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Crackpot Mailbox: Is LaFond Fated to be Leased on the Altar of Rent-Seeking America?
Katrina's Mom
Sun, Jul 14, 10:17 PM (2 days ago)
Dear James,
My mom is a connoisseur of alarmist headlines. In my area, the supply of housing is so tight that authorities have considered loosening zoning restrictions to allow homeowners to build studio apartments on their properties. The sensational interpretation is that people will be required to board homeless in their homes. She declared that if she is required to take on an itinerant house guest, she will claim you for the job. I don't think she realizes how high demand is for you these days.
Mamma, Please!
"Claim" me?
Damn, girl—I feel like an undeclared domino score in the county jail!
Shoot, she might as well buy me!
Perhaps this is my penance for enslaving Stevedore?
First, Big Tony keeps him for is own self in hopes—I'll bet my nut sack on this—that the old man will teach him some blues riffs unheard of since that guitar duel with Lightning Hopkins in 1964.
What I am sensing here is that God is giving me a chance to lease my old ass out before Mammon forecloses upon it.
Now, in today's climate, the alarmist interpretation is the only view that makes sense, so she will obviously need to have a place slave.
Hmm, perhaps this is the catbird seat—maybe Stevedore is God's avatar and he's teaching me a lesson here. Okay, I'm publishing this in hopes that my other landlords will double down on the amenities, but to put it in play I need to know, can she sing?
She's beyond dancing age, but so am I.
If Mawmaws can sing up in the big house while I'm writing down in the small house that could really help the muses dance in my brain. Get her up to speed on the Audio Slave library and I'm good for a month a year.
I could use some down time, what with coaching knuckleheads in Maryland and PA and trying to finish history books in the dressing room of Manny's Jersey Shore strip-club with all that giggling going on and trying to outdrink Yeti Waters until 5:45 A.M. Pacific time, an old worn-out tool could use a break—so tell her yes, but its a monthly lease.
Upon reflection, perhaps we are returning to the roots of Plantation America, where soldiers were foisted upon homeowners as guests by a cheapskate king.
Thank you, Katrina—and, oh, yes, give Mom my phone number. Its 443-686-0598.
The Ghetto Grocer Kindle Edition
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