curve there’ll be a nuther road crossing it. That ain’t the one you want…”

Whew! Thank you Mr. MapQuest. Perhaps you can draw me a map on that Big Penny’s BBQ napkin you obviously didn’t use. And let me add, I am not impressed when they add the word SUPER in front of it.

“Theys buildin a SUPER Walmart out there on the by-pass. Gonna be something. Probly like 6 or 9 claw games right there in the front, chuck full of ipods and stuffed gorillas. A SUPER Walmart. Imagine that. Turning the old one into a skatin’ rink or paintball war place I heard.”

Super Walmart? Means the same to me Cletus. Aren’t they all sort of super? I mean, do they really have regular inconspicuous Walmarts? Just a small building with a tasteful sign in a quiet neighborhood. Nope. That is probably why they are such a hit in small towns. It’s like the county fair has come to town. Forever. Complete with clowns, carnival food and bearded ladies. Super Walmart. Right. This is about when I go ahead and ruin it for them.

* Me: “Guess what we have in Kokomo?”
* Cletus: “Whut?”
* Me: “A Super Duper Walmart”
* Cletus: “Whut?”
* Me: “Yeah, Super Duper Walmart. Complete with a fried Twinky stand, tractor pull and a NASCAR department.”
* Cletus: “Dangit. That sucks. We gotta get us one of them ‘round here. Don’t that beat all?”

Yup, that beats all Cletus. It sure does.

Ok, usually I never do these survey type things that are sent around but I decided to complete one so I would have something to post. I did think the line of questioning here took a weird turn but……….here goes:

Name: Kevin Sprinkle
Height: 6’-0”
Weight: 202.3 well, maybe 218
Hair Color: none
Library Card Number: 2 9223 00031737 5
7th Grade Locker Combo: 5-23-17
Favorite Teacher With Glasses: Mr. Snyder
Famous Person You Would Not Like To Find Decapitated: Danny Devito
Creepiest Clown Name: Uncle Skinface
Grossest Thing To Put In A Blender: Peruvian Mountain Rat
Worst Burning Smell: Hair
Flaming Car Crash or Drowning: Drowning
Worst Way To Lose An Arm? Wood Chipper or Wolverine: Wolverine
Worst Place To Put A Lime Toothpick: Eye
Do You Have An Aunt With A Moustache: Yes
Ever Tested A 9v Battery On Your Tongue: Yes
Ever Ate A Play-Doh Taco: Yes
How Did It Taste: Salty
Favorite Shower Curtain Design: NASCAR #8 or maybe WWF Smackdown
Would You Wear Slippers Made From Bologna: No
Ever See A Dead Body Lying In The Side Ditch?; Yes
Did You Cause It? No
Have Anything To Do With It? No
You Sure?: Yes
C’mon: I didn’t
TV Star You Find Very Attractive: Connie Chung
Really?: Yes
You Know She Is Married To Maury Povich?: Yes
Most Unbelievable Celebrity: Paris Hilton
Did You Know In 1981 Freddie Mercury Was Gay?: No
You Retarded?: No
Best Leaf To Use For T.P. When Camping: Catalpa
Ever Put A Cloths Pin On Your Eyelid: Yes
Why: Uhmmm….to look cool?
You Retarded?: Starting to think maybe.
Which Dead Beatle Would You Most Like To Play Dodgeball With: Ringo
He’s Not Dead You Moron: Oh
Wierdest Thing You Have Gotten Your Big Toe Caught In: 12oz 7-Up bottle
You Retarded?: Yes

True story. I watched some people playing scrabble in Alabama a while back. Actually I was sort of in the game. Sort of. In presence only. I'm no genius (by any stretch of the word) but this particular match made me look like a Quantum Physicists. One woman successfully used the word “caah” as in “the sound a crow makes”. My eyeballs almost popped out of my head and I bit my tongue until I almost passed out. She had the first turn of the game and used this word as her opener. What a great use of the letters a,a,c and h. I thought she might have scored more with either haac or acah but it seemed to work out ok. Ok, after this bold move nobody else in the game flinched or said anything and the next guy went. I think he made maybe “cat” or “hat” using a letter from the first gem. For some reason all I could think to say was “Wow, that’s an onomatopoeia”, which evoked the same sullen stares that the zombies had on the dawn of the dead. Subsequent turns were taken with players randomly placing letters tiles which sort of spelled words in one direction but totally butched the crossing words. The board soon looked like some kind of cryptic hieroglyphic that would require some kind of Navaho code breaker to understand. After someone wasted a triple word score space with the ever popular nine point game-breaker “sit” everyone gave a genuine “good job” and returned to the memorized look of intensity over their six tiles (as no one ever could seem to figure out how many tiles to draw after each turn to equal seven total). A second player used the word “mange” which she pronounced “main-gee, like when you don’t comb your hair” and “pose, like what those rap guys call their home-boys”. There was a “French” word used and also the word “ovo” which was described as a medical term relating to eggs and ovulating. Incredibly enough, this actually is part of the Latin word “ad ovo” which means “from the egg”. Retrospectively this was sort of like the Alice Cooper moment on Wayne’s World when he explained the Algonquian meaning of the word “Milwaukee” or like when the Scarecrow with no brains on the Wizard of Oz starting spitting out complex mathematical formulas. For a moment I thought I was being punk’d and Ashton would step out and start jumping around with his goofy grin and stupid sideways trucker hat.

