Wednesday, October 30, 2019

Some Sun, Widely Scattered

Boy, you get up a little early, you see things. About an hour before sunrise, this crevasse goes by, snaking down the street, chasing the neighbor's dog. About time something like this happened.

I stared at the sun for a while. Was trying to get ready for the eclipse thing, but it all went dark days early. Win!

It's nice to see the sun again. I'm trying not to stare. Don't want to go through that eye transplant stuff again. Least not right away.

Pretty sunny today. Lizards out all over, lying around. Me too. This always scares the snot out of the cat.

Sun this morning, blue sky, fresh air. Air! No pressure suit needed! Glad to visit you lucky ones with my time machine. The future has no air at all.

The sun is out again. I've learned to hate and fear it since becoming an amphibian, though I do have some lovely toe webs these days.

Third of January and I'm already three inches taller — good reason to have parents who contain the good sense to plant you in the tropics, in a sunny spot, and keep you sufficiently watered.

We had a good rain yesterday. It washed a lot of the accumulated bat droppings off the bank building. I don't know why I keep going there. Habit, I guess, and it is fun to see all the bats flying around the lobby, but after a few years you get so you don't even notice — the wonder goes out of it. But now it's sunny again, so them are moot points.

Yesterday was sunny. Today isn't no big deal — I get to kiss a fish at lunch, and date a princess. (Her dad is big in prunes.)

Mmm. Sunshine today. Feels good on my scaly parts.

You may have noticed that I'm wearing my fancy red underpants today. They go well with my new sunglasses, eh? (Though it's hard to keep the pants from falling over my eyes.)

Got a nice, sunny day here. No gunfire. Few mutants. Ah! Here comes lunch. Today it's mouse on a stick.

Mom cooked up another batch of noodles. She does this when she feels frustrated. Hangs them outside on the clothesline to dry in the sun. They attract flies out there but trying to run them through the permanent press cycle on the dryer did not work well at all. The flavor was totally off. Plus, I like flies.

 


Got something to add? Send email to sosayseff@nullabigmail.com See if that helps. (The commenting system quit working for some reason.)
Something's got ahold of my leg. Might be time to amputate. Hate to drag stuff around, especially with those gnawing sounds going on.

Wednesday, September 25, 2019

Nobody Cared

I took shop class once but I didn't have a decent place to hide it so I brought it back. Nobody cared.

I have just been hired as the Senior International Political Correspondent for Hostess Cupcakes & Twinkies.

Furballs on parade. (Recently.)

Dust bunnies for anarchy. (Often.)

Ever tickle an angry goat? It's harder than you'd think, especially the recovery. And paying the medical bills. But every now and then you get to lick a nurse.

Found a mess on the kitchen floor this morning. Rather than wasting time cleaning it up, I decided to pave over it.

Giraffes have been seen roaming the streets, but do I care? Just ask. I'm more than willing to talk about this and about many, many other things as well. You'll see. Just ask.

Found a snake in my pants. Very odd. My snake is on vacation this week.

I used to have a brother, didn't i? I think the ants got him. It's not like we never warned him. "Never trust ants." We said that all the time, over and over. Didn't seem to help. If you see him, let him know that we've moved. He answers to "Spot". Likes to chew on bones and so on. Good at playing dead.

Today it's chicken. Tomorrow snake meat, possibly. When the cat is doing the cooking, I just shut up and eat what's put in front of me. I've learned that. Let's not say any more.

Turkeys stole the neighbor's Volvo. I don't know how many times I warned him, but some people just never listen. I used to be like that until sparrows flew off with my entire family of Cabbage Patch dolls. I immediately changed my thinking, but the police didn't want to hear it — said it was too late, and I guess it was by then.

I found Jorge Luis Borges' one-sided coin in the hamster cage. No idea how it got there but was able to coax Squeaky into letting me have it for a handful of cashews and the promise of two days running wild every week. Pretty fair deal, I think.

Just thinking about it all makes me fart with excitement.

 


Got something to add? Send email to sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
See if that helps. (The commenting system quit working for some reason.)
Me? Currently covered in sugar, raisins, and cinnamon. Somehow.

