The Baptist

Yesterday I was awakened from a siesta by the squeaking of a rusted van door and the sigh of relief of worn shocks as the occupant got out of a rust red 1980 Dodge conversion van. A thick puff of dust rose around a pair of feet, with ankles as thick as fence posts, as a woman stepped from the vehicle. She sported a pink checkered sack dress that hung well below her knees. Her hair was graying blond and piled haphazardly upon her head in the semblance of a bunn. Her face was red from the exertion of getting out of her vehicle, but she put on a big smile as she waddled towards the house, a Bible in one hand.

Bubba BiGot Jr. III was sitting in a rocker on his front porch. He scowled like Clint Eastwood's character in 'Gran Torino', as much in distaste of the butt-ugle van sitting in his driveway as at its driver. Bubba, or T.T. as I like to call him, is a Ford man. Undeterred by his stare, the woman approached the bottom step and greeted T.T. "A glorious day to you sir! My name is Faith Newsome and I'm from The First Apostolic Free-Will Baptist Church over in Durham, and I was in the area and wanted to see if I could speak to the young lady that lives here. She visited with us a couple of weeks ago with Sister Ruby Pike and I just wanted to see if she needed a ride to church tomorrow."

T.T. scowled even more at the mention of Ruby Pike, that self-righteous busy-body neighbor who lived a couple of houses down the road. "She's out of town for a couple of weeks visiting her mother." T.T. responded, hoping the woman would turn around and get back into her van and leave.

A look of disappointment replaced Faith's smile. This was the third house she'd visited trying to get people to come with her to church the following day. "I see." she replied. "Well, please tell her I came by and I hope she will come out and visit us when she gets back, from Georgia, isn't it?

"Yep." T.T. said. Obviously his daughter had told Ruby Pike and she'd blabbed it all over the church.

Unwilling to trudge all the way back to her van, the woman decided to strike up a conversation with T.T., hoping he'd at least invite her to get out of the sun and have a seat on the porch. "Sir, before I go, could I ask you a question?" Faith climbed the first step as she spoke.

T.T. sighed. I could hear it from the van where I was busy marking the tires. He knew what was coming. "Sure", he replied.

Faith took another step. "Well, if you were to die today, do you know where you'd spend eternity?"

"Sure do." T.T. said.

After a few seconds it became apparent that T.T. wasn't going to elaborate further, so Faith tried to draw the answer from him. "That's good. So you know Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior?"

"Yep."

T.T.'s reticence to respond with more than two words was causing Faith to have doubts that T.T. really believed in Christ. She wanted to help him understand what being saved really means. "And you know that we've all sinned and fallen short of the Kingdom of God and that without Jesus' atoning blood spilled on your behalf you are condemned to an eternity in the fiery pits of hell along with Satan and his host of demons....eternally separated from God....with no hope just eternal pain and misery...away from those you love and who now rest in the loving arms of the Creator." Faith paused for breath. "You do know you can't get to Heaven without Jesus, don't you?"

"Yes ma'am. I've gone to church most of my life. I've read the Bible from cover to cover. I know what the Bible says."

Thinking she'd found a flaw in T.T.'s response, Faith took two more steps and stood on the porch only a few feet from T.T. I moved a bit closer in case T.T. needed help fending her off.

"But don't you know, Mr. BiGot, that just going to church and reading the Bible doesn't mean you have a saving relationship with the Lord! You've got to repent from all your sins and obey the Word of God if you want to spend eternity with the Father."

"I 'spose." T.T. replied.

A lock of Faith's hair had worked loose from the clip and now hung over her eyes. She was starting to look more and more like Carrie's mother from that Stephen King movie.

"Not every church teaches the entire gospel, Mr. BiGot. You've got to be in a Bible-believing, Spirit-filled church if you want to get to know God."

"I attend The Carpenter's Shop over in Creedmoor."