I was secretly hoping someone would accidentally drop their tiles when they were drawing new ones over the board and a legible, real word would magically form as the fell, or that the letters would start moving around by themselves like a Jumanji board and make spell out some kind of noun. As I constantly heard the players saying “I can’t spell anything with these dumb letters” I moved around the board behind them and looked at the little wooden racks that held the tiles. I discovered that all of them had the letters I,G,N,O,R,A and N which they could have added to several T’s that were in stand alone spots on the board and gotten double word, triple letter and fifty bonus points for using all seven letters. Ok, I you know I made that part up because I already said that none of them ever had all seven tiles except for the first turn and I think even then one of the started with five.

I waited in anticipation for the defining moment of cluelessness when one of them drew out one of the two blank tiles and turned it over maybe eleven times in their fingers with each rotation looking for the imprinted letter. It went down just as my mind advertised. The look on the guy’s face was like a chimp trying to figure out how to open a child proof medicine bottle. Frustrated but intrigued. I was strangely satisfied when this happened. I guess because I had internally “called it”. The scoring was a fiasco as no one was sure exactly which letters you got credit for and if you got credited with every tile remotely connected to the ones you put down or not. Any given word play could have been worth either seven and a half or forty points. I finally couldn’t take it anymore and stealthily slipped away like a ninja trying to avoid the subject of why I didn’t want to watch this un-spelling bee. These guys were lucky that Forest Gump or the dad from “I am Sam” wasn’t playing or they would have gotten their collective rear ends grammatically spanked.

OK, these people looked to have had a couple of beers apiece. Maybe. But no one is drunk enough to think “Caah” is really a word. As Momma always said “Stupid is as stupid does”. You tell ‘em Momma.

[a 3 letter english wording meaning adios],
Kevin

The Inner Circle Of Dorks seems to meet at the bookstore in the mall. On Saturday’s. From like noon until Battlestar Galactica comes on. Whenever that is. It’s a good place for them to meet. They have chairs there. And research material. And comic books. And it is close to places where you can get a 103 ounce cherry slurpee and trash bags full of popcorn. And there is a theatre nearby where they can go to see X-Men again. For the 11th time. To record in their spiral bound notebooks fatal writing and story flaws that conflict with the early original X-Men comic books or to work on memorizing all of Wolverine’s dialogue. Or corporately laugh at Hollywood’s lame understanding of true telekinesis. So they meet. Or congregate. Like the cantina scene in Star Wars. They discuss things. And argue. Alot.

I saw them in there on Saturday while I was looking at books on the Bargain Table. Because that’s where the chairs are. Near the Bargain Table. It’s sort of Dork Central really. And I was the odd one out. A freak. I stood around and listened while pretending to peruse the wildly discounted volumes. Or tried to listen at least, for they lapsed from semi-intelligible English to something else. Klingon I think.

They wore zip-up sweatshirts. And thick glasses. And digital watches that had the ability to do complex math problems and to tell you what time it is in Rivendell. Or Krypton. And their pecking order was obvious. The organization flow chart unmistakable. There were Mid-Level Dork soldiers, Dork-Dorks, Wanna Be Dorks, a Head Dork and the resident solo Dork Hottie. She was an overweight girl wearing a babydoll crop top that fit her like it was a sports bra. The top said “Hot Stuff” spelled out in rhinestones and had a mustard stain from a big pretzel near the neckline. She had tight jeans, hair coiffed like Princess Leia, and all the dorks dreamed of walking side by side with her at the Yu-Gi-Oh Convention. She was a Dork-ette, but had her pick of the stable. And she knew it.

