Blueberry Girl

When I woke up this morning, groggy from my first encounter with Iron Horse beer in many years, I would have liked to have had a beer before I brushed my teeth like Jimi and most of my old camping pals used to do. I have never been one to be able to handle my beer if I start in on it before quitting time. A joint first thing in the morning was what I used to like. Around the smouldering morning mountain campfire of twisted beer bottles, cans and wet wood Jimi would peer at me and say, "Have a fucking beer you pot smoking asshole." I have tried morning beer many times but I prefer to keep my staggering to as late in the day as possible.

The Hammer is handling the heat like a champ. I put her back pack on last night and she carried a case of beer home for me. If you have a decent sized dog a back pack for the pooch is the way to go. Just keep the weight in the pack down to around 1/4 of your dog's weight.

I am managing the heat by keeping my beer in freezer cooled beer wraps. Otherwise after the first guzzle my beer is warmed like it has been put in a microwave.

This afternoon, after I picked up tomorrow's race papers, I headed to the blueberry barrens to pick up several pounds of my favourite food. The good folks of the Punjab have pretty much cornered the blueberry market around here so I was unsurprized to see a young gal from that neck of the woods serve me at the farm stall. She was pretty and was reading a book written in English. An educated blueberry farmgirl. Too bad East Indian girls do not start my motor. Blueberries are my favourite food, always have been.

I wiped the sweat and drool from my face and told the gal, "I'll take ten pounds."

The girl turned and walked out a door at the back of the big stall. She came back with several cardboard blueberry boxes filled with huge bags of carefully wrapped weed.

I eyed the weed with my old weed hunger and told her, "That looks like some fine product miss but I just came for some blueberries."

She turned almost pale and stuttered, "I was told to expect a man matching your description right about now." She returned the product to its place in back of the shed.

I said, "I bet that was some of that blueberry pot, eh? The real blueberries sure look nice out in your field too."

She asked me, "Would like to taste some first sir?" and batted her long lashes and shiny braces at me. My dick hurt just looking at all that metal work.

I told her, "I know what they taste like. Load them up." The fields surrounding the farm were heavy with blueberries the size of small apples. Unless the weather cools blueberry season will be as short and sweet as a Canuck play-off run.

As I headed out of the driveway a man driving the same black Cadillac as mine was slowly pulling in.