Faith had never heard of the church. "That's good, but you need to hear the gospel from a preacher that knows the Word like our pastor. Pastor Woody Carver has been preaching at First Apostolic Free Will since 1992. He's a powerful man of God who ain't afraid to call sin sin. He don't stand by like other pastors and accept sin in his church. You won't find any homosexuals or harlots there. If you don't pay your tithes, he'll call you out in public because not paying your tithes isn't a financial issue, it's a faith issue and it needs to be dealt with. You need to have folks around you who will help hold your feet to the fire when you start back-sliding. That's the kind of Christians you'll find at First Apostolic Free Will Baptist Church."

T.T. had heard just about enough by now,so he decided to have some fun with Ms. Faith. "I used to be a Baptist, but then I got saved." he replied.

Stunned, Faith just stood with her mouth hanging open. No he didn't! This insolent heathen wasn't insinuating that FAFWBC was not doing the Lord's work? I moved closer in case she was was going to draw a butcher knife from inside that tent she wore.

"Well," she huffed. "All I know is what the Word says, and my Bible says that "A good man obtaineth favour of the LORD: but a man of wicked devices will he condemn." And in the gospel of John that "He that believeth on him is not condemned: but he that believeth not is condemned already, because he hath not believed in the name of the only begotten Son of God. And this is the condemnation, that light is come into the world, and men loved darkness rather than light, because their deeds were evil."

"And in my Bible it says "Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye devour widows' houses, and for a pretence make long prayer: therefore ye shall receive the greater damnation."

The two of them spent the next fifteen minutes throwing scripture verses at one another. Faith concluded with "Verily, verily, I say unto you, He that heareth my word, and believeth on him that sent me, hath everlasting life, and shall not come into condemnation; but is passed from death unto life." That's found in John 5:24 if you don't have time to look it up.

T.T. shot back, "Verily, verily, I say unto you, get thou fat ass off my porch and move that piece of crap van out of my yard before I buy up that church building of yours and shove it where the sun don't shine!"

Faith stomped off the porch, hurling back unpleasantries. T.T. smiled and said things like, "Go in pieces."
"Be blessless."
"Fast and pray sister, with emphasis on the fasting!"
It took awhile for the dust to settle from her stomping before she could see well enough to back out of the drive.

After she was gone, I told T.T. that he didn't act very Christian-like to Faith. "I know", he admitted. "But I'm sick of in-your-business-Christians who think they've got the inside track to God. The next time someone says "Well, all I know is the Word, and the Word says blah-blah-blah." I'm going to make them eat it."

I'm going to ask God to go easy on T.T. the next time I see Him. T.T.'s bark is worse than his bite. He's like the President, he don't know when to keep his mouth shut.

Failure To Communicate - Part 2

Missus and T.T. were shopping today in Wal-Mart and T.T. was again the victim of an assault by his wife. I must point out that T.T. wasn't raised to lay his hand on a woman, so he was at a disadvantage here.

Missus needed some new underwear before leaving on their trip to Nebraska. The two were in the lingerie aisle. Missus prefers the Hanes brand. T.T. saw some bras that appealed to him and called them to the attention of Missus. She came over and looked at them, shook her head and said, "Pretty balloons." T.T. agreed "Yep." and reached out to give the padded bras a squeeze.

Missus looked at him like he was some sort of pervert and asked, "What are you doing?"

"Nothing."

"That's why I'm ashamed to go anywhere with you!" she hissed.

"What did I do?" T.T. asked.

"Oh, I don't know." Missus explained. "Just a fat middle-aged man in the women's lingerie department feeling up the merchandise."

"What are you getting so upset about?" T.T. insisted. "I was just agreeing with you."

"In what way?" Missus inquired.

"Well, you said those were pretty balloons and I thought they were pretty and just felt them to see what made them so pert and full."

"Uh-huh." said Missus.

"And I just wanted to see if they were as firm as your breasts are." As T.T. said this, he reached out and gave Missus' breasts a squeeze, just as the clerk walked over and asked if she could help them.

