The Sandyman Can

Times are tough. I don't know how people can survive. Just last week, Farmer H paid seventeen dollars and change for a cupful of sand.

It must be mighty special sand. Sand for Poolio's filter. You tell me whether Poolio knows if he's getting the gourmet sand at $17 per cup, or free sand that washed up on the side of the low water bridge after four inches of rain fell in an hour. P.T. Barnum must have some relatives in the swimming pool supply business. And they could see Farmer H coming from a mile away, bobbing his big ol' lollipop head. Actually, it was not P.T Barnum who declared, "There's a sucker born every minute." It was his competitor, David Hannum, over an incident involving the Cardiff Giant. Here's a link to that bit of trivia.

Poolio has grown quite full of himself. He can't even catch a good breath. All that gurgling had Farmer H concerned. He had the #1 son perform a bit of CPR on Poolio's filter, and carry out a bloodletting of sorts. These stopgap measures were unsuccessful. So Farmer H took matters into his own hands to save his big blue buddy. Thus, the squandering of our retirement nest egg on sand. If he shows up with some magic beans, I'm looking into a trial separation.

Meanwhile, Poolio sloshes sloppily to and fro, a percolating vat of buttwater soup, who reverts to a roiling cauldron of rumpwash consomme during afternoon thunderstorms. I'm hoping he does not suffer a perimeter aneurysm and collapse.

He and Farmer H have a floating date later in the week.