Wednesday, September 18, 2019

Tasty Bits

Today is Monday, which means I'm due for an oil change. About time. I've never really liked the taste of WD-40. Looking forward to a bit of 20-50.

Monkeys stole my car. OK by me — I didn't have a car. Same great taste either way, and I never have to worry about parking, or what the monkeys are getting up to.

After a walk in the rain, I put my shoes in the microwave oven, but they still didn't taste good.

Ate a bowl of granola. Slightly too crunchy, though the granola was pretty tasty.

Breaking news: The hamster who discovered the secret to world peace (which is also a tasty snack and keeps your teeth white) unfortunately escaped into a heating duct before it could be interviewed.

Furry wieners. (An acquired taste, of course.)

God don't like IPA — told me so to my face — so that leaves more for me, I guess. On my end, I never did have much taste for roasted sinner on a stick.

I understand that to be truly happy, one must take decisive control of one's life, but how to do that in a bowl filled with such rich, tasty gravy?

I'd like to ask your name, but all you humans taste the same anyway.

Meatballs have short but tasty lives.

My buddy Frank opened whole a can of worms. Really. They come in cans now. Don't taste any better though.

So my uncle died and I've inherited his fruit cups. He was a fruit cup baron. It's fruit cups as far as the eye can see. Yummy. I'm pooping with uncontrollable delight.

Today they're serving Chinese chicken. In Ecuador. It was a long lunch walk for both of us, but tastier for me.

Woke up this morning with fur in my teeth, and none of it tasted good.

Had toast with breakfast. It tasted like toast. Will have to ask the chef how that's done.

I know I'm not much to look at, but people who lick me say I'm pretty tasty.

The good news is that I taste better than I look. The bad news is that I can't get anyone to lick me.

Still looking for a better-tasting mucilage. The plain stuff definitely lacks, and strawberry — no, not either.

 


Got something to add? Send email to sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
See if that helps. (The commenting system quit working for some reason.)
Me? Been crawling through the vents looking for the cat. Found only two or three grumpy dragons.

Wednesday, August 28, 2019

Marshmallow Love

I had my first encounter with an aggressive marshmallow today. Will write more about this after the cast is removed.

Favorite lunch so far — marshmallows and air-pufft buffalo eyes. Not that tasty but a great conversation starter. Or ender. (That's important too.)

Marshmallows never hurt anybody, except for my 17th cousin Thaddeus, who put a whole bag of them up his nose one Thursday and became permanently distended, not to mention overly sweet.

Toasted marshmallows last night. Crunch. (Too much crunch.) They turned out to be styrofoam balls, that's why. Still...not too bad with maple syrup, though they still squeak too much.

Apparently I'm the new marshmallow-eating champion, but there is no prize. Only puffiness around the gills.

Marshmallow duets. Need a second for mine. You free later?

Saw a mouse driving a stolen HUMVEE that was at least two sizes too small for it.

Have your tweezers ever gone rogue on you?

 


Got something to add? Send email to sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
See if that helps.
Me? Got something in my eye. Think it's a bug. If'n it don't come out I'll have to call it a feature.

Thursday, August 22, 2019

Soup For Two (Me & You)

 

Bean tits. Good only for soup.

Bought a bucket of soup to try out, possibly for Xmas gifts. But when the cat fell in it put me right off my feed. Never liked catsoup.

Cream of hamster tail soup. Good way to deal with excess hamsters.

Ever count your toes? If you have extra, I can use some. I'm making soup again.

Today's special at the Cafe of Your Choice is alphabet soup, and you can use it to write your very own personal suicide note.

Fingers in my soup. I always get fingers in my soup. Except that one time when there was that little toy boat.

Found another turtle in my soup. Better check the recipe one more time. Also, I have window screens on order. Am keeping my fingers crossed. Something's gotta help.

I had a bowl of alphabet soup, for a spell, but last night it ran off with the thesaurus, leaving me unlettered.

Taco cookie soup. (For members only.)

Mom made me soup last night. She's been working out. Which is where she got the strength to stuff me into the blender.

Party soup. There's music in that.

So, guatita criolla it is today. If I don't eat that, then it's going to be chicken parts. Parts of chicken, some assembly needed, as if. But they never give me a full kit. It's one of these and none of those (the usual), and I've never had any luck getting even one of my best efforts to fly, no matter how often I toss it off the highway overpass. Well, the soup is here, so I'll need to put this decision off until later.

