At the back of the hill

Warning: If you stay here long enough you will gain weight! Grazing here strongly suggests that you are either omnivorous, or a glutton. And you might like cheese-doodles.
BTW: I'm presently searching for another person who likes cheese-doodles.
Please form a caseophilic line to the right. Thank you.

Thursday, May 11, 2017


Sometimes I am glad I live in San Francisco, where despite the nuts sanity reigns. Whatever happens, we will prevail, our police won't be needed to handle our goofy urges, and ice cream is never more than a block away.

Not so Tennessee, where passions flare up and the cops have to deal with wild ice-cream wanting women in the most up-to-date metropolis west of North Carolina. And South Carolina.

From the Nashville Patch, on April 25th. 2017:

Officers responded to a home on Croley Drive after 37-year-old Rhonda Blythe-Dunham called 911, saying her husband had punched her. When officers arrived, they said husband and wife were both inside the home, acting calmly and with no indication there'd been a violent encounter.

The officer spoke to the husband, who denied punching his wife and said the woman called 911 because she was upset he wouldn't go get her ice cream — he had been working all day, he told police, and was quite tired. Confronted with the information, Blythe-Dunham admitted she fabricated the punching story and officers told her she was under arrest for filing a false report.
End cite.

[Croley Drive runs in an arc north-south, between James Avenue and Patton Avenue, which parallels the freeway until it becomes Twin Street. It is bisected by Robertson Avenue, in a leafy residential neighborhood east of the Cumberland River, west of 'downtown'.]

This blogger has neither a girlfriend nor a wife, but if he actually had either she would, were she to yearn for ice cream, probably go the 'sto' and buy it herself. Because she could think of a dozen places within a ten-minute walk of this apartment where ice cream is sold, even after dark.

There is, in fact, ice cream in the fridge right now.
My apartment mate eats it for breakfast.
I seldom buy it; I just eat hers.

A woman of capability and gumption naturally takes charge of her own ice cream, and makes sure that there is, at all times, a pint of it on the premises. Even if it is Rocky Road, which I find objectionable.
Those miniature marshmallows are nasty!

I usually have ice cream long past twelve A.M., when my apartment mate has retired for the night, the stuffed animals are slumbering, I have finished reading the internets, and I can't get to sleep.

This blogger pities Rhonda Blythe-Dunham, who was so frantic and sugar-deprived that she could only think of calling the cops on the object of her disaffection, who had not the foresight to sugar her up the wazzoo.
Because, clearly, she did not know where it was sold.
I do not pity Mr. Blythe-Dunham.
He married her.

By the way: Rhonda jumped out the bathroom window to avoid arrest.
Possibly because there is no ice cream in the clink.
It's a question of priorities.

NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.


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