The Poor Have No Country
Awoke to a gray sky and wind howl'n like crazed coyotes.
Be'n old takes a bit to get go'n after a snore fest. Got to get the kinks outta the ol' carcus, do some heavy snurgl'n of the old snoot and tend to a myrid of coots that found me dur'n my sleep.
Nifty day to briggle around the hovel with Kiva.
Kiva's get'n up and stretch'n. She's give'n me the stink-eye, 'cause her coat is all muff'd up, but she'll have it all pretty again. How she can tolerate my nocturnal toot'n though, is beyond me.
She be a brave pootie, I a'reckon.
No such thing as get'n my life in order. I was destin'd to wander around in it.
Kiva's sniff'n around the icebox, look'n for blue popscicles. That little girl likes to lick 'em more than her butt. Little pootie needs somethin' special of her own, but they be expensive.
"Let's see what I can dig up for breakfast, Kiva. You hungry? Stupid question, huh? Of course you be hungry. Takes lots of energy get'n your coat unmuff'd. OK, a hot dog and a couple a green beans for you, sweetie and I'll have some oatmeal. Later, you can have a blue popscicle."
Turn'n on the radio to that All News / Talk Radio channel, we ate our breakfast. Kiva sniff'd the hotdog, but it should still be good. My, does she like to gnaw on green beans!
"Kiva, we're poor. You'd do better with a rich, old woman. Poor people have no country, ya know. Ever seen a poor person sit'n at one of those State Dinners the Presidents have to show off their great nation?"
Ruins the great lie, I reckon. Never see 'em campaign'n in a poor section of town. Nope, ya don't.
"Did ya hear that person on the radio, Kiva? Ol' Mittens makes his dog ride on top of his car! Man's a nitwit, ain't he, Kiva?"
Kiva sat there look'n at me with a green bean stick'n outta her mouth and her whiskers a'twich'n. She ain't fond of dogs.
"Hey, Kiva, radio be talk'n about that Rick Santorum candidate. Twit thinks he's on a mission from God. Those kinda people are like my aunt Natalie. Remember how she would get out of the car and onto her knees to thank that Jesus guy for the parking space?"
Sorrowful, really. Ol' aunt Nat spent the rest of her life talk'n to her God in a pad'd cell. I used to bring her Angel Food cake on my visits. Just so she'd feel better. Don't know if it helped.
"Kiva, sweetie, you're a lot closer to God than that Santorum twit. Your coat is softer than that sweater vest he wears, that's for sure."
Got a feel'n that he'll get fleeced by his own flock in the end.
Radio is now talk'n about that Newt Gingrich candidate.
"Why, Kiva, that man will never become President. He's been married four times. He'd a been better off marry'n his ego and happier with himself, too. Never saw a man with such a huge head full a drivel."
Squat'n on the bed, Kiva gave her mandatory burp from the hotdog and I brought out a blue popscicle for her. Kinda fun watch'n her whiskers stick to the popscicle, as she scoots it around, tongue go'n a mile a minute. She's such a sweetie!
Me? I'm gonna take a morn'n dump and morn that the poor ain't got a country.
Now, where is the telephone book? TP be expensive.