Freddogg Off The Chain

I was going to write about Twitter this morning when this Tweeter went Fat Albert Poulos in my backyard. And what sound does a 300 pound Cardinal make? TWEEET!
Ironically the Remington Type writer has died while I have entered the Remington Sleep Cycle of my corrupted hard drive intuitively rapid acuity phase of my checking out slowly years.
I dream weirdly just a cat breath away from consciousness like early this morning my granddaughter hit a 3 pointer just at the halftime buzzer but dropped a F bomb on the ref and was ejected but her all star grandfather from another galaxy was allowed to take her place but my pocket was picked clean on three straight possessions and little girls with pigtails made lay ups while my own teammates said ‘Sit down, you suck!”
And so I went to the scorers table to join my sports writing colleagues except they were all naked young guys and I asked an old guy question I would never ask while awake “Who approved this?” and some guy stood up and grabbed himself and said “The same person who approved this!”
The final vignette had my friend Steve calling for a ride home from the hospital which he does each day they don’t plan to let him go and I said “Fine but first set down that hovering mock up of an airplane.”
And so Steve pitched and plummeted going power dive into a dirt pile and the rescue truck was right there and the medic said “Looks like your friend “stuck the landing.”
And yesterday while awake I heard the Tramp say to a distraught Lady “What’s wrong Bitch?” “He said Pidge,”my wife said. “Maybe you should get your Hamster Head Hearing checked out?

Freddogg