Whatever

Tryin to figure out how to get out of this tree

 

Like I’ve been run over by a truck. That 3 hours of sleep was wonderful, then I went and bought $70 worth of over the counter meds. On my way back to work now........

 

Do you need me to call a firetruck for you?

 

Damn, hope you feel better soon brother

 

FTFY

 

Lol
More like this

 

Ya need one of these Bob

 

He does...

I found a video of him struggling with his stand...
https://youtu.be/F6tPeiZuMpw

 

@StayinStock fell and he can’t get up.

 

Poppas kid tattooing game on point!

 

Sudafed works to dry out your sinuses.
You gotta drink extra water, it works so well.

 

@StayinStock fell and can’t get IT up!!

 

Thank you.
This time it didn't have to be me.

 

He’s so far down on that nothing can help him.

 

That was terrific.

When the Frost is on the Punkin
BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin’ turkey-cock,
And the clackin’ of the guineys, and the cluckin’ of the hens,
And the rooster’s hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O, it’s then’s the times a feller is a-feelin’ at his best,
With the risin’ sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

They’s something kindo’ harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer’s over and the coolin’ fall is here—
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees,
And the mumble of the hummin’-birds and buzzin’ of the bees;
But the air’s so appetizin’; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur’ that no painter has the colorin’ to mock—
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin’ of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries—kindo’ lonesome-like, but still
A-preachin’ sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below—the clover over-head!—
O, it sets my hart a-clickin’ like the tickin’ of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!

Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps;
And your cider-makin’ ’s over, and your wimmern-folks is through
With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too! ...
I don’t know how to tell it—but ef sich a thing could be
As the Angels wantin’ boardin’, and they’d call around on me—
I’d want to ’commodate ’em—all the whole-indurin’ flock—
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!

 

I used to have the whole thing memorized.