The low guy on the Dork-em Pole was a small framed guy with a Slingblade haircut and a blonde Hitler mustache. He was attempting to trade some kind of playing cards things (kept in a sleeved folder, cross-referenced, indexed and pristine) with a Grunt Level Dork who had no apparent interest in anything being said to him. At all. He just thumbed through the vinyl protected pages and talked to himself. Out loud. Meanwhile Junior Dorkmier kept repeating his mantra of “That’s a good card” over and over again like a retarded Myna bird. He finally broke his trance-like state to blurt out “Whatta ya think Buddy, you gonna trade?” to which the Endless Thumber replied very slowly and in a detached way “I don’t knowwwwww……” which caused Little Mustache Guy so much anxiety that it appeared that he might pee his pants. Or throw up. Or potentially throw up AND pee his pants. Not sure if the deal got done or if this was just a clever ruse used to inspect Slingblade’s collection.

Meanwhile at the Dork Conference, a lively discussion intensified as sides were drawn about the ability to trump a Vladmir the Torturer card with two Plasma Energy discs and one Xenon Crystal, three Wizard of Waakia cards or if you indeed had to jump down, turn around and pick a bale of cotton. No shortages of opinions here and no one on the fence. The cooler Dorks had a kind of swagger to them as they punctuated particularly good points with a contemptuous straw slurp from their Icee. Nacho chips and popcorn particles fell harmlessly onto their chests and laps as each side refused to concede to the other.

I watched in amazement as they used words like “wog”, “transmogrify” and “eradicate”. They each seemed to make stuff up and articulate it to which a few others would adamantly agree while the others would ferociously shake their heads side to side getting so worked up that they spit and slobbered like St. Bernard’s. In between exaggerated hand motions they pushed their ever sliding glasses back up onto the bridge of their noses. It was becoming quite a scene. Finally King Dork ( he was obviously the Head Dork as he wore sweat pants that were only 1 size too big, shoe laces that matched and a t-shirt with a rather aggressive message that read: YOU MUST BE A PLANET BECAUSE YOUR FACE MATCHES URANUS ) who had been relatively reserved, stood up and ended the debate with a few choice words of wisdom. This settled the matter and diffused the ensuing Smackdown In Dorktown. He said, “Vladmir is of the Loran tribe. They are Zancors. A Zancor cannot be defeated by a Biltek. Therefore only a Malta Stone or Diridium Dagger can have any adverse effect on him.”

This seemed to satisfy the council as they quietly nodded and mumbled, acknowledging this overlooked basic truism. At this point the meeting was abruptly adjourned when the 30ish Grand Pubah Dork announced that his mom would be there in 10 minutes to pick him up in front of Sears and any loser that needed a ride should skedaddle quickly with him as he was going to walk past the Game X-Change one more time. This announcement was followed by quick glances at calculator watches and the gathering up of all comics, spiral bound notebooks and other assorted Dork-ernalia and with that, the meeting was history.

I was left standing by the Bargain Bin still faux reading a coffee table book called: Chariots, and the Men Who Drove Them while the Rain Man of Role Playing stared at me from across the table. I glanced up for a millisecond and when I did, he said “That’s a good book. Yeah. A really good book. Yeah” to which I replied “It is buddy. Sure it is”, as I walked away to the Computer section where I was headed in the first place. “Geez, What dorks” I thought, as I scanned the shelves for AutoCad 2007 LT For Idiots.

Peace. Later.
(Kevin Sprinkle)

I love words. Smitten by them you might say. I use a lot of them. Some people would say I use more of them than anyone else. I must know like 2,756 words. Maybe more. Maybe I know so many words because I read a lot. Sort of a lot. Well, really a lot. I read everything. I am an avid fan of cereal box literature. I know way more about riboflavin than most people. I read in the bathtub. A shampoo bottle connoisseur. Red #5, ammonium lauryl ether sulfate, that sort of stuff. Many new and scientific words. While on an Air China flight recently I spent most of the hour flight reading (well, more like intensely squinted at) a Chinese newspaper. I think they read like right to left and upside down or something like that but I just scanned it the normal way. They were still words.

Sometimes I have a chance to use some good words. Usually just get to use regular words like taco, wrench, s’more and spatula but occasionally an opportunity arises where I find myself in the perfect situation to become magniloquent and wax poetically. I definitely have a certain je ne sais quoi when it comes to expressing myself. I can sound pretty much like Jesse Jackson when properly inspired. Only I usually make less sense and have a less captive audience.