Today it's fanesca for lunch. Soupy, soupy-soup. Easter soup. I guess. With fish. Fish. I have to share it with them, the fish. Always the fish.

Turtle soup — not that good. Maybe you have to cook it. Do you? #QuestionsToChefJoe,Etc

Well, it looks like the soup has arrived — two buckets of it. Anyway it shakes out, I'll be eating it soon. (I really do hope that it really is soup this time.)

Yeah, Mom knew what she was doing. Like that day she made soup. Put stuff in a pot, add water, then flame. #MiraclesNeverEnd

Chicken soup makes poor house paint. (True.)

 


Got something to add? Send email to sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
See if that helps.
Got a message in the mail today: "Don't forget to count your fish!"

Wednesday, August 14, 2019

Smile Me Another

Someone smiled at me today. They missed.

Someone smiled at me today. It always makes me wonder. Well anyhow — it was entirely enjoyable just sitting in the park eating brains. Always is.

A simile is like a smile from your cat. Doesn't mean much unless you're a mouse.

I'd like to ask your name, but the last time I tried that, I was set on fire. Maybe I should work on my smile instead, and start bathing.

Speaking of fruit, "banana crack" is a phrase never used in any language, in any country, ever. As far as I know, and I'm supposed to be the expert around here. Makes me smile to say that. I truly am thoroughly fine.

Mom taught me never to pick my teeth. She always did it for me. There were boxes full of them in the basement. It's surprising how often so many boarders just disappeared and left their teeth behind. My gain, I guess. I have a nice smile thanks to someone.

 


Got something to add? Send email to sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
See if that helps.
Me? Been exploding without warning all too often these days.

Thursday, August 01, 2019

Lately Eeeps Doings

My love, Echinoia Eeeps, has a new hobby — making mucilage. She's so good that she'll be selling it mail order. Because she can't get rid of it any other way. And has no idea what it may be good for. Certainly not edible, even as soup. Not a decent dog shampoo. Can't be molded into lawn ornaments. Lousy building material. And so on.

Out at the Eeeps family compound and slaughter-your-own pig farm, it's "Get Stuffed Week". My love, Echinoia Eeeps, explained it all to me. That is why, I guess, that everyone is dressed as manicotti noodles. (Something must explain it.)

My love, Echinoia Eeeps, sent me a birthday present. From Siberia. It's a tiger. I need to get a bigger litter box. Pretty soon now.

My love, Echinoia Eeeps, is on vacation, in Siberia. Just like that. Didn't know she was going. Did get a postcard from her though. It said "Glad you're not here. I'm having fun for once. Don't forget to feed the tiger — tigers get cranky when hungry. Will return some day if things don't pan out here." What a gal. You should see her armpit hair.

My love, Echinoia Eeeps, is on vacation in Siberia. The last thing she sent me was a bucket of mud. With a note. Said not to tell her mother about this. And I've discovered that tigers really love fried chicken, and playing scrabble, although they can become a bit sulky when they lose, tending to revert to biting behavior, though they do hold their liquor well. Miss my gal though. You know who.

My love, Echinoia Eeeps, has a world-class Caterpillar collection. Mostly the D9 models. She's also quite a stellar diesel mechanic and holds several arm-wrestling titles on the side.

 


Got something to add? Send email to sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
See if that helps.
Me? Wondering what the gutters here taste like.

Sunday, July 21, 2019

Drifting Low

I am the Lonesome Cowboy, walking alone, talking to the wind.

I am the Lonesome Cowboy, watching the sky for signs of life, seeing only clouds, feeling gray.

I am the Lonesome Cowboy, alone on a vast, empty plain, where only the wind talks, whispering with dusty breath.

I am the Lonesome Cowboy, walking without a care in the world, or a friend. In my pocket is a receipt for nothing.

I am the Lonesome Cowboy. Today is my birthday. So I am told by no one.

I am the Lonesome Cowboy, awake, alert, making notes on bits of paper, which the wind tears from my hand and claims as its own.

If I was a chicken I probably wouldn't be writing this without a contract.

