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This Week In Weird Twitter, Volume 101

By: Rich Cromwell
10 min read

In our latest installment, some other things that don’t make sense happened. Just roll with it, okay?

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Rich Cromwell
@rcromwell4
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She pulled her card from the chip reader just as the incessant beeping started, knowing what she was to expect when she got home with her purchase. Encounters that occur after a book club meeting aren’t chance, after all, even if they begin that way. Only a certain type frequents, or even happens through, such gatherings. There’s a seedy underbelly that’s rarely mentioned during discussions about discussions about “The Notebook,” “Message in a Bottle,” and “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.”

She settled into the driver’s seat, lowering the top and pulling the notebook of inspirational quotes she kept in the passenger’s seat into her hands. She opened it haphazardly to a page, the paper rustling against her chambray top. It was a red number she’d inexplicably paired with purple shorts, but on that day, the colors were speaking to her.

She landed on a quote from Bjork. “I am a grateful… grapefruit” was all it said. She wasn’t exactly sure how that was inspirational and couldn’t recall why she’d saved it as such, but as it had piqued her curiosity, she decided to take a trip through her neighbor’s backyard to borrow a few grapefruit. She was sure that Hunter S. Thompson would approve.

Sandoz pulled away, new tires gripping the pavement, ideas about grapefruit juice and Salty Dogs stored in her mental file folder. She knew what to expect when she was expecting, particularly a trifecta, and it wasn’t cocktails. It was loud noises, but she couldn’t stop. She was in bat country.


And when you’re in bat country, you don’t go into the office.


You do, however, pretend that something is afoot.


This helps with pretending something is afoot.


Meanwhile, a voice came from the backseat, which was odd since it was speaking rather than yelling.


Sandoz decided to stop and ruminate upon this truth. That’s when a ruckus drew her eyes to the woods alongside the road.


But then she sped away. She was afraid of grizzlies, even if she wasn’t in grizzly territory.


A car passed her, going the opposite direction. It was me. I had some, umm, items to dispose of.


I was muttering about something involving overly complicated conspiracy theories involving tunnels and the U.S. Forest Service.


It was then that Sandoz noticed something besides the mustached fighters and stopped worrying about bears.


Again, a voice arose from the backseat, but it bore no Austrian accent, so she wasn’t too nervous.


But the question that followed that pronouncement…


Sandoz considered abandoning her vehicle, grabbing the kids, and beating the pavement. She decided that maybe wasn’t the best idea. The voice agreed.


Then came this. She wasn’t sure if it was a compliment or an insult. The ambiguity was annoying.


Though there was a point to it.


Also, the guy didn’t get out much.


But he did follow this mantra. Poise counts.


Sandoz spoke up, smiling wryly.


That gave her an idea and, fortunately, she found herself in just the right place to execute it. She was going to crash a kindergarten graduation, and she found herself in front of a school that was hosting just such an event.


She pulled her notebook of inspirational quotes out and closed with:


The kids cheered, for they were so nonplussed by the whole situation that they didn’t know how to respond. Sandoz threw out another quote.


One kid, though, missed it all. Her aunt couldn’t wait for the ceremony to be over to give her her gift.


And off she went, kids in tow, to the furniture store next door. Why not.


Though she didn’t start making sense.


As she rounded up the crew and headed back to the car, a cab whizzed by. Taffy was off on an unrelated adventure, at least for now.


Meanwhile, the kids were asking for some snacks, but this battle was one they were going to lose.


And off they ambled, except, you know, in a car.


They passed a panhandler, a hippie obviously just being lazy, wandering around with a goat on a leash. She ripped a page from her notebook and threw it his way.


On their left was a doctor’s office, though not maybe of the most licensed variety.


The voice again arose from the backseat.


But Sandoz didn’t have time for that.


She cranked up the radio and took off, still not sure where she was headed. Someone should probably figure that out.


It definitely wasn’t to this wedding, that’s for sure.


From the backseat, the voice again tried to get Sandoz’s attention. She just turned the volume up.


Then she saw a sign and pulled over. She knew what she needed to do.


As she closed the door, she heard the voice make one last proclamation.


Then, her theme started to play.


People pretended not to notice, but they’d learn.


Sandoz decided upon a destination, for bat country was a little too raucous and necessitated far too many handcuffs.


Sometimes only seemingly so, but still.


Where she was headed, anything was possible. Mostly.


She stopped by a museum and pondered her next steps. One item, in particular, spoke to her.


Sandoz bombed down the road, destination planned, a cache of cinnamon buns atop her inspirational quotes. They would be sustained both physically and, ummm, inspirationally. The long, strange trip had really just begun, especially as she’d forgotten to stop and steal some grapefruit. She’d have to pencil that in.

Elsewhere, a figure emerged from the shadows, a dog by his side. It was a St. Bernard named Alan. The man next to Alan felt destiny calling and knew that somehow it was tied to that fateful night when he crashed a book club. He hopped into his Fiero and declared his intentions.

Richard Cromwell is a writer and senior contributor at The Federalist. He lives in Northwest Arkansas with his wife, three daughters, and two crazy dogs. Co-host of the podcast Coffee & Cochon, you can find him on Facebook and Twitter, though you should probably avoid using social media.

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