So I was just driving home. It was a long trip, this one. Destin is a few hundred miles of vague, en route memories. Blew out a tire. Again. Such are the normalcies in the road life of Dee. Thank the stars for the three A’s. Towed me into “enemy territory”. Enemy, because the Seminoles are housed therein. Not that I regularly give a shit about the rivalries between the two Florida Universities; it’s taken me at least a decade to know which one is where. (UF is in Gainseville and Fl State is in Tallahassee) But I feel that I must house an alliance with the one school that the majority of people that I know, go. Or, want to go. So… U of F it is (Orange and blue, to me and you).
But that isn’t what this story’s about…
It’s about the song that popped in my head along interstate 75.
Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall. You know it?
I have no clue as to why this repetitious fodder would pop into my grey matter at that particular moment, other than the fact that driving anywhere in the state of Flat-ida causes the brain to conjour up mundane, ritualistic tunes. (“Ding-Dong the witch is dead, which old witch? The wicked witch…”)
I pondered…
…wondered why;
a) Folks would keep their beer on a wall. Don’t most people store/refrigerate their libations in a climate controlled area? Like a fridge? Duh?!
b) Ninety-nine? Why not round it up to one hundred?
And finally:
c) What makes a bottle; “happen to fall?” An earthquake?
Shouldn’t we be running for our lives rather than counting down to the next freakin’ bottle?
Nevertheless, I only got to 97 bottles before I exited at that blessed rest stop in Marrianna, Fl.
After all that singing about beer..well, you know the rest.
I directly directed the automatic flush.
No more bottles of beer on the wall…I’m stuck on Gilligan’s friggin’ Island now!