Boy, do I have a headache. I woke up this morning with a screaming woman on my chest. Normally, this sounds like it would be a good thing, but it was an angry Mrs. Stevie Joe brandishing a hot curling iron. In a way, I was fortunate since if it was some other woman, Mrs. Stevie Joe would be even madder.
It took me a moment to understand what she was jabbering about, but I came to realize that it had something to do with my activities of the previous evening. See, I had gone over to Junior's house for a beer. Now, Chez Junior is one scary place, but after a couple of brews, the fear of sticking to the furniture begins to subside. Unfortunately, my thoughts of returning home to have dinner with Mrs. Stevie Joe also began to subside.
I think I finally crawled into bed around 3 AM smelling of beer and barf. This only slightly reduced my sexual desirability (I mean, who could resist?), but Mrs. Stevie Joe was having none of it. This morning, she sought retribution - hence the curling iron. She made me get up, showered, dressed, and off to church.
Listening to the Greater Junebug Holler Tabernacle Choir butchering yet another otherwise lovely hymn, I began to think of my visit with Len, the Quaker farmer. From Len I learned that Quakers worship in complete silence - no singing and no preaching. Sounds like the perfect thing for a Sunday morning hangover.
Sssshhhhhh,
Stevie Joe Parker
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