“I don’t believe in sermons, fairie tales or stories about money.  But thanks for the smoke, baby sister!” —- Rooster Cogburn.  His mother named him Ruben, but I won’t say it out loud or hold it against him.  He uttered these lines in “True Grit”, made impossibly better by the Coen brothers’ magic wand.

Now, for the rest of the…wait a sec, jim, you ain’t Paul F. Harvey.

Long story short:  I left a leather/suede jacket with 46 dollars in it in a motel.

Long story short:  They have it including its contents and are keeping it safe until I mail a box for them to mail it back to me.

NOW for the rest of the fucking story:

I have a shaving kit that I carry with me that has a lot of medicine in it.  I could have answered anything they stuck their nose in (legally prescribed) but it would have cramped my style.

This has Christmas miracle written all over it.

Now let’s let that greasy friggin’ goose have its day in court.

Part Deux:

For those of you keeping score at home, I narrowly escaped Devil’s Island and certain torture at the hands of the Spelling, Punctuation and Style Police less than a week ago.  During that little misunderstanding, I was an Idiot Supreme and have no excuse.  There are zero excuses for my behavior there is little understanding available for mortals except for the mercy of the very funny lord.

This could turn long if I tried to explain why me and my compadres referred to it as the “very funny lord”.  There is rarely reason or rhyme discernible by mere mortals.  Every now and again, I just get very fugging lucky.  Sometimes people I know pay and pay dearly for their mistakes.  I have usually just got away.