I was 41 years old and in the middle of an irresolvable identity crisis when I fell in love for the first time. The object of my affection was a country and western singer who wormed her way into the apple of my heart with belly-to-belly slow dancing and cheatin' type songs that promised moments of passion and rapture-filled joy. I might not have fallen so hard for those false back-alley promises if things had been different at home. If Loretta, my wife of 10 years, hadn't grown so incredibly fat and complained so often about my sexual performance. She took great delight in comparing our seasonal liaisons to the mating rituals of horseshoe crabs and jellyfish. I might not have fallen so madly in love with the voice of a total stranger, if my grandfather hadn’t fallen from a circus wagon and been trampled into Polish sausage by Lippizaner stallions and rogue elephants.
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"It ain't bad, Dwight, and you can sure play guitar, but less'n you can make it rhyme it just ain't gonna sell, boy."
Opening: Thomas Cater.....Continuation: Anon.