 


Got something to add? Send email to sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
See if that helps.
Currently looking for an inexpensive hamster stretcher. Call if you have a spare.

Wednesday, June 12, 2019

Wake Me Only In Case Of Death, Or Lunch

A simile is like staying home sick on a Thursday with a fever and a bad headache and then waking up to find out it's Wednesday but everything else is the same and also there's an alligator in the bathroom doing something weird with that toothbrush your Mom gave you.

Last night I had a dream. It was about something important. I remember that part. Somehow I'd removed my hat and one glove, but didn't wake up drooling or howling, and couldn't remember any contents of the dream, which, I understand, is probably what it is like to die, except that when you die you're going in the opposite direction from waking up, and someone else has already removed your hat and both gloves, and replaced your blood with a mysterious synthetic fluid that does not taste right. Doesn't sound like fun.

OK, aside from waking up this morning to find a slug crawling out of my nose, things are mostly back to normal. Except for my bunny slippers. They want another raise.

The first thing I remember after waking up is that I wasn't asleep any more, and then the cat came by to fart in my face. And so on. Another great day is in store. I can feel it from here.

The last thing I remember before waking up was that fruit cups are always too small, and socks are always too tight, and I could use a bath.

The last thing I remember before waking up was that I really need to clean that spaghetti sauce off the wall.

The last thing I remember before waking up was that I was eating my pillow. The chocolate sauce was superb, considering. Even with feathers.

The last thing I remember before waking up was that I'm not actually who I appear to be, or at least I don't think so, at lest most Thursdays. Hey — what day is it again?

The last thing I remember before waking up was that I'm not qualified to be President, no matter what my hair is made of.

The last thing I remember before waking up was that paint remover might not work on the cat, unless he really, really asks for it.

On my pillow little by little waking, suddenly I hear a single cicada cry — at that moment I know I have not died. -- Chi'i-chi (864-937)

Ditto, dude.

 


Got something to add? Send email to sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
See if that helps.
Me? In the market for chocolate sauce without feathers.

Wednesday, May 22, 2019

Ants In France

Ed (Jimbo) Sauron MMCCCXXVIII came through town, preceded by dread but they were street dancing after he demonstrated proper flaying technique on local bureaucrats.

Ed Grunch. Used to know her. We ate candy bars under the bleachers and then puked on each other. Seemed like fun at the time.

Ed said I'd have fun today. I hope he's right. I'm tired of hanging by my thumbs.

Ed's Very Own Original French Toast: (1) Toast bread. (2) Mail it to France. (3) Kill time or take a nap or whatever. (Ed's OK with that.)

French diaper wine.

Frenchie fried my fangs in foofie sauce. Yet again.

Ants in France. Again.

Mama told me not do do that any more, so I put her in a box and mailed her to France. France — a place I'll never forget, assuming I visit sometime, but I bet Mom fits right in.

So on the lunch menu today is "Stuffed Frances". For only $2.75. And to think that in high school she wouldn't go anywhere near that concept, let alone talk to me.

Albert took the boat. Went somewhere. Meanwhile, the bank repossessed his entire ant farm collection but left the ants to keep me company.

Ants never gamble. Did you ever think of what that means?

Gotta pocket fulla ants. A gift from my aunt. She couldn't eatem all. #LizardsOnParade

I bet ants never get headaches or just, somehow, forget to file their taxes for two decades.

I feel like a doughnut today. Rich. Creamy filling. Dripping with chocolate sauce. Sprinkled with bitsy sprinkles. Attractive to ants.

I've been talking to the ants. Could be a whole new source of information. My feelers are all a-wiggle.

It's noisy in here. Even the ants are dying from the music. Still, I have to say that they have the tastiest soap in town.

January 23, 1886: "Dear Diary, I found more ants in the strong box. That must mean something. Meanwhile, no news from Dick about the thing."

Joe is updating the menu as we speak, according to what people bring in. May be either boiled ants or fried pig. Can't really tell from here.

I made a mistake today. Turned out well though. Entirely composed of previously-composted compotes. And sawdust, but it adds a level of sophistication, and, too, smells like sawdust, which is my favorite ice cream flavor from way back. And then, when I was all done the ants got it, so now it's their mistake. Ha!

 


Got something to add? Send email to sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
See if that helps.
Me? Currently between naps.