Missus blushed, but T.T. grinned, shook his head and responded, "No, I can take care of these myself."

It was then that Missus opened up a can of whoop-ass on T.T. They were escorted from the store and asked never to return.


It turned out that Missus didn't say 'pretty balloons". She said "Fruit of the Loom".

Numb Nuts

This week's continuing saga in the life of Bubba BiGot Jr III (or T.T.) ties in with the previous two posts - miscommunication and rear ends.

I'm in my customary pew outside the bar where T.T.'s church meets. The metal table legs are beginning to rust from my frequent bathroom breaks, so I'm considering donating another table to take its place. Maybe I'll follow the lead of Baptists and have a dedication plaque attached to it so visitors and customers will know of my good deed. Maybe God will stop by for a drink and sit at the table, notice my name, and reward me for my generosity....but I don't think so.

Anyway, this past Sunday a visiting missionary couple came to talk to us about the work they're doing in Guatemala. They brought a beautiful little girl with them and she and I had a good time coloring while her dad talked about the needs of people in La Limonada, outside Guatemala City. (Click the link above for more information.)

T.T. sat in the center of the room, slouched down so the people behind him could see the speaker. I watched him squirm and wiggle, trying to get comfortable in the wooden chair. By the time the service was nearing an end, T.T. was pretty miserable. So he stood up and walked to the front of the room rather than stand in front of the people sitting behind him. The pastor, observing T.T. standing at the front, assumed he had something to say and offered the floor to T.T.

If you don't know much about T.T., you should know that he says what's on his mind. Sometimes it's quick and witty, and other times his mouth gets ahead of his brain - which was the case this time. When the pastor asked T.T. if he had something he wanted to say, T.T.'s response was supposed to be, "No. My butt's numb from sitting in that chair." What came out however was, "No. My nuts are numb...my butt's numb..uh."

Everybody cracked up. I fell off the table laughing. T.T. blushed, and in characteristic fashion said, "Nuts, butts, what's a couple of inches either way?" More laughs. I'm not sure what the missionaries thought, but as the pastor's wife commented as she wiped tears from her face, "Only you, T.T. Only you."

I suppose T.T. is going to be stuck with a new nickname from now on.

Bummed on Crack

Like humans, dogs too dream. Often my dreams are affected by the things I've seen and done earlier in the day. Last night was no exception.

Earlier in the day I'd had to have a plumber come out and repair a leaky faucet in my bathroom. Like all plumbers, this one was clothing challenged as evidenced by a hairy butt crack. I had been thirsty and was going to drink from the toilet until I saw the plumber’s derriere. I tipped him an extra $25 and told him to buy some Velcro to keep his pants in place.

Then later that evening, T.T. called me from the airport to say goodnight. He always does that when he flies out of town and can't take me along with him. He was waiting at the gate for the flight crew to arrive so they could board the plane. While talking, he noticed a young woman bend to sit down. Her jeans were very low cut and T.T. remarked that he could see quite a large chunk of her butt crack. T.T. then remarked that that was her better side, as her face looked like a mule sucking on persimmons - which is T.T.'s way of saying the young lady should not be trying out for America's Next Top Model.

All of this combined to affect my dreams last night. In my dream, I was flying. Snoopy, another, though slightly less famous, beagle of Peanuts fame was my wingman. We were flying high near the clouds looking for that cursed Red Baron when Snoopy catches my attention. Pointing with his left ear, Snoopy indicated an object flying much lower beneath us. I nodded and we banked to intercept the bogey. Upon drawing near, I realized that it wasn't the Red Baron we were stalking, but a flying T.T. Maybe flying is an exaggeration...he was mostly floating and bouncing from treetop to treetop.

