~ CHAPTER 103.7 ~
"Cowboy Mike revisted"
In addition to being somewhat obsessive-compulsive, I am a model procrastinator. Which means I'm totally dedicated to doing shit at the very last minute. This is a condition I had to grow into. At six years old, I often collapsed on the floor in foaming-at-the-mouth discombobulation if faced with too many choices.
I figured out how to recognize (other) crazy people when I was very young. Confrontation between loonies sometimes has a sobering effect on at least one of the parties involved. However, all rules go out the window when multiple nutcases from the same family put their heads together.
None of this has anything to do with Cowboy Mike. Cowboy Mike isn't really crazy, per se. He's merely the ultimate cracker and, unfortunately (depending on how you look at it), he's the closest thing my Uncle Donkey Kong has to an actual friend. Uncle Donkey Kong isn't crazy, either. He's certainly out of touch with the nuances of reality, though. Together they are enablers, pushing each other to new heights of psycho-fucking-babble. I'm compelled to stoop down and gasp for fresh air near the floor when trapped in their combined presence.
Tonight, I was witness to their analysis of the new immigration law. Wisely, I held my tongue. I may have been just too road weary to protest anything that was said. At some point, Uncle Donkey Kong excused himself. Perhaps the spirit of the moment inspired a massive dump. I was left alone at the kitchen table with my former employer. There's always one more story to tell, apparently. And tell it he did. It was rubbish.
When it was over and done with, Cowboy Mike was unusually cordial to me when he took his leave. Almost as if he were grateful to me for hearing him out. And for a brief moment, there was some sort of clarity.
"Cowboy Mike revisted"
In addition to being somewhat obsessive-compulsive, I am a model procrastinator. Which means I'm totally dedicated to doing shit at the very last minute. This is a condition I had to grow into. At six years old, I often collapsed on the floor in foaming-at-the-mouth discombobulation if faced with too many choices.
I figured out how to recognize (other) crazy people when I was very young. Confrontation between loonies sometimes has a sobering effect on at least one of the parties involved. However, all rules go out the window when multiple nutcases from the same family put their heads together.
None of this has anything to do with Cowboy Mike. Cowboy Mike isn't really crazy, per se. He's merely the ultimate cracker and, unfortunately (depending on how you look at it), he's the closest thing my Uncle Donkey Kong has to an actual friend. Uncle Donkey Kong isn't crazy, either. He's certainly out of touch with the nuances of reality, though. Together they are enablers, pushing each other to new heights of psycho-fucking-babble. I'm compelled to stoop down and gasp for fresh air near the floor when trapped in their combined presence.
Tonight, I was witness to their analysis of the new immigration law. Wisely, I held my tongue. I may have been just too road weary to protest anything that was said. At some point, Uncle Donkey Kong excused himself. Perhaps the spirit of the moment inspired a massive dump. I was left alone at the kitchen table with my former employer. There's always one more story to tell, apparently. And tell it he did. It was rubbish.
When it was over and done with, Cowboy Mike was unusually cordial to me when he took his leave. Almost as if he were grateful to me for hearing him out. And for a brief moment, there was some sort of clarity.