Cousin Roger motored over on his lawnmower Wednesday afternoon. He turned off the engine and just sat there for a minute or two, seemingly looking off into the distance, but more likely trying to work up the energy to get off the lawnmower. Finally, he climbed off and headed toward the porch.
As he got about 20 feet away, I hollered, "Roger, don't you bring your covid-infested ass up on my porch. I mean it."
He stopped in his tracks. "Man, I'll tell you what . . . this shit is worse than the flu."
He's managed to keep moving, still puttering in his workshop, through sheer force of will. But he's coughed so much that he's thrown his back out.
He just brought over another box of stuff for me to paint.
Ima spray it with Lysol.
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