Friday, May 10, 2019

Lets Fry Some Parrots

"Pollo frito." That's fried parrot, right? Well anyway, that's what I'll be eating, whatever it is.

20 People just came in. Asked what's for lunch. Thinking fast, I opened a restaurant and some cans of tuna.

A guy in a red sweater came in. Was instantly kicked out. No shirt, no shoes, no pants, no service. With a smile.

A frog in the rain maintains it slime with no pain.

A hamster without a bicycle is like a woman without a cantaloupe, except that one complains more than the other. And then there's the lunch angle.

Toast on a stick is another thing you never really plan on specializing in.

Air is free unless they catch you breathing.

If cookies were made of meat, I'd eat more of them, and so would the cat, and our beer would taste better.

I went to climb a mountain but someone moved it. I think they said his name was Moe Hammer or something. Must have beefy arms. No idea where he might have put it. Let's eat.

I found tuna in my slippers this morning. Either the cat is playing practical jokes again, or someone left me a pair of slippers, or something unusual is going down.

Saw trucks full of stuff go by, then they formed a circle and exploded in flames. Only one sock puppet made it out alive. I had no idea that sock puppets were alive. But this one was, I think. At least it did some flopping around. After that — nothing. Aside from a lingering smell of grape jam. Rubbage everywhere. Had a nice meal of tuna, pineapple, fried grits, and chocolate gravy later on, while listening to the symphony orch play John Philip Sousa's Greatest Kazoo Dirges as they executed Facebook executives. I hear that's a thing now.

I found a worm in my salad. I let it eat all the romaine lettuce before making my kill. Poor little bugger never knew what hit him. Next time I'm ordering the fish with flies.

I found an unattended ham sandwich lying on the sidewalk like nobody's business. Well, I made it my business, so I whupped that there sandwich right smart until it quit lying, and then I ate it after brushing most of the skudge and hair off. Still a bit too crunchy for my taste. Result: No more than two stars.

I fried an egg this morning, just after midnight. It had lost its final appeal.

Had a great conversation going with a ham sandwich earlier today, cut a bit short when I lost control and ate it.

In fact, I've never known any ham sandwich to tell the truth, except one, and I ate it anyway.

So a tuna walked into a bar and they made it a sandwich.

 


Currently out to lunch.

Got something to add? Send email to sosayseff@nullabigmail.com

See if that helps.

Sunday, April 14, 2019

Does Emily Know About This?

A simile is better than sex if you don't have sex anyway, or money to buy chocolate.

A simile is like a bag of dead cats, waiting to be set free.

A simile is like a bunch of words that mean something.

A simile is like a spinster English teacher orgasm.

A simile is like a metaphor but with extra words.

A dog followed me home today — says his name is Beelzebub, used to be an accountant, likes to eat naughty children. I think we could be friends.

A bad simile is like an evening at the opera with no empty seats so you can't lie down and sleep to kill time.

A bad simile is like having crotch rot without any of the epiphany moments.

'Mom warned me about guys like you,' she said, 'But I might have a glass of wine with your cat, if you don't mind getting lost for a while.'

'Mom warned me about guys like you,' she said. 'And for once she was right.'

'Mom warned me about guys like you,' the doctor said. Then her eyes crossed and she fell over backward. So I guess I still have what it takes.

I'm all smiles at noon with my all-terrain hamburger.

 


Currently making the transition from old creepy guy to creepy old guy.

Got something to add? Send email to sosayseff@nullabigmail.com

See if that helps.

Wednesday, March 20, 2019

Call Me — I'm Never Home

Call now for a mail inversion.

Ever set your farts on fire? Are you Ed the giant dinosaur? We can help. Call after 3 p.m. on any Thursday.

Fernando followed me home today. That's what I'm calling him. He's a turd. I'll put him in the garden, by the carrots. It seems proper.

Following that unfortunate noodle incident in the dining room, Mom lost her temper and called ma a hopeless turd. Well, it arrived within minutes, and was indeed hopeless, and a turd, and I am sorry, but I simply don't have any idea what I'm supposed to do with it. Maybe I should call Mom, but what to call her?

Fred said we could stay here. Fred knows everything. That's why we call him Fred. First Rate Educated Dude.

