It started this morning when five golden vultures arrived at my house and perched on my Dodge Neon. The leader said his name was "Floppy."
EXHIBIT A: FLOPPY
So I said, "Okay, birds, we are going to a Druid Ritual at Bodine Field in Wharton State Forest. Any of you know where that is?"
They all did, of course. So I trusted them to draw me an excellent set of instructions and then fly ahead to make sure I was on the right course.
Everything was going swell until we got into spitting distance of Wharton State Forest. Then the bunch of them got scent of some big ol' deer that got winged and not flattened. They flew off and left me stranded with no map and vague directions that I copied down because my printer doesn't work.
I got all turned around and finally wound up at the Jersey Shore. (When you live in New Jersey, you quickly learn that all roads lead to the Jersey Shore eventually.) I've got a bitchin' great season beach pass for Ventnor/Margate, which is just south of Atlantic City. I went for a swim.
So, after being battered and flattened myself by the rough surf, I sprawled in my beach chair and told my sad story to a couple of Bonaparte gulls. Trust me, reader, seagulls are not vultures. Those gulls were eyeballing the goodies I meant to take to Druid Grove but was instead trying not to get sand in while I ate them myself. No self-respecting vulture would eat a slice of ciabatta bread. I had to beat the gulls away with a towel.
On my way home on the Atlantic City Expressway, I discovered that Floppy and his four comrades were following my car. We wound up back here at Chateau Johnson. I flung open the trash cans for them, because those doggone vultures were more of a lift than any other bored gods could ever be.
To all who sent me vultures, especially Floppy, blessed be.