 Happy Thursday, you fellow lucky devils, we’re all still alive! Well, except for that guy over in the corner…someone get a pulse on him please.
The Brother-in-Law showed up last night for cocktails. As we sat outside talking (it was a beautiful evening here at The Compound), he surveyed the Clustering of Gigolos Music Festival site in the north pasture. He looked as though he were about to make a comment when we heard a bloodcurdling scream. Cousin Fred, who was working to complete the cabling of the video screens in the upper reaches of the stage, slipped and fell nearly 30 feet to the floor. “Egad, not again!” I muttered, taking another sip of my drink. The Brother-in-Law jumped up and started to head that way when he noticed that The Wife and I weren’t moving. The Wife grunted and clinched her lit filterless Pall Mall between her teeth even harder than usual and said, “Sit back down. It’s the sixth time today he’s done that.” About that time, Cousin Fred jumped up and yelled, “I’m okay!” before scurrying back up the ladder to do more cabling. We could hear Gigi, the hairdressing hydrologist yelling from the stage floor, “Be careful up there my climbing monkey! Climb my monkey boy, climb!” The Compound mutts then alerted us to a vehicle coming down the road from the south. It was an early 60’s vintage Buick Riviera. It screeched to an abrupt halt just outside the gates of The Compound. The sole occupant climbed atop the hood of the car and, with the setting sun in his eyes, commenced speaking…well, bellowing really. “The wages of tin is a new metal roof…,” he proclaimed. The Brother-in-Law looked confused. “Did he say the wages of tin?” “Yeah,” I responded. “That’s Siding Sam. He’s trying to get us to reroof the house with sections of heavy-gauge rolled steel.” Siding Sam was now jumping up and down on the hood of the old Buick and screaming, “Blessed is the house wherein the occupants remain dry and worry-free for the duration of the warranty!” He began waving a piece of paper in the air, “Herein it is written, limited coverage for 30 years eve to eve, front to back, and side to side!” The Brother-in-Law looked even more confused. I tried to help out, “Siding Sam used to be a preacher, but he got caught moonlighting in the next county over selling siding and roofing products to homeowners after hail storms. His congregation figured they hired a full-time preacher, not a part-time tinman, so they let him go. Now he only sells siding.” Siding Sam continued, “Be assured of protection, brothers and sisters, when hellfire, brimstone, and hail rain down on thee! Steel roofing will not burn, stain, or dent!” As he said this, Siding Sam dropped to his knees on the hood of his Buick, raising his arms in the air. The Brother-in-Law jumped up and announced he was leaving, making an excuse about not wanting to miss the Real Hausfraus of München on the Bavarian Channel. I pointed out that the only open gate off The Compound was currently blocked by Siding Sam who continuing his metallurgical rants from atop the hood of his vehicle. It was true. I had already secured the south gate for the night and would secure the north gate once The Brother-in-Law departed. “No problemo,” he muttered as walked off to his big truck. He raced down the driveway, stopping mere inches from Siding Sam’s Buick. The Brother-in-Law began honking the horn. Siding Sam stood defiant on the hood of the car. The Brother-in-Law eased his truck forward pressing into the side of the Buick. Siding Sam, began screaming like a twelve year old girl. He then climbed up on the roof of the car on all fours where he began barking like a dog, showing teeth and lowering the front portion of his body with his ass in the air. The Brother-in-Law shoved the Buick sufficiently into the middle of road giving himself enough room to escape. He left to the north. Siding Sam climbed down off the Buick and examined the damage. The driver’s side was completely caved in. He went around to the trunk where he removed a bicycle. He shook his fist at us and announced he would return. He rode off to the south, leaving the damaged Buick in the road. As we were taking in that scene, there was another scream from the stage. This time when he fell, Cousin Fred managed to grab one of the cables on the way down and was swinging to and fro across the stage. Gigi was clapping her hands and yelling, “Look at my climbing monkey boy, now he is the Tarzan. Swing Tarzan swing!” Just another evening at The Compound. That is all! Comments are closed.
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