I’m not sure what in the hell to rant about today. I’m not sure I have the energy to rant about anything. If I figure out exactly what I want to rant about, and I have the strength to do it, I doubt anyone will give me an iota of sympathy. That flat out ain’t right.

Bush Baby is in town to visit with friends and family. Bush Baby isn’t the name on her birth certificate. No good Mennonite would so name their child. Yes, there is a story behind it and I’m not giving it up unless the price is right. Click on the Pay Pal icon there on the right side of the window. You’ll know the price is right when I tell the dark tale.

B.B. is Kat’s first cousin. She dropped by this afternoon so she and her cuz could do the social thing and catch up with what was happening. I wisely withdrew from the field to allow them to talk about whatever they talked about. So whilst I was absent from the field, I was idly messing around with my computer. That is when I discovered that I have Internet Checkers.

That I’m a checker playing fool may come as a bit of a shock to you. It kind of conjures up visions of old farts, dressed in denim overalls, sitting all hunched over a checkerboard near a pot-bellied stove and a brass spittoon in a general store.

The second sentence was a mouthful and written without one punctuation mark ‘cept at the end. It is going to be interesting to see how Kat punctuates that one. I do things like that every once in a while. It keeps her on her toes and makes her know that not only am I thinking of her but I also need her.

I’m not much into the general store scene and it has been a while since I felt the need to wear overalls. I haven’t had a good plug of Redman to chew on for quite a spell and more’s the pity.

Checkers. My Daddy and I played about a bazillion games of checkers. We were playing before I was old enough to remember. The day I finally beat him I was damned sure I had become a man. After my Mom remarried, and I got enough over being pissed at her that I would go around her, I played checkers with her husband. I never beat him. He could spot me eight checkers and still humiliate me. You might think that makes me a bad checker player and you would be wrong for so thinking. Dad was damned good and Frank was a freakin’ genius.

It’s been a while since I played so I was kind of grinning to myself, if you remember I had removed myself from the field, as I called up the first game. We played to a draw. The second game, with a new opponent, I won easily. The rust was falling off the ol’ Buffalo.

Then I went up against someone in Germany. Did I tell you that I don’t have much liking for Germans? They’re an arrogant lot. He or she, whichever, cleaned my plow so quickly I fell off the tractor and it nearly ran over my head.

Even a blind boar finds an acorn every now and then. I pulled myself to my feet, dusted off my jeans, put my pride in my back pocket, and climbed right back up on that old Massey Ferguson.

The first game was the long one. This time they flat bitch slapped me off the tractor. It kind of reminded me of the time Captain Morgan made me his bitch just before I left KC. I was lying there in the mud, feeling all weak and dizzy and queasey. I wanted to go at it again but he, or she, left in front of a wake of cyber laughter.

No, forget it. I don’t want to hear your cackles of glee and I don’t want your fake patronizing expressions of sympathy. Okay. Maybe a little sympathy.

Life is sweet – or it will be … when I take my revenge.