You don’t know what you’re talking about. I said that over and over and over to the mail man. He kept trying to have me sign for a package, and all I could think of was “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
All I heard from his mouth was garbage, like his teeth were falling out and maybe he was rolling them around with his tongue. He looked at me like maybe I was ill again. I was ill on him once before, the day after I’d gone in to a chiropractor who performed electro-shock therapy on my spinal area. The doctor didn’t tell me I’d sick all over myself and people close by the next day because of it.
I get checks in the mail from a benefactor in Europe that we need not talk about, but I always have to sign for them. My mail man wouldn’t give me the check this time, probably because he didn’t know what he was talking about, and he sure wasn’t listening to me. If he weren’t protected by the feds, I’d challenge him to a Sumo match right in my driveway. We’d see what the Farrels next door thought of that. Doug might have a ride on mower, but he sure isn’t going to Sumo wrestle the mail man in his driveway. He’s not nearly that sophisticated.