When he noticed us, T.T. waved and indicated he wanted to fly along with us. I was afraid we'd stall out as we couldn't fly that slowly, but T.T. managed to push off from a tree limb and began to swim through the air. It was funny to watch T.T. doing breast strokes. When he would get tired, he'd slowly float down to the earth, catch his breath, and bounce back into the air with us. Watching him fly was like watching a bumblebee. With T.T.'s big gut and flat ah...butt it should have been impossible for him to fly, but dreams often defy the impossible.

After awhile T.T. challenged us to a race. He shoved off from a rooftop and began swimming as fast as he could. It was at that point that I noticed how the wind was pushing his pants back over his rear. Another butt crack!

It's a dream, and anything is possible in a dream, so I dreamed that I pulled a credit card from a wallet I don't have and from a place that doesn't have pockets, and I swiped it down T.T.'s crack. Snoopy cracked up when he saw me do this, so then he pulls out a quarter and drops it in the crack. Not to be outdone, I reach into the front seat of Snoopy's plane and produce a putty knife and a can of putty and proceeded to caulk T.T.'s butt crack. Whether it was the shock of the swipe or the weight of the putty, T.T. lost his equilibrium and dropped like a bomb, plowing a furrow through a freshly-tilled Nebraska corn field.

I awoke at that point, images of hairy butts haunting my waking moments resulting in a not-so-slight headache. I don't know if I'll ever be able to look at T.T. again without thinking about his butt crack. Some people get high on crack; I don't see the attraction.

What We Have Here Is a Failure to Communicate!

I was up at the big house over the weekend when T.T. and his missus got into an argument. It was quite funny.

Humans, unlike animals, can't understand one another - even if they speak the same language. Animals don't have that problem. A Chinese Shar Pei, or German Shepherd, or a Portuguese Water Dog speaks the same language I speak. We communicate using all of our senses. Humans, on the other hand, have only one heightened sense - the ability to create. Animals don't require this skill as humans were purposed to use their creative abilities to take care of the planet and its inhabitants...and they can't even do that right. They can build a bridge across a canyon, but when it comes to building a communication bridge, they really suck at it.

Mrs. T.T. is not from around these parts. She's from Nebraska where humans speak a rather neutral form of American. (You do realize of course that there's a difference between the English dialect and the American form of English?) Well, T.T. speaks a different form of American; he speaks Southern. Mrs. T.T. is still getting used to the language here in the better half of the United States. When T.T. says he's going to check the oil and the tire pressure in his truck, she hears 'ole' - as in old; and tar - as in Tar Heels. It doesn't make sense to her that T.T. is going to check the 'old tar presser'. Nor is she familiar with some of the expressions of the older Southerners. "I swawnee; you ain't got no more sense than a hant in Georgia" leaves her scratching her head. Along those lines, "Dumber than a stump-broke mule." has no logical definition. So it stands to reason that when she asked T.T. where the Butner-Creedmoor newspaper was, she misunderstood his response.

T.T. was busy on his laptop playing Mafia Wars on Facebook. When Missus asked him where the paper was, he didn't look up, just muttered what the Missus understood as "In the car, bitch." Missus stood there for a moment, her mouth agape - not believing her ears. Did her husband just call her a bitch? T.T. was paying no attention, intent on putting out a hit on the jerk that’d attacked him seven times in a row, so he didn't notice as Missus stomped out of the bedroom, grabbed the car keys off the counter and proceeded to check both his truck and her car. Now she's both frustrated and pissed off.

Missus slammed the car door, marched back into the bedroom and slapped T.T. up side his head! "What the hell?!" T.T. says, trying to maintain a grasp on the laptop.

"I asked you where the paper is." Missus said through clenched jaw.

T.T. was still trying to see past the stars floating before his eyes. "Are you crazy? I told you where the newspaper is!"

"Liar!" Missus screamed before turning around and walking out of the bedroom.

"WTF?" T.T. said, using computer shortcut language for "I don't understand what just happened." He looked at me, who'd been lying at the foot of the bed watching reruns of Lassie, and said "Must be that time of month!" T.T. rubbed the side of his face where the Missus had left a nice impression of her palm. I turned back to my TV show and didn't say a word.

