My Lame Weekend

by Calendar Hacksaw

Calendar Hacksaw is the widely-respected rural humor columnist for The Fence Post Monthly Reader, published in Caliente, California, a sparsely-populated region of Kern County about thirty miles east of Heaven. Each Thursday morning, Hacksaw tortures himself by reading a feature in Los Angeles Times called "My Favorite Weekend," in which some unbelievably hip, trendy and self-centered urbanite describes what he or she typically does to occupy their leisure hours between Fridays and Sundays. The manner in which candidates for "My Favorite Weekend" are selected is anyone's guess, in that they are largely unknown outside their own small, conceited circles. After all, how many of us have ever heard of Paris Hilton's bikini waxer, "Raoul of Beverly Hills?" How much do we care about Raoul's Friday night yoga sessions or his hunger for the bluegill and carp omelets served only on Sundays at a tiny bistro near Puddingstone Reservoir? So, it is in with a sense of jealous outrage that Calendar takes this opportunity to bore readers with his own version of a favorite weekend.

I have three days off every week, so my weekend actually begins at 5:00 p.m., Thursday night. I typically start off with a few beers, then pick up the dog droppings, feed and water the chickens, eat whatever Betty puts on my plate, then settle down to relax for the rest of the evening. I like to sit at the patio table on the driveway in front of the garage and watch life go by. Seagulls fly overhead, returning to the beach after spending the day at the dump. Flocks of crows fly the opposite direction, going wherever it is crows go to die of West Nile Virus.

About 8:00 p.m., my feral pet cat "Skank" shows up for her nightly session on my lap. What she does all day is anyone's guess, but it takes me a good 20 minutes to brush it out of her fur. What a mess she is. She looks like she's been servicing winos under the lube rack down at Pep Boys, and I mean that in the worst imaginable way

Since I get up at 4:30 on workdays, I like to sleep in until 4:45 on weekends, then read the morning papers over cups of hot coffee and strips of beef jerky. By 11:00, I'm off to Costco for beer and more jerky. On the way home, I usually stop by the pizza place in Old Town because everyone knows me there and I get my beer served quickly, often ahead of those who arrive before me. The owner jokingly says the sooner he serves me, the sooner I'll leave.

Saturday mornings aren't much different than Fridays, unless it's time to trim my toenails. As you might expect, this is quite a challenge at my age, in that toenails on old men become quite unmanageable. Also, I'm not as limber as I used to be, so it's necessary to set up shop in the garage where I have a folding chair modified with stirrups from a gynecologist's exam table. By using ropes and pulleys, I'm able to bring my feet within reach and can usually finish the task in about 30 minutes. I just let the clippings fly where they may, because the beagle likes to eat them. Must be a vitamin deficiency of some sort.

Saturday is a special lunch day for Betty and me, so it should come as no surprise to you that we'll often bring in something from Wendy's or Burger King and enjoy a naked lunch in front of the TV. Dessert follows.

The afternoon is set aside for yard work, and Betty likes to see freshly-mown lawns, front and back. I'm more than happy to start the mower and trimmer for her, then keep the dogs in the house and out of the way until she's finished. Let me tell you, that woman sure can work up a sweat.

Saturday nights are pretty much a repeat of Thursdays and Fridays; pick up dog poop, feed the animals and brush the Pep Boys stench out of Skank's fur during her nightly confession and purification ritual. Her belly is starting to bulge a bit, and that has me worried, as it would any father figure. Maybe I'll just take her up to Walker Basin and toss her out of the car. That's the accepted practice, isn't it?

Sunday is a special day, so Betty is up early to congregate at Our Lady of Stater Bros. I stay home and try to keep the dogs quiet so Alpo and Persephone can sleep in until 10 or 11.

I like to finish the weekend at Slut Palace, a club situated in an old truck stop built in 1910. It's an industrial area devoid of human activity on weekends, so regardless of how loud the music is, no one complains. The cops don't even seem to know it's there, so pretty much anything goes. Sunday is country music night, and good acts can be seen for just a nominal $5 cover charge. They sell big glasses of German beer with a slice of lemon for $3 a pop. Patty Booker and Rick Shea play there quite often, and their pedal steel guy really strikes a chord with me. My varmint-hunting biker friend and I are heading over tomorrow night to sample the Earl Brothers bluegrass band, so I'm expecting to have a really good time. Care to join us?

By 9:00 Sunday night, I'm worn out from three days of near-constant activity and more than ready for bed. My clothes are laid out for Monday morning, and a new week beckons. I clean Skank's fur one last time, knowing full well that she and her litter of kittens will live long and happy lives in the Basin, owing to the natural generosity of the local population and the abundance of fresh road kill and open range milk.

Calendar Hacksaw spends his weekends at, and when he's not taming feral cats, he can be found creating stagnant ponds and pools to host mosquito larvae. He knows full well that one bite from an infected specimen would probably be the end of him, but he thinks "insect bite" would look pretty nifty on the death certificate.

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