The Tropical-Whatever did earn a name.

He was named Alberto.  He blew through over Memorial Day Weekend.

He wasn’t too bad for us here.  Just a couple of downpours with those typical, tropical counter-clockwise winds.

I’ll have to see why so much of the water is flowing into the pig pen.

They’re loving it, but it’s muddy soup in there.

So much so, that when you feed them, and they get so excited awaiting their meal———-there’s a lot of flying mud from a dozen stomping, happy, cloven-feet.

 

There’s loud squealing and mud glopping everywhere…………..

You know…………….kind of like when…………… you-know-what……………hits the fan………………’cuz that’s basically what it is.

 

You can try to convince yourself otherwise.  You can try to believe that the mud flying in your face is good ole’ wholesome country mud……………….but it’s not……………..it’s not that big a sty………………and like what a bear does in the woods……………….the pigs have been doing in their sty.

Later I was in the house, cleaning the kitchen.  Fortunately I was doing dishes over the sink, when a huge dollop of dried pig-sty-mud toppled into the sink from somewhere on the top of my head.

It had been there long enough to dry…………………eeeewwwwwww!

 

I need to look in a mirror more often!  Apparently I had been wearing that glop of mud on the top my head for a couple hours without noticing.

It was kind of like my own, little, rural fascinator.