Why The Butcher Rules

So, I'm driving down to pick the Butcher up at work and I'm blaring some sub-par Muddy Waters cover. It isn't great, but I'm wiggling anyway, because a sub-par Muddy Waters cover is still better than most things on the radio. And I get to the grocery store and I'm waiting and finally he comes out and gets in the car and I say "I could have kicked your ass today" and I launch into the whole story about the knee and the cat piss and the door and how I wanted to pout and watch TV, but no luck and the Butcher looks over at me and starts to laugh. I mean a laugh like rain on a hot day, a laugh that echoes in you before you even realize it. "I don't see how any of that is my fault." "Well, the door. You said you'd fix the door." "I said I'd make you a fountain for your birthday, too. I just didn't say when." "Time has no meaning for you, I take it." "That's right. I'm not going to be oppressed by time." "So, it's no use getting mad at you." "I'll get all that stuff done before I die. If I die and it's not done, then you can be pissed at me. Unless I'm murdered--then you have to be pissed at my murderer. You can make him clean the litter box then." "You are hilarious. You should totally guest blog at Tiny Cat Pants while I'm gone." "I don't know. Maybe." "No, seriously. Everyone would love it. Plus, I need someone to moderate the comments." "I can't post as often as you do. I have shit to do." "Very funny. Will you do it?" "Maybe."