Let’s give Bill a round of applause as we zip up his mouth hole. I hope he has a safety word (or mumble).
Today is the last day of guest-post week(s), not because I’m ready to start writing again, but because the rest of the bloggers that offered up posts were, in fact, whispering sweet nothings and making empty promises. I feel so foolish.
Most of those teases claim that they “haven’t forgotten about me,” yeah, well that doesn’t put posts on my blog, does it? I guess if you want something done half-ass you’ve got to do it yourself. And I will.
Yes, there is a guest post today, but I’ve been told that it isn’t actually a post. It’s a theme song. I’m supposed to put it at the beginning of each of my posts, or as the case may be, this post.
The little ditty was composed by none other than Shawn, aka, Backpacking Dad. Shawn is very popular with the mommy blogger crowd due to his rugged boy-band looks and his willingness to just be friends. Me, I tend to run a bit dangerous for that crowd. They know I’m just a few cocktails away from bliss and regret. It’s my thing.
Please welcome Shawn and the Honea Express Theme, followed by a post from your host, that’s me.
This is a post to Honea’s Blog,
A post to Honea’s Blog.
Honea Tweeted me and asked if I would write a blog post.
I’m almost halfway finished,
How do you like it so far,
How do you like this post for Honea’s Blog?
This is a post for Honea’s Blog,
A post for Honea’s Blog.
This is the part of the post where normally I’d insert a picture.
We’re almost to the part
where I start to use bold.
Then we’ll read the rest of Honea’s Blog.
This was a post for Whit Honea’s cool Blog.
Let’s hear it for the band, folks!
It’s raining. I won’t say it is raining today, because it’s only been doing so for about twenty minutes and it is already starting to slow and the forecast says that it will be 92◦ today, which is crap, and it’s always crap and it’s the end of September and it’s cooling down to 92◦, which in my book is bullshit. Or crap, like I said before.
It hasn’t rained here since April. It may have been March. Hell, it may have been January, since that’s the last rain that I can actually remember.
And now the rain has stopped.
Two minutes in heaven is better than one minute in heaven.
There is jazz on the stereo, coffee in my cup and thunder in the distance. It is the whispers of sweet nothings and the making of empty promises. It reminds me of people I know.
I need more rain to cool me down. I’m exhausted and I’m hot, and these showers leave nothing but steam.