Not only do humans lack the ability to communicate with one another, they actually believe they can communicate with animals. If I want a laugh, I'll watch The Pet Psychic or The Dog Whisperer on TV. The psychic or whisperer will tell the owner of the animal that the dog or horse is unhappy because one of the human kids took their tennis ball and didn't return it. What the dog or horse really said was along the lines of "Hurry up and get that camera off me; I gotta take a dump!" Because the expert hasn't a clue what the animal is really saying, they usually capture a bowel movement on TV.

The old TV shows are the best though. Timmy and Lassie could be out on an adventure playing in the woods and Timmy could fall into the only quicksand pond within a five states radius that just appeared on their property overnight. Timmy would flail about for a minute before sinking above his knees in the quicksand and Lassie would grab a stick in his mouth (Lassie was always a male Collie) and extend it out for Timmy to grab hold. If it was too far, Timmy would say, "Lassie, go get my folks and tell them I'm on the south forty - not the north forty where there's no quicksand traps and the cattle are pastured, but the south forty where there's three granite boulders that look like totems. Tell them I'm four hundred yards to the right of the largest totem, behind the bushes! Quick, go get my folks Lassie - they're in the East pasture picking worms off the corn, not in the West pasture gathering watermelons for the watermelon eating contest this Saturday at the Eakes' barn raising. Go Lassie, go find help girl!"

Lassie would say 'Woof' and off he'd run, leaping over fallen trees, passing pickup trucks on dirt roads, jumping over fences, stopping only to have sex with a sheep in one of the forties, and as he approaches Timmy's farm begins to bark an alarm. Timmy's dad will hear Lassie barking and say, "That sounds like Lassie!" His mom will say, "There must be something wrong with Timmy!" Timmy's brother will run out and meet Lassie and grab her by the face, saying, "What is it girl? Has something happened to Timmy?"

Lassie will say, "Woof" and Timmy's brother will turn to his folks and say, "Timmy's in a quicksand pond down in the South pasture, four hundred yards to the right of the largest granite boulder that looks like a totem. Lassie says we've got to hurry!"

The dad will say, "Everybody in the truck! Lassie, show us where Timmy is." and they'll roar off at 60 miles an hour, with Lassie staying out in front of the truck the entire time. They get to Timmy just as he's up to his chin in quicksand. Timmy's dad grabs a rope out of the back of the truck, forms a noose and tossed it over Timmy's head, (they weren't so concerned about child labor laws back then), then instead of tying off the other end to the truck and backing it up, he ties it around Lassie's neck, who by this time is wiped out from all this running, but courageously backs up slowly, pulling with all his might, until Timmy is within reach of his dad's arms. After Timmy's all washed up and lying in bed with clean sheets tucked around him, the folks will go outside and give Lassie a big hug and tell her what a good dog she is. Lassie will say "Woof!" which means "I want a stand-in if we're going to keep this running BS in every scene!" Humans crack me up thinking they can understand dogs.

I remember once when I was a pup that T.T. got down on the floor with his face close to mine and pretended to bark. "Woof. Woof-woof. Woof-woof-woof! Enh, neh, nenh!" It took me awhile to decipher what T.T. was saying to me. Although the words were in random order, they meant something like, "I want some crunchy hot sauce for my foreskin, please give me some now!" Once I told him what he said, he blushed and since then he's just talked to me in American. It's funny that animals can understand humans better than humans understand us.

