Play that funky piano white boy…

Long ago, I seen onea them player-piano thingys… It didn’t take any talent, it didn’t take any person… the thing just played… by itself.. Programmed.. Formatted.. Did.. Was.. No control.. Or mebbe, very controlled…

That, is kinda how I feel life is going at present.. Victor, is this gonna be a pity party?

Eh, mebbe. Call it what you want, I prefer to call it “sit back and look at the course of events” diddie... And them events just so happen to repeat, repeat, repeat.

As I was pooping at Mickey D’s this morning.. TMI! NOT another poop blog is it? Well, mebbe.. I got tickled this morning when I went to 1000days.net (Reid, Soanya-less attempt to sail 1000 days non-stop).. Remember, we wondered (no Victor, YOU wondered) where all his poop went. The title of today’s blog there is “endearing poop.” GOOD LORD, DOES THE MAN SAVE IT! MEBBE HE DOES USE IT TO FERTILIZE HIS BEAN SPROUTS..

Actually, it was about a Tropic bird that flew by, deposited right next to Reid. He saved it (didn’t clean) as a reminder of the beauty of the bird. Hmm.. Would that be like me not flushing the stool after the ex’s last poop? (Victor, not beyond you. Remember your story of saving “The King” at the fraternity house squatter?).. Yeah, rectum I do.

So, I was ‘depositing’ at Mickey D’s, and I hear that same hydraulic beat, smell that same weird McDonald’s smell, see the same folks, snotnoses, ad sections, horoscopes, fitty four cent senior coffee, same refrigerated truck that comes every Sunday. Play that funky player piano white boy.

My life’s become a player piano roll.

Then I walked out. And fell in love. Oh shit, not another derriere story is it? NO. A scamp. A what? U mean a tramp? NO. A Scamp.

Attached to the backa this humongous SUV was a teenie tiny little cool shaped, gas mileage friendly, aerodynamically niftily designed, very small - camper. A Scamp.

Home is where your heart is. I could live in that puppy in a heartbeat. I know sounds weird, don’t care. I could go visit friends, and borrie their driveway for the night. I could meet up with best friend, share a few Saturday night $6 pitchers, and the parking lot’d be my bedroom that night.

I could finds me some water, a creek, a lake, a river - and be ‘home.’ Playing that funky piano white boy. Routine schmootine. I wants me a Scamp.

I love Maynard and all, but the Scamp would allow me a break. I could turn the dial to whateverinthehell I wanted to watch. I could sit and listen to silence. I would not have to go around after flipping off light switches, TV’s, DVD’s, PlayStations.

I could even poop in my Scamp. Hehe. No hydraulic noises. No Mickey D smells. No Tropical birds. No “The King”s, No ex’s poop. Just me. Playing that funky piano white boy.

I’d head for St. Louie and visit my wonderful cousin who lives in the converted old grist mill. You’d haveta see this place to believe it. It’s better than sliced bread, and mebbe just below heaven. Me and the Scamp, the Mill, and yeah, mebbe even a dog named Boo.

Free as the wind. No ‘have to’s’. No GD auto-correct gay crap. No meaningless emails from some stupid single’s website where you can’t write back anyways. No writing emails to one that “mebbe” would ‘work’, only to be faced with silence, no return email from ‘mebbe’.

Throw the player roll out, live. Go. Do. Likes my friends CJ and Bobby. They go. Do. They just returned from Cancun. And returning to their home in a few weeks will be a 7’3” stuffed sailfish he caught during the trip. Far friggin’ out. Mount that humongous sailfish white boy. Unscripted. Free.

I’d get me a cell phone. VICTOR? YOU DON’T HAVE A CELL PHONE? Screw you, I was country when country wasn’t cool. Are you talking about that stupid bag phone you had in the early 90’s. Yes. Yes I am.

I would get ridda the player piano Aquila, the Gas Company, Water Department, AT&T. Gladys Kravats no longer next door. If I didn’t like my new neighbors wherever me and the Scamp landed, I’d crank up the HRL, and gets me some new ones.

I could go visit Kendra, Herbert, Dale, Sanford. Home’d be Watkin’s Mill, the Muddy Mo, Smithville Lake, The Dish, Jeff & Kim’s backyard in the country, The City Park Right Field area. Wherever, whenever. Mailbox? Who needs ‘em. Sumbitches are depressing anyways.

A tramp for the Scamp wouldn’t be a bad addition. VICTOR! Jk. You know what I mean. Finding another that ‘comes outta leftfield.’ Wants to go, do, see, live, breathe, observe, dance, sing, wherever, whenever. Play that funky piano white folks. Hell, she could be black, brown, yellow, red, I don’t care. Long as she plays. VICTOR! No no no. well… mebbe I meant it like that, I mean what the hey, THAT’s fun!.. But I meant that she too wanted to go, do. Tired of pooping in the same ole same ole porcelain.

Thank you Scamp, if even for only a second you gave me dreams of getting offa this player piano. I guess I have to go do laundry now. I choose to. I get to. I must, if I don’t want my cubicle mates to stare at me funny. I will awaken tomorrow morning around 5:30-ish. Come here (PC), poop, (sorry), bathe, run see friendly Annette at the gas station. Homosexually put fitteen dollars in the tank. (You’d prolly have to have been here before to unnerstand that one.) And the player piano happens for yet another week. Play that funky player piano white boy.

Play that funky music white boy
Lay down and the boogie and play that funky music 'til you die
'til you die, oh 'til you die

Scamp. I wants me a Scamp. Anda tramp. Is that too largea dream? Love, Victurds..