No. 927
December 13, 2017

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Road Kill


Road Kill #427

by Dr. Bud E. Bryan

Dr. Bud, reporting from "Tranquility Base."

Austin, Texas.
Since I left y'all with a mixed message before the Christmas break after I'd gone off half-cocked and was about to blow up my life yet again, I figured I better get to the news right away. I came home right before Christmas, and Jolene and I had a very quiet and peaceful time. We didn't exchange any gifts, because Jolene said just having me home was enough for her. And my present was coming to my senses, I guess. But I'm back, and we're back. We have come to an understanding (I think), and I have determined that there's a list of stuff somewhere that's not written down in any book about how couples stay together through all the residual shit involved in life its own self. For some, it just seems to work itself out somehow. For others? Maybe not.
Let's face it, the fact that men and women get together at all is one of life's mysteries. I mean, the different planets analogy from that book a while ago was cute and everything, but it didn't go far enough because men and women aren't even in the same solar system when it really comes down to it. Oh sure, we get together at key moments and carve out a mutually advantageous ceasefire, but in between that it's pretty shaky, at best. Jolene and I have been through so much over the past few years and we know each other so well that it goes beyond the usual "we know what each other is thinking before we even say it" routine.

Hell, in my case, Jolene knows what I'm thinking before I even think it. She's like a master chess player who envisions many moves ahead, and she fries my ass on a regular basis. But the beauty of that is I can do the same thing to her, and it fries her ass just as much, if not more. I can tell what kind of day it's going to be just by the way she attacks her routine in the morning. I can tell when she's really trying to conceal the fact that she's royally pissed off and ready to blow just by the way she interjects a certain lilt in her voice as if she thinks she's foolin' me. I'm always three or four steps ahead of her, however, and that pisses her off almost as much if not more than whatever was pissing her off in the first place.

But then again, you learn. You learn when to hold 'em and when to fold 'em. You learn when it's time to chime in and when the best thing you can do is just go watch Sportscenter and leave her alone. You learn when to give her so much rope you can't even see her. And you learn when to hold her tight when she really needs it. Some people think that If there was a school for this stuff we'd all be a lot better off, but that wouldn't be life its own self, now, would it?

We learn. We grow. And we arrive at this particular point in time with everything accumulated in our little brain banks somewhat intact. At any given time we can choose to go forward together or blow each other up once and for all. I'm happy to say that we're moving on - together.

Oh well, enough of that. We're into the New Year, and between the death march otherwise known as the Presidential election and the burgeoning Green Movement that threatens to swallow us whole (and recycle us all into perfect little bullion cubes (remember the movie Soylent Green?), we'll muddle through somehow. Our beloved Longhorns won a damn bowl game, which is always good (and always makes for some great post-game friskiness, if you know what I mean). The NFL playoffs are heating up. And the Dee-troit auto show is about to launch again. Well, maybe that isn't such a good thing, because as this environmental jihad gets shoved down all of our throats I guar-an-damn-tee you that the noise generated by the Holy Green Rollers is going to become oppressive, unrelenting, shrill and nonsensical before it's all over. Not good.

And so, we move on. This is me, reporting from "Tranquility Base" all happy, comfortable and connected - for now.

Adios until the next time.
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