Generally, I don't feel much like a giant, everything-devouring crack in the ground, but today I do. Call me Chucky, Chucky Crevasse, at least for now.

I don't know about you, but after what happened yesterday I've had my fill of pocket lint for the year. I must have six or eight pounds of it stored out in the garage already. Now Mom called. She's bringing over a whole pickup load of the stuff. I'm sort of regretting having gotten her that trucking job.

I had a brother named Joe. He wouldn't come when called — said his name was Bob. Wouldn't fetch worth a damn either. #DumbFucker

I have been called here today, by my hunger, to, in this public location, masticate thoughtfully and thoroughly. Then I'll have a nap.

I never did understand Mom. Not after she took that Portuguese class over at the community center, and no one else did either, not even the guy who taught it. His name was Fred — Fred Krutz — but he wanted us to call him Ferdinand the Very Utmost First. That was after he got back from his two-week tour of Europe (with one day in Portugal, which is where he got his language training). So we did for a little while and then it wasn't that much fun anymore but by then he'd already taught half the town to speak Portuguese and then he moved on down the road and nobody could understand anybody any more, so that's what happened to Mom. And eventually I lost track of her too. A few years back I did hear tell of a certain Vegetable Lady traveling with the circus who used to jabber nonsense, and it sort of sounded like it could have been her but then I got busy with other things and never did follow up, so that's about where that one lies then.

If I had a brother I'd call him "Ferd" so's I could distinguish him from the rest of the livestock. Maybe make him wear a hat, if he didn't come equipped with one, and prolly some clothes because — you know. "Ferd — that guy over there, wearing the clothes and stuff," is how he'd be known, aside from his distinctive name and beet collection (he likes vegetables — imaginary ones until he exists, if ever). Now, folks, I'm headed back to the cellar to visit my spiders.

Insane Lizard Posse. That's what Mom wants to be called now, and who am I to mess with her?

Little-known fact: My high-school yearbook lists me as "deceased", which is another reason that no one calls anymore. #AndISkippedAllTheReunionsToo

Louella called to tell me I'm not that good looking, but she's a potato, so I baked her. What kind of potato calls itself Louella? Tasty.

Marcus called last night, from the street, with a bullhorn. Said I was a dickhead. I had to go out there and pour a bucket of mucilage over him. That helped, but not quite as much as one would have hoped, given the circumstances. Anyhow, he left. Good thing I always keep a couple buckets of mucilage on hand. I wonder what it is. Nice name though. And who is Marcus?

Mom (or Mrs Head as she is known in some circles) called me a dick, which is why, I guess, wanting to do that, she named me Richard to begin with.

Mom called again. Reminded me to wear rubber duck feet. She's always cautious like that.

Mom called but cut it short when she ran out of coins. They still have pay phones in hell, and she's got this thing about avoiding collect calls.

Mom told me to go hang myself. Which is why I'm in your closet. In case you were wondering. Nice and quiet here. Good call, Mom.

My sister called me a dork. I didn't know you could do that. Not surprising because I don't have a smart phone.

My sister called to say I shouldn't be surprised to get a quart of pig blood from her. She's FedExing it to me overnight. Apparently it has to do with some death cult she joined last week. I wish she'd get past this phase and settle down again. She used to be married to a tax accountant until his colleagues roasted and ate him during what was otherwise a pretty average office meeting. I didn't know they did that. Anyway, my sister has been looking for some stability ever since, so this new death cult could be just what she needs. Thoughtful of her too, to think of me — she knows I can always use more pig blood.

Rolf - call me Rolf. That's Rolf Dolf, golf genius. And bug zapper.

Why am I writing about crevasses? I think I have my own delightful issues. That's what all my friends say. I have no friends any more, not since my hamster died. His name was Ed. That's what I called him. He never told me his real name. Hamsters are like that, or maybe he never really was really my friend. I did let him out of the cage a lot, so... He liked my sock drawer. Had fun chewing holes in things, squeaking occasionally, but I guess we never were really close. After he died I flushed him down the toilet, right away. Didn't want him stinking, so that's about my experience with crevasses and friends.