Later Saturday night, T.T. and the Missus were laying in the bed not speaking to one another. Both were on their backs, arms folded across their chests, chins up, eyes closed. T.T. broke the silence first. "Why did you hit me this afternoon?" he asked. I'm lying at the foot of the bed listening. "You know why!" Missus said, a tear forming in the corner of one eye. "No I don't! I was minding my own business when you walked up and slapped me!" T.T. exclaimed. "What did you expect when you call me a bitch!" Missus replied. "I did not!" T.T. protested. "Did too." Missus retorted. "When?" T.T. asked. "When I asked you where the newspaper was." Missus pouted. "And I told you!" T.T. insisted. "It wasn't there. I looked in both the car and truck and it's not in there." The tear rolled down her pretty cheek. "Why did you look in the car when I told you it was in the garbage?" T.T. asked, totally perplexed at this point.

"Garbage?" Missus asked.

There was a moment of silence before Missus continued, almost in a whisper. "I thought you said, 'In the car, bitch." There was a longer period of silence as both T.T. and Missus realized that they'd made a mistake. T.T. was the first to snort, the bed shaking as his body shook in laughter. Then Missus started laughing. The harder one would laugh, the more the other would laugh until they were both in tears, holding one another. Missus stroked T.T.'s face and said, "I'm sorry." before bursting out into laughter again. They'd stop and kiss and laugh some more. It was all very embarrassing, so I got up and went back to my own bed.

The Emerging Church...sort of

Bubba BiGot Jr. III, or T.T. as I refer to him, belongs to a different sort of church than the one he grew up attending. No more Sunday suits, assigned pews, obligatory three hymns, offering, sermon, and benediction - T.T.'s church meets in a bar...OK, the owner changed the name to grill, but you can still buy a screwdriver or Budweiser after service if you desire.

The church used to meet in a barn. Before that it met in a shopping center; and before that it met in a fitness center. As the venues have changed, so has the form of the church.

This is an equal opportunity church. Before moving to the bar/grill, members could bring their pets to church. For some stupid reason, this is frowned upon by the health inspectors, so I just sit outside and listen through the window. T.T. leaves a leash on the table next to me in case a cop drives by. I simply slip my head through the leash, the other end of which is attached to the table legs. Once the SOBCOP has gone, I pull my head out and go about my business. Sometimes I leave my business on the sidewalk just because these leash laws suck.

Up until recently, the church had no music, but now a couple of members are bringing guitars and everyone will sing three or four songs. They aren't as good as a pack of baying hounds, but they're not bad for humans. The singing probably freaks out the heathens in the next room, who're there eating breakfast instead of being in church - where they belong, IMHO.

Most of the time these Christians talk about scripture, and about what's going on in their lives. Sometimes it's about biology, DNA, herbs, or even politics. Usually T.T. has at least one political comment or opinion to share. This past Sunday the talk was about mafia wars. You see, half of the members of the church are in the same mafia family. None of them are Italian as far as I know. And none of them can sing Soprano. But it does make sense for a mafia to meet in a restaurant/bar/grill to conduct business, spiritual or otherwise.

T.T. was bragging on the number of members in his part of the family: around 435 or so. He's not the highest man on the totem pole. The guy playing the guitar is up there. Even the pastor is in the mafia. They were talking about how many casinos they owned, how many town cars and Humvees were in their stable, who they whack and what determines who gets whacked and how often, which mafia families they have alliances with, etc. I wanted to tell T.T. to lower the window some in case a cop walked by and overhead what they were saying, but I was intrigued and wanted to hear more.

It seems that T.T. is earning about $3,000,000 an hour and has over $20 billion in the bank. Those lottery winnings were sure invested well. Then the pastor says that $3 million is nothing - he's making hundreds of millions an hour! I couldn't believe my ears at first, but then I realized that most of it is going to stimulate Obama's economy. One would think they would whack the President and buy off Congress with that much money at stake.

Apparently these mafia members put great stock in gifts and collecting statuary, paintings, rings, even neckties and playing cards. They'll pull off a heist in the hopes of finding one of these items. No wonder the American Christians are the most affluent believers in the world. Who else would risk so many lives to gain a Queen of Hearts or Seven of Clubs?