Certain professions get to use some pretty cool words. Astronauts. Now they have some good ones. Geosynchronous, micrometeoroids, hypergolic and yaw. For crying out loud, they get to say copasetic. I would give anything for a legitimate reason to say that. I try it sometimes anyway. Like at a restaurant when the waiter asks how the meal was I say boldly, “Copasetic Sir” which is followed by that weird squinty sideways smile and a patronizing “Ok……………”. Swordfighters have daily chances to say: balestra, molinello and passata sotto. How cool is that. Them right there are some good words.

One of the best guys I ever met with words was a shuttle driver for Enterprise Rent-A-Car at the Atlanta Airport. A Georgia cracker who read Voltaire. A hillbilly philosopher. Plato Pruitt Jr. I think his name was. He was a thin guy with hair like Andy Griffith, a pair of dark blue Dickie’s trousers about 4 inches too short so his white socks and ankle skin glowed like a lighting bug. He looked like he stepped off the O Brother Where Art Thou set. Unfiltered Lucky Strike and a far away glint in his eyes. Usually at the time I traveled to and from the airport no one else was on the shuttle. He would drive along and then say something incredibly hilljack-ularly profound. Out of the blue. Like he was talking to no one in particular.

“There seems to be two camps when it comes to coon dogs. Ya got yur Walker dawg people and ya go yur Redbone folk. Aside from coonhuntin’ they live in an idyllic world. One may extrapolate an auspicious relationship based on a equal affinity for man’s best friend. The situation is the antithesis. In all candor, them daggone fellers are just plain nuts when it comes to coon dawgs. When formed ad hoc they each give very cogent arguments as to the superiority of their respective canines. While Cletis Penrod pontificates on the treeing capabilities of his Walker dog, Cooter and his boy Junior produce a plethora of evidence illustrating the tracking skills of their Redbones. Dang. Makes ya want ta slap em. Dauntlessly them boys traverse from dawgs to pick-up trucks to jerky seasonings dogmatically expressing affinity for their preferences. It becomes quite a heated imbroglio actually. A bystander could sit back, have a Mr. Pibb and a moon pie while enjoying a manifestation of this magnitude.”

Now that is the way to drop some verbology. He would then just lean back and drive while taking a long slow drag on his cigarette and stare off into the horizon. I would just sit there and contemplate nothing he said and wonder if the pizza at Sbaro’s in the food court at Concourse C was gonna be hot or greasy.

Some words are funnier than others. Call me 12 but I giggle every time I see or hear the word “Shiite” in the news. Same with buttress. Some words I just don’t like. I am certainly not logophobic or anything but the word Hazbolla freaks me out. So much in fact that I have never officially pronounced it out loud. I just sorta go “hez-blah-blah” and move ahead briskly. The name Faizon does the same thing to me. Skeeves me witless. Not necessarily the subject matter as I can use the term al Qaida in varying ways. Shoot, I can use that phrase when talking about food and make it sound plausible. “The venison and the yams were very delicious but the al Qaida could have used more nutmeg.” On the other hand, I love the word plethora and get giddy when using or hearing it. I can find a plethora of opportunities to verbalize this locution. I plug it in whenever I can.

So here I am. Typing words and reading them as I go. I think I am going to start making up some words. Who would know. I talk too fast anyway. Maybe I’ll think of some while I am reading junk mail and eating cereal out of the mixing bowl. Slurpage. Is that a word? What’s left in the bottom of the bowl that you can’t quite get with the spoon and must drink by tilting the vessel. They’re all words if you can make em believable. It’s just a form of embulishism really. (Did I get you?)

Arrivederci
Vaarwel
Adiós
再見
Later…….
(Kevin Sprinkle)

Girl coffee. That’s what I like at night. Carmel Macchiato, Peppermint Latte, Pumpkin Spice creamer, a shot of Almond flavoring with skim milk and a pink pack of sweetener. Girl coffee. As opposed to boy coffee which is what I drink in the morning. At work. The kind that makes the tendons in your neck stretch out and one eye to close when you have the first sip. Gives you an aftertaste like you licked a shoe. Dark black with a hint of a rainbow oil slick on top of it. In a Styrofoam cup. How very cosmopolitan.

