February 14, 2011
Originally published October 18, 2002
As I was packing Sunday evening for my trip to the mountains, I received a phone call.
"Want some company?" asked Recondo 32. He had experienced one of his frequent brain-farts and decided that he wanted to amass fantastic wealth by panning for gold around Dahlonega. I already had told him earlier in the week that he and his lovely wife, Georgia, were welcome to use the cabin for the weekend after I went back home, but he decided to get a head start, so I told him to come on. I picked him up where he lives in Nowhere, South Carolina, and took him with me. We argued the entire trip.
I believe that I am just twisted enough to really enjoy the company of someone who argues about EVERYTHING, including what kind of gas I choose to put in my truck and what kind of dressing I like on a McDonald's hamburger. Recondo 32 does that. If I hadn't had that asshole around to keep the waters churning and muddy, I might have become lonely up high in that cabin. Thanks to his lively wit and spouting pie-hole, I never had the chance. I mainly stayed pissed off, and thought about killing him more than once.
Isn't it GREAT to have friends?
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