The Bowling Alley Locker Area is still empty.
I realized that I left a tape recorder running for the better part of the last 14 years here underneath the headboard. Playing back the first 10 minutes or so, all I hear is whispering, whispering, whispering.
It's not my voice. And it's nothing terribly interesting. Just a lot of talk about value meal specials at fast food establishments and national holiday-themed mattress sales.
I can only assume it's what I discuss while asleep. And I regret not finding it until now as, from what I can tell, I missed out on a really great Fish-Sandwich/Craftmatic Adjustable Bed combo deal back in 2002 that would've both made me smarter and straightened out my back.
I'll have Franklin burn the tape later tonight.
If all goes according to plan, you will be the happy, successful new owner/operator of a Deluxe Ice Cream Shoppe and Camel Wash Station in rural Azerbaijan.
If it all goes to hell, run like a monkey on fire.
The circus is no longer accepting applications. The country has enough file clerks. Playing a dead body in one of those large disaster scenes just doesn’t pay enough. The only calling left is a higher calling.
When you become a priest, the Vatican sends you a pair of those glasses that let you see into men’s souls and you’re legally allowed to drink blood in public. Your business card gets a rarely used prefix. Sure you only get paid in little sticks and pebbles but you never have to fear snakes again.
All in all a good deal for all parties. You were going to be locked up eventually anyway, might as well be in bondage to the Lord.
Pretty much all you hear when you die.