The Wee Hours

Let's see what thoughts arise at 4:28 in the morning. What stream of consciousness may spring from the brain?

I just ate a Hershey bar. Milk chocolate: breakfast of champions? 

Barnaby Jones is on TV. You think Buddy Ebsen got so tired of playing Jed Clampett and country bumpkins that he figured to break the mold and become a private detective? He actually started out as a song and dance man, you know. It doesn't seem so.

We'll know soon if that oversized rat sees his shadow I suppose.

Ah, I quit. Yes, it's a slow news day Ron.

Day one

It's 4:12 AM in the Cosgriff bunker, and all is quiet. Perhaps too quiet.

Cue melodramatic piano chord...now.

The toilet paper bandits were chased off a few hours ago by a deranged old man with a rake. That may or may not have been me. But it got the miscreants off the lawn.

Fear is in the air. It's palpable. You can feel it, hear it.

Wait, that's just the television. Barnaby Jones; haven't seen it in years. I believe he manages to catch the culprit in the end. You can count on Buddy Ebsen.

There's a noise, irregular thumping and bumping. It's coming from the basement; I must investigate, and I must use caution.

Oh, sorry, it's the dryer. I had put a load of laundry in as I was wide awake in the wee hours before the dawn and decided to do something useful.

The wee hours. Who thought of that turn of phrase?

Well, I guess that's all for now. I'll turn a couple more phrases tomorrow. Hopefully better ones. Hopefully the tension will break by then. But I'm almost out of hand sanitizer.