The problem with the coffee at work is no one knows how to make it. I mean we all can dump coffee in the filter and push the button but not everyone knows how much coffee to put in. Shoot, I even bring in the pre-measured foil pouches that are intended for one pot and I find empty wrappers and partially full opened ones on the counter. Uh….do the instructions say “Tear open 2 bags and add all of 1 and 1/3 of the other”? If they wanted you to do that they would have just made the bag quantity 1/3 more than they did. We are in even bigger trouble when we have the standard Can O’ Coffee. Then we just use an 8 ounce styro cup and dip out maybe ¾ of a cup full. And then another ¼ cup. Then a pinch more. Someone, I am not exactly sure who, takes about a ½ cup of fresh coffee and adds it to the used grounds to get another pot out of it. When you drink that coffee it feels like you got hair on your teeth when finished. We run out of coffee a lot. And cups. But never filters. We buy the Industrial 1500 filter pack. Kind of because we don’t want to run out but mostly because we sometimes use the filters for paper plates to heat stuff up and eat off of. With a plastic knife as a utensil. Spaghetti is not too difficult but soup can be tough.

I fix coffee at home on weekends and in the evenings. I got a new Krups coffee maker. It is a Coffee / Espresso / Cappuccino Machine. I even got the little Espresso cups. With the dinky, square saucers. Looks like I am having a tea party with myself. It makes good coffee. The Espresso / Cappuccino feature is a pain in the butt. I do like the little stainless steel foaming pitcher. It looks official. I have made good Cappuccino’s but they are totally not worth the 47 minute clean-up afterwards. Sometimes I use Starbuck’s Coffee out of the foil sealed bag. I carefully freshly grind the beans and pour them in the weird filter, adding clear, clean bottled water (why do they tell you to use cold water?) and wait impatiently as it drips slowly into the pot. Actually it is called a carafe but I feel like Sigfried or Roy when I say that so I never do. I add a sweetener pack (the cancer scare is over) and glub-glub in some skim milk and head to my chair. Ahhhhhh……..

I have had some interesting coffee experiences in my travels. In China they do not drink much coffee. Hence, they do not understand my love of it. They give you one small cup. One. Even in the morning, not understanding the “warm my cup up” mentality. There is 4 ounces of coffee. Bottoms up. In Honduras they have good coffee. Really strong and really sweet. Pre-sweetened. Coma inducing sweet. And incredibly hot. Sensationally hot. Unbelievably hot. A woman will make coffee and then hike with the pot up a mountain like 3.7 miles taking maybe 53 minutes. She then will serve you a tiny cup that will melt the insides of your mouth the moment you get the cup within 4 inches of your teeth. It is so hot that a dollop of molten lava would cool it down some. Oh yeah, it is also so strong that your eyeballs rotate in your head like a slot machine when you drink it. Maybe that is why the use the miniscule cups. I had to make my own coffee in La Moskitia and in Africa. In a French Press. Like a gentleman adventurer. In Africa they don’t drink coffee. Tea is the caffeine gateway of choice there. Once I was invited to drink afternoon tea in Ojague with my new buddies the Tanda Tribe. They brew these roots into an aromatic dark tea. Then the tea is poured back and forth until frothy and served in a tiny shot glass looking vessel. I should have been suspicious when I was the only one handed a serving and everyone stood around smiling like I was going to get punk’d. I slammed it back and immediately I went into a Jimi Hendrix style purple haze. Everyone started moving in slow motion and talking like Charlie Brown’s Teacher. I did not want to puke because I knew if I did I would fall in it. The good thing is this lasted only about 30 seconds and then I was back to my normal gullible self. They serve this tea in 3 rounds and the second round was not quite as psychedelic and lasted only about 23 seconds. The third and final round was smooth sailing and went down like warm honey with no hitch. The only lasting effect was that I had a right eye tick and kept thinking I saw a Talking Spider Monkey who was trying to get me into network marketing for about 3 hours afterwards. Made me want a cup of coffee.

So I need a fix. A Mug Of Java. Cup O Joe. The bean. I prefer Starbuck’s. Straight up. Strong and vibrant. Unless it is at night. Or a Saturday morning. Or I am in an airport. Then I want a Kona blend, double espresso shot, ½ decaf ½ Latte, double cupped with an ice cube in it. And leave room for the cream. Half and half with a splash of skim milk and a dash of cinnamon. And while you’re at it put your right foot in and take your right foot out. Then shake it all about. Cause that’s what it’s all about.

Latte Love. Peace.