Now I know that the Church used to be in bed with the government in Europe, which is why the Protestants moved to America about 500 years ago. Now it looks like the mafia has gained control of the Southern Baptists and other fundamental denominations and is planning to take over the government. It's all very confusing and scary. It’s said that once you join the mafia, you're in it for life. Perhaps that's what the Baptists mean when they say "Once saved, always saved."

You would think that with all that money and power the people could come to church in something nicer than sandals and shorts. They must be keeping it all on the down-low. I'll bet I know what they're doing! They're laundering all that money through various ministries all over the world. That's the only explanation for the pastor spending time recently with a group of Church movers-and-shakers out on Orcas Island. They're redefining the Church. The Pope is being replaced by the Don who gets his orders from GODFather; and I guess that's cool, because the old Church was about as effective as the federal government.

Something is bothering me though. I don't understand how these Christians can justify breaking all the Commandments. All this mugging, whacking, snuffing, robbing, bribing, and paying off people just doesn't seem to fit in with scripture. I've got to remember to talk to God about it next time He comes over. Maybe it’s all covered under the Grace clause.

Carolina Blue

Over the weekend, T.T. and I took a drive over to enemy country - Chapel Hill. We parked off Franklin Street and took a stroll around Morehead Planetarium. Many humans were out walking their dogs. I received lots of looks from both humans and canines as I was the only dog not on a leash. A few people made the mistake of pointing that out to Bubba and he cordially invited them to go to the place of eternal damnation.


There were as many races of humans as there were breeds of dogs! I saw an Asian couple with a blond baby. When asked the baby's name, the mother said, "Sum Ting Wong". We passed an Irish couple with a beautiful sheep dog who said they were on vacation. I guess they were visiting a different bar. There was a guy standing outside an Italian restaurant handing out menus. One arm was shorter than the other. I suppose he had a speech impediment.

Baby blue flags and pennants were everywhere. Carolina has just won the NCAA basketball championship. A couple of Mexicans, perhaps giving up on soccer, were trying their hand at basketball. They were surrounded by forty or fifty other Hispanics trying to figure out the sport and yelling encouragement. From what I could tell, the two were playing Juan on Juan basketball, though it looked more like a shot put competition to me.

There were lots of co-eds out jogging, some with their dogs. There was one really smart blond that stood out. She was a retreiver. I managed to get her number when the girls stopped to help T.T. who passed out trying to keep up with them.

Once he recovered we sat down at a sidewalk cafe for something cold to drink. T.T. commented that there were a lot of Yankees in Chapel Hill. I asked him what Yankee meant, and he said, "Same as a quickie, but a guy can do it alone." Two Yankees were talking about the dissolution of their marital relationships. One asked the other, "Why do divorces cost so much?" and the other replied, "Because they're worth it."

Everywhere we went we saw kids with spiked and dyed hair, body piercings, and tattoos. Many wore leather and chains; with dark eye shadow and lipstick. Even their fingernails were painted black. There were girls holding hands with girls, and guys holding hands with guys. T.T. called them 'Fairies'. You could tell which ones were Yankee fairies and which were Southern: The Yankee fairies would say, "Once upon a time..." and the Southern fairies would say, "Y'all ain't gonna believe this s**t!"

A Chapel Hill policeman approached T.T. and told him that I had to be on a leash. Something about a zoning ordinance. T.T. lied and told the officer that one of the Goths had taken it when we weren't looking. The policeman said in that case, T.T. would have to carry me. Now I'm a grown dog and I don't need to be toted around like some sissy Pomeranian. I bit the guy, and we took off for the truck.

By this time, T.T. and I had grown tired of Chapel Hill with their snooty airs. "The heck with this place. Next Saturday, let's go to Asheboro and see what's happening at the zoo. I hear that in addition to a description of the animals on the front of the cage, they're now including recipes." As long as their ain't no dogs in those cages, I'm game. I think I'll call that smart blond and see if she wants to go have an exotic meal together.