Laura Eno will not go camping with me.
I never figured her for some girly-girl but apparently her concept of being one with nature consists of listening to the spindly philodendron on her desk crying for a mercy killing, and scooping piles of dog crap the size of Buicks from her Astroturfed backyard. (I've seen pictures of her dogs – I can't even imagine the turds those sons and daughters of Jezebel must produce.)
Which makes me want to drag her sunless carcass into the great outdoors even more. I bet she hasn't seen the sun since 1973. I bet Xan Marcelles sees more sunlight than Laura does. And he's a goldurned bloodsucking vampire.
Me, I love camping. Am going camping this weekend, as a matter of fact (and so will be internet-free... again....) (Thanks to Babs and Henry LaRue for housesitting - please don't let your rottweiler eat the couch this time, OK? Beast is the size of a Volkswagen. Why can't people have freaking normal sized dogs?)
I invited Laura to come along but she as refused because she's a big wussy-pants.
She'll be wishing she was fishing (yes I'm a poet) with me, however, because now she's in deep trouble over at I Refuse To Go Quietly. Fellow Friday Flash alumni Sue Harding noticed Laura's camp-phobia and wrote a very, very scary (more poetry) story about me and Mizz Eno going camping together.
Of course I think it's the bees knees (poetry) being the subject of a Sue Harding story. Even though the ending
You'll have to go see for yourself what that ending is cause I'm not gonna tell you.
Let me just say, my fingernail polish really is pink. Really.
Now. Off to catch some lunkers. Coming, Laura? (Wussy-pants.)