I bought the best painting on earth in a vintage store in Nashville this weekend:
There is a toy ambulance glued to the top and a plastic dog glued to the bottom and it reads:
Elvis did CPR on a dog to save his life.
My Uncle Jimmy used to own the world’s biggest Baby Ruth bar, one of the first Asteroids machines and a whole bunch of antique cans full of antique lard and sprinkled with Fillmore-era psychedelic rock posters. I used to help him haul the contents of dead people’s houses back to his auction house and hoist up WWII antiques, old metal trucks and ’60s board games up and down the aisles in the back of the store he and my aunt owned while the whole town of Smithfield bid on them to his spitfire gravel drawl.
The weird seeds planted in me early and grew real big. I’ve got a zombified Elvis karaoke robot with its rubber face torn off and a giant painting of King Kong made out of roofing tar in my house, and I can’t stop dragging stuff home like an ant with psychedelic antiques hoisted over its head.
The queen of my nest is not always impressed. She says I need to throw stuff out before bringing more in, but look.
Are you going to stop taking communion just because you’re on a low-carb diet?
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