Yeah, Mom called again last night. She got on board a submarine and before she really knew what was happening, she finds herself way out in the south Atlantic with nothing to do but tend the sonar and scan for enemy vessels, so she's wondering, if I'm not too busy today, can I come and pick her up? And, of course, you know what my life will be like if I don't say yes. I wish she'd grow up and spend more time with her cats. Even when I get the wig on straight and wear her favorite print dress at feeding time, they still know what's up. You can't hardly fool a cat.

They seem to recognize me here. Maybe that's why they call it home. The big mean one is called "Mom". She's scary.

 


Currently making the transition from old creepy guy to creepy old guy.
Comments? Send email to sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
See if that helps.

Wednesday, March 13, 2019

Clouds

Clouds float by lazily while I dream of cookies, but — that can't be right. I don't know what cookies are. What are cookies and how can I dream of them while wide awake? And am I real? Maybe I'm only a semi-conscious dog turd on the lawn — say on your lawn for example, and my ultimate purpose is only to lie here and wait for that fateful footfall. Yours. And then I go SQUISH! and I'm all over the sole of your shoe, and then you wish it was you who was reclining lazily in the sun, dreaming of cookies. But either way you would still draw flies, so it might be a moot point after all. Enjoy your thoughts.

Clouds tend to scare the cat. Damn things chase it all over the house, shooting out lightning bolts every whichway and scattering raindrops all over hell and gone. Come to think of it, they scare the snot out of me too, and it's a pisser having to wear a raincoat indoors, and carry a lightning rod when I go up to have a bath and such. Here kitty — let's you and I have a strategy meeting. I'll bring the kibble and you bring the brains, 'K?

It's not cloudy in here. I've been farting.

Just above the cloud layer, the snarl of twin turbo diesels warns of Leslie Zeppelin's approach, and all intelligent life flees.

Wooties at parade rest (12:00 to 12:01 only, Thursdays in March, in odd years, on cloudy days, if they feel like it). Tickets on sale real soon now.

A cloud of leaves blew through town but didn't stop to say where they were headed, or even who sent them.

A small sheep-shaped cloud went by. Stamped on its bottom: "© 2016 God. All rights reserved. Fuck you."

 


Currently making the transition from old creepy guy to creepy old guy.

Comments? Send email to sosayseff@nullabigmail.com

See if that helps.

Wednesday, February 20, 2019

37 Seconds

 

37 seconds left to live, and counting. Hey. I can still count. Lessee - one, two, uh....Beeeep! OK, fuck it.

37 seconds left to live, and I forgot to wash my socks last night. Sorry, Mom.

37 seconds left to live, and I guess it's too late to have another beer. Though there is still time to see how many pretzels I can stuff into my mouth.

37 seconds left to live, and I'm wondering if the cat was faking it all along. Kinda sorry now that I got him his own bus pass.

37 seconds left to live, and it looks like I'll miss the office party again this year. (If current trends continue.)

37 seconds left to live, and my only regret is that I didn't close my Facebook account sooner.

 


Comments? Send email to hoofist@nullabigmail.com

See if that helps.

Tuesday, February 12, 2019

Quotles

"And then they lived happily ever after" sounds a lot like hell. A place for those who buy on credit and think they live in the best of all possible worlds.

"Death Wears My Shoelaces", a dramatic short poem by Arten Sphinctly, Jr. (Page under construction. To be continued in 1997.)

"Do you have IPA today?" I asked the sparrow. "No, I'm a bird, you twit — go ask the squirrel." So I did. Still no beer.

"Even an hour's worth of typing can't get you there from here", my guru said. That was, of course, the bad news. The good news is that I don't have a typing guru. Nobody does. I'm all alone out here — just me, a keyboard, and six reams of paper. What was the question?

"God only knows", they said, which might be where all the splitting headaches are coming from. So glad to be retired from all that.

"I heard you were a reasonable person," he said, so I sat down and thought about it. #IfIPlayAlongIMightGetParoledSooner.

The "I Love Dogs" canine rendering kit. Buy two. Now.

"New logon to Twitter from an unknown location using a weenie on a stick." I'm showing more imaginative use of available materials then?

"Nostril". Meaning "no stink", which is why I put earplugs in mine. Ears, however, are too small for butt plugs.

"Second-Rate Three Course Meals: My life among the spoon people", by Edward Cheff, Chief Chef of the Double Clef Gang.

