Freddogg Off The Chain

I am the Mayor of The Land of the Lost. I am Prince of the “You Ain’t Nobody” Hamlet of Confusion. None of this is related to age on inability to sort out a myriad of disconnected details. It is the patron Saint of things lost, Saint Anthony, whom I call Ant, making sport of me for refusing to whisper the Catholic jingle “Dear Saint Anthony please come around, something is lost and can’t be found. And if you find it, bring it to me, and oh how happy I will be.”Faggot!"

Last Tuesday morning I was The ‘standing in the parts department at massive car dealership guy, armed with seven dollars, no license, no credit card except a numbered one with no name” a registration card bearing my son’s name so I could have them cut a key I lost when I moved a truck 20 feet and misplaced, no doubt sitting next to me debit card which has been “hot carded” because I think the puppy ate it and anyway he needed a good kicking. If you can consistency pooch kick a puppy and get it to roll dead inside the 20 yard line you can make a million dollars a year.

So the three parts guys with blue shirts and muted white striping and red letters on white name tags sewn on are being way too professional for whatever they get paid. Finally, I am able to show them a picture on the back of a Sam’s Club credit card and they are satisfied that I am me and they are not and we are all together but then another snafu or two.

I lost the one credit card I have by just standing there and looking for a photo I.D. then they realize the person I am is not the person on the registration and all the money spent in Service and all the people in the world I know and the millions of dollars raised by polar bearing for Special Olympics ain’t getting me no key.

‘You would be surprised what goes on back here with divorces and other family problems which is why the only person we will make a key for is the properly identified person who is on the registration.”

“Actually I am surprised by nothing except unbridled professionalism for moderate financial remuneration, ”I told them. “If I were any of you I’d seek therapy but also I wouldn’t cut some clown in a Timberline Hooded sweet shirt and Sam’s Club I.D. a key to someone else’s truck. I am out and thanks for helping us all waste time with no positive outcome.”

I was walking out the door and they all wished me a Happy Thanksgiving. It reminded me of the school administrator who gave me an unsatisfactory lesson analysis and on the envelope wrote “Please return, I recycle.”

“Recycle it now Bitch!” I wrote and it was unprofessional but definitely therapeutic.

Happy Thanksgiving! I got your drumstick right here!

Freddogg

Postscript: My good friends Brandt and Linda own a dealership C.F. Swartz where I buy my cars but the other one which shall remain nameless "Hertrich" is just closer for key cutting---NOT!