Know when to float em
It was a noon-day-pour-in-sort-of-rain forced by the builder. It would have taken a few shots of liquor and a quick six to get me into a mood worth writing about. ‘Guess you could say that I was kind of ‘pissy’ and didn’t feel like being here; or anywhere; unless ‘anywhere’ was a dark little saloon with cheap beer and dry socks from a vending machine. -I’d go to that place in a heart beat, and…believe me; you’d have to drag me from the place after days like these.
I saw the piece of shit concrete truck rolling in from a mile away. -Actually I think I smelled this old diesel dog, shitting smoke and barking complaints from the drum and tranny before the damn thing was ever in site. -For a mile before she got there, I knew whole heartedly that we were going to be dealing with a piece of shit concrete truck and more than likely; a diver to match.
He crawled from the cab and approached the formed areas like he had been holding out on a water supply for thirsty desert campers. Arrogant, sarcastic, overweight, clumsy and bearing a Lebanon county dutch accent. -In case you were wondering; the lebanon co dutch accent in a thorn in the side of modern English. I can’t go into detail, but…you just gotta believe me that the dialect of this lovely language is being killed by Lebanon native whiteys with fat asses in concrete trucks.
They (the concrete truck drivers) speak to the rushing concrete centers as though; they’ve arrived to some sort of party; to a place where people wish to gather and converse. Gatherings? Conversations? C’MON DUDE!!!! THIS IS CONSTRUCTION.
And this is…
holy shit.
Where does the time go?
Good night, y’all.
Love ya!
:9)
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