"Success consists of going from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm." Supposedly from Winston Churchill. (Dead.)

"Tbla", I said, not thinking straight. Now I've gone and been deported.

"Three-Penny Chopper", an opera on two wheels, by Armour Swarthopple, Renegade of the Negotiable Brigade.

"We've gone formless." — Fred Meyer

"Xavier me lo digo." That's what I always tell people. Or I try sock puppet pantomime. Or run away.

"You're a dick, Ted", Dick said to Ted, absentmindedly (since his mind was absent that day, and in fact was at that very moment enjoying a plate of fried pork bits with cheese sauce and vodka not on, but very near to the beach). Things could have been worse — very, very much worse, as we all know they can be. But not today. Today, Ted only punched him in the mouth and headed for the beach where pork bits were being served in cheese sauce.

'If I knew you better,' she said, 'I wouldn't like you that much. But considering that It's Thursday, I'll make a sandwich.'

'It's probably beef,' she said, staring at my pants, 'but I'm only here for the pork chops.'

 


Comments? Send email to hoofist@nullabigmail.com

See if that helps.

Wednesday, February 06, 2019

Wallies

Today it's popcorn. I get to wallow in popcorn, and then they execute me. It's on my bucket list, until this afternoon anyway. And after the execution, who knows? Something is sure to turn up eventually.

For my encore, I'm going to swallow a sword, with the suit of armor still attached. Watch closely.

I like plants. I used to keep some as pets. Generally, though, that did not work out for the best. Several of them began tearing up the house and caused serious damage to the furniture. One even chased the cat around every time they were left alone. We had to chain it to a wall in the basement. A couple of them just disappeared. Ran away as far as we could tell, though one of those that got loose did have an unfortunate and career-ending encounter with a municipal waste-disposal truck (totaled the truck too). Usually, though, one or another of these so-called house plants just got to be too high-maintenance and we had to find a new home for it, like on a local farm, where it could run free and keep wolves at bay.

I think I ate a gopher. Accidentally, of course. Ever happen to you? (More than once?)

There's a TV on the wall. I'm sitting directly under it. Hard-headed self confidence, eh?

Dear Diary: Today I found a fly on the wall — an old-fashioned button fly, which made me wonder about...Wait. Gotta go.

Walla Walla Wallowers.

Wall snapper!

Valhalla started out as a local operation called "Wally Holler" and sold gas, bait, and beer. Shows you what can happen if you keep your worms fresh.

The guy next to me is eating the avocado that he brought to the restaurant, and as far as I can tell, there is no particular malice involved, though one never knows. So far, he and his rat are sharing the meal in peace, or at least under the terms of a binding truce. They're using the same napkin too. Always a good sign.

 


Comments? Send email to hoofist@nullabigmail.com

See if that helps.

Tuesday, January 22, 2019

Carz

Plan ahead — your monkey demands it.

 

I found my socks today. I was afraid they'd lost me. But that new bloodhound of mine came through. I got my socks back, plus a couple of stray cats (Kitty and Kathy), one squirrel, a used toothbrush, and an abandoned Lexus. My only remaining problem is what to do with the three bodies in the trunk of the car, but no doubt a good idea will come to me. (My lucky day, right?)

But is it really fair to blame everything on the cat? Yes, I think so. That's what he gets paid for. Salary, paid vacation, sick leave (with full-coverage hairball insurance, plus dental), completely funded defined retirement plan, and all the mice he can stand to take home to his kids. For that I get to sound cranky and whiny every now and then and blame him whenever one of my socks goes missing. And he gets to use the car every Thursday. I don't think I'm being unreasonable.

I bought a wig. Named it Hermann. Also got a harness and leash. We go to the park a lot. The leash is so Hermann doesn't go charging off chasing cars and such. That would be embarrassing. Could result in a citation. I don't need that. It's enough work to keep Hermann out of the aquarium. I've had to buy I-don't-know how many replacement goldfish already. Other than that, things are sweet. We celebrate Shampoo Night together, Hermann and I. Also sweet.

That car that just zoomed by? Driven by my sister's newly-adopted stray cat, Clive. We had to put in some pedal extenders for him, but he picked up the rest