Back home—meaning, the back South version of back home—there used to be an older woman who, under certain unusual circumstances, would raise her hands, roll her eyes, and declare, “Oh, my God, it’s scooty-time again.” By “scooty-time,” I think she meant a series of odd, unexplained circumstances that were not especially remarkable or noteworthy in and of themselves, but put together in a long string, they added up to a condition of general looniness. As for me, “scooty-time” always gave me the image of a pack of old men wearing dark shades and riding scooters, running around in circles bumping smack into each other and anything else that got in the way. But maybe it’s the same thing.
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