It’s been too long since I’ve written about my family on The Balcony. They told me so themselves, in no uncertain terms. So, in succumary (Spellcheck says that’s not a word. It is now.) to the pressure and from a desire to shut them up, I shall update you on their antics or lack thereof.
Allow me to begin with Two Blondes on The Balcony. Amazon J. moved to a new old house. It’s nice. She had some of us over during the early days of Covid-19, but she banned Corona beer, my brew of choice. Dickie P. is having groin pains. Some guy she met online has obsessively been sending her PPPs—private parts photographs—or, in the cleaned up common vernacular, weenie shots. She showed me one. Sadly, you can’t unsee some things. They took a trip to the Gulf Coast recently where they went by the moniker “Two Balcony Blondes on The Beach.”
Crusty Rusty, a man with a badge and a gun, mysteriously took a trip to the Gulf Coast at the same time as the TBBTBs. (Crusty Rusty still flies under the radar, I which ain’t all that easy since he’s tall enough that his head is always in the clouds.) When the four of us met on The Balcony last week the three of them were blushing and giggling. I suspect subversive goings on.
The Sheik is staying in line. His former harem members (Haremers? Hammerites?) have respected his space since he took his marriage vows. They disparage him behind his back for dumping them—all but Babe at Law. She don’t take no gruff off nobody and will kick the backside of anyone who disparages her friends all the way to the Sue-preme Court. Don’t mess with her.
Z.Z. Bullfrog, a pythy man is nowhere to be found. According to my calculations he’s probably figuring that the odds are in his favor by subtracting us from the sum of his parts.
Spicy and her husband Burt, our Wheel Man, seem to be doing okay. They pop up every now and then, like that toy where you crank out “Pop! Goes the Weasel.” To carry that metaphor further than I should, Spicy keeps cranking and Burt the Weasel keeps popping up. He knows what side his bread is buttered on.
King Cobra has left the building. We have no idea where he is, but he is truly missed. Perhaps he is playing board games (bored games?) with Sir Martacus, who is also on the MIA list. I will admit that we all feel a little less secure without King Cobra.
My #2 son, Sir Sonny the Lady Killer, one of the Knights of the Long Table, succumbed to violence and sliced his mane, murdering tens of thousands of follicles. I hear he’s hired the Babe at Law to represent him. Smart move.
Queenie and The Angler have shied away from The Balcony for months prior to the Coronavirus. Health kick. Yeah, they lost weight. Yeah, they look healthier and happier. So what?
Mr. Thoreau, the Velvet Bitch, is nowhere to be found. Maybe he’s tinkling the ivories somewhere. Maybe he’s just tinkling. I hope he’s wearing sequined gloves of the surgical kind.
Major “That Guy” is still Major “That Guy.” It’s nice to know that some things never change. That being said, it would be nice from an olfactory perspective if Major “That Guy” would change his underdrawers.
And, last but certainly not least, my good friend Leon, a very inciteful man, and his main squeeze, No Account Addie, remain the bastions of sensibility in perilous times. So as not to be caught dead jaywalking, Leon is taking extra precautions. He’s taken to wearing those shoes that light up with every step, chartreuse jeans with reflective tape up and down both legs, a neon orange vest with flashing lights, gloves with proximity sensitive lasers that go off when someone is within twelve feet of Neon Leon, and a hard hat with a flashing blue light mounted on top and one of those damn European “whoop-whoop” sirens.
No Account Addie, ever vigilant over the bottom line, makes sure all of Leon’s devices—ALL of them—run on rechargeable batteries. She also puts the squeeze on him over increasing his fleet of Bimmers. Leon pretends to be interested in buying a new Bimmer quite often. He likes it when No Account Addie puts the squeeze on him. Who wouldn’t?
We’ve relaxed our parallel parking protocols, but we’ve added facemask monitoring. Park any way you wish, but you’d better be wearing a mask!
…and that’s the view from The Balcony.
Randy Weeks is a Licensed Professional Counselor and a Life Coach. He can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.