So I don’t really know my colors. Sue me. I don’t really care you know. I could give a flying flip that I’m not sure what Fuchsia is. Or Heliotrope. I know the primary colors. Like Red, Yellow and Green. Or Blue. Maybe. And I know you can mix these and get like a gazillion other colors like Mauve and Teal and Viridian. Who cares. I’m not color blind. I am color apathetic. I am aware that there are many colors but I choose not to dwell on them. Colors make my brain hurt.

The root of my color deficiencies stems from when I was a kid. I never had the Deluxe 64 Crayola Box Set. The one with the four small boxes of 16 crayons each nestled into one fantastic carton. The ultimate object of childhood envy and decadence. With the sharpener on the back. The Holy Grail of coloring. The Mother Ship Of Elementary School Art. Nope. I had the sad white trash version. About 11 crayons in a cigar box. Let’s see, I had two Reds, a Brown, a Pink, Burnt Umber, Yellow and four miscellaneous dark ones that could have been Blue, Purple or Black. You couldn’t tell because the paper had been torn off so you had to test each one down in the corner first before you colored Santa Claus’s belt a Grapey hue. Oh yeah, and I had a White. A White. Uh...usually the pages we colored on were White so this was absolutely useless. The only thing a White crayon was good for was a fake cigarette. So you could pretend to smoke when you decorated your pictures. If you could smear the end of the White crayon with the Red crayon you sort of had fire on it. Ah, nothing quite like a smoke when you are creating art. I never had the luxury of having the entire pallet of hues and tones from which to choose from. I never heard of Turquoise or Crimson. Who knew there was a specific color for flesh. Of course then we did not have to be politically correct. Now we would have to have Asian Flesh, African-American Flesh and Native American Indian Flesh crayons. Back then we just colored them Yellow, Brown and Red. All Honky’s you left the color of the page. Done. So I suffered from not having the correct colors. Sure I made do, but I rendered some pretty pathetic rainbows with my 11 crayons.

I’m not even sure what colors match. I remember walking out feeling like I was looking rather GQ in my self-chosen attire only to have one my wife say “You’re not wearing that are you?” “This? This? Of course I’m not wearing this. I was merely showing you what I am not wearing. I would never attempt to wear this outside this house. Nope. Ha! This is the ANTI of what I am wearing.” Most of this was caused by my lack of color coordination. To me, Blue is Blue. Is Blue, is Blue. Wrong. It appears that Wedgewood Blue, Cerulean and Azure do not blend well aesthetically. Sea Foam Green, Mint Green and Tea Green are really similar to me. But you can’t wear them at the same time. Apparently this can cause some kind of sensory overload. That’s why Carhartt makes everything Duck Brown. It takes our choices out of it.

If men ran the place (and we don’t), there would be no need for fancy paint stores. Sherwin Williams would go out of business. There would be only one place to buy paint. And they would sell it in White only. Transactions would go like this:

Kevin: Hey Herb
Herb: Hey Kevin. Need some paint?
Kevin: Yep.
Herb: Here ya go. One gallon of White.
Kevin: Thanks Herb.

But then Herb’s Evil Wife would start working there and ruin it.

Kevin: Hey Herb. [Smirking] Betty…
Herb: Hey Kevin. Need some paint?
Kevin: Yep. The usual.
Betty: Satin or Matte? White, Off-White or Cream?
Kevin: Aw jeez Herb……
Herb: I know.

Of course there is always the debate of whether or not Black is a color. Purists say that Black is a neutral and therefore not a color. Papaya Whip seems like a very neutral tint to me and it is a color. Not sure where I stand on that one. Don’t want to rile the purists. Whoever they are. The kids in the mall sure think it is a color. They all dress in entirely black. Wooooo! Scary. Sorry Timmy, painting your fingernails Black does not make you Lestat. Not much lamer than a wanna-be vampire. I like to walk up and jam a Silver cross up to their grill and say “Die you blood sucking bat from the Netherworld!” So far none have recoiled in fear and no smoking skin. Disappointing really. Yeah, dressed all in Black talking about shooting someone just to watch them die. Big deal, Johnny Cash has been doing that for 40 years. Get a new gig Count Chocula.

So I drive a Red truck. Drink Black coffee. Eat an Orange while I buy tickets online from JetBlue Airlines and go to work and have a Lime Soda. Sometimes I get in the heavy traffic behind the Yellow school bus while listening to Pink on the radio. Colors are all around me. I can’t get away from them. But that does still not keep me from wanting to wear my favorite color. Camouflage. It’s not easy being Green.

Later.


“There are only 3 colors, 10 digits, and 7 notes; it’s what we do with them that’s important”
(Jim Rohn)