Blair should speak up more

Cuz he's an up and coming Wurd Smithe....esp like the last phrase as a play on wurds.
Found in my seldom opened email account.....

I'D RATHER BE IN GOAT GAP

When I'm bored and I'm broke, I scrape what change is left in the ashtray of my 1985 Dodge Ram and I hit the Stop-n-Go at Lake Road and Main. (the change is in the ashtray because as of three years ago I have this cool fucking test every three months called a "hair folicle test"…why its called the folicle test is beyond me because they cut your hair and don't pull the actual folicle...but I digress…if the ashtray has something in it like change or my insurance cards, I'm not tempted to fill it with the sweet white ash of the kindred spirit of Mother Mary(which is a Jedi-Mind-Trick I play on myself)) There at the corner store, I purchase a 22 oz. Heineken and a vanilla flavored Black n' Mild Mild. It is imperative that you announciate the second Mild clearly or you will just get a Vanilla Mild which is of a much harsher variety, and I'm a smooth fellow, you know. I exit the parking lot on the Lake Road side and I head under the overpass and southbound on the I-45 feeder. Unimpressed by 80 mph motorists, I stay on the feeder until the last possible entrance, down past the park. Here I enter the world of material excess, replete with 4 wheel drive trucks that have never steered over a rocky incline or bogged through the loblolly, and Lexus SUV's that seat 10 but today carry a solitary driver to and from his/her capitalistic adventure of the day…yawn. I stay in the right lane and inhale the exhaust of the passing 18 wheeler loaded to the seams and dripping steamy yellow sulpher on the concrete highway that has been expanding, lane by lane, year after year, to accommodate such waste. I reach the apex of the overpass and view the cranes and herons to my right as I exit quickly from the rat race. The birds are eating shrimp and krill from a man made estuary no less. This haven of refuge for the water fowl borders another man made creation, Omega Bay. The promise of living on the water has drawn so many "Salt Water Souls" to pay hundreds of thousands of dollars for a tract of land no bigger than a four car garage, posted squarely in the flood plain/hurricane path. I remain on the feeder until I pass the original canal community of Bayou Vista, now a memory of the good life in the shadow of Tiki Island. But there between that memory and the reality of what today is the Jones's address, I find solice. Just off the feeder lies an oak tree of maybe 50 years. Below the tree is a concrete table where I have sat and thought many thoughts..some unutterable, some so divine that I can't recall. I wheel my two-wheel drive rust bucket down the oyster shell path and kill the loping engine. Pulling the keys, I pop the top on the Heineken with a keychain bottle opener that was given to me some 15 years earlier by a girl who thought twist tops were for suckers. I recline on the table and inhale the salt water air and the Mild Mild aroma of government poisoned American tobacco. The sky is fading progressively from blue to pink to that bright orange that you almost cant view directly. This would be so picturesque if it weren't for the criss-cross contrails of a dozen jets that apparently have nothing better to do than turn the celestial into a giant grid…I wonder why that is? Half my beer is gone as the slow decsent begins to seemingly pick up speed. And so here I sit, broke and bored, watching the sun….simply wane away.