love & death at the Invisible Scooby Club

Trish attended her 2nd Scooby meetin' last nite. Before we walked the short distance to the place where the vandal of church doors has been enthroned as a cultural icon, we went to Fat Albert's Sons for some groceries & some ant-traps so the Bumble Bee Girl can slay insects -- & spent over 20 buckadingdongs. After supper, leftover hamburger helper, Trish mopped the floor, before which we relaxed in the love seat & listened to old records on the old Rectilinears.

The meetin' itself was... well, even though it's not Narcoholics Numinous, a guy there preached the dread gospel that people who take prescription medication are "pill poppers". Fuck the "program"! I used my "pee-ills" as my "Higher Power".

But then we stood, to say the Lord's pray. The woman who'd sat next to me & chaired the meetin' squeezed my hand, affectionately, flirtatiously.

I squeezed back.

So as we headed out the door, she grabbed me & hugged me -- "hugs, not drugs," being the Scooby motto, & when am I finally going to get medical marijuana? & where the hell was Bingle when we needed him last Saturday? & where are all the big, dumb jocks who always showed you through?

No matter where they are, I've concluded that the woman really was trying to hit on me: when she spoke, she noted that she'd been divorced for "1-1/2 to 2 years". I'm sure she wants a new boyfriend, maybe even marriage? you wanna? but she won't get it from me; she doesn't smoke it.

I wish I had a rasta cigar. Not regular. It would really help with "Galaxies Controlling Fate". I'm also tempted to go out & buy a can of nutmeg, to write "Twin of Morlock". That'd be real atomic.

But dear diary, alas, I must be off to lunch, or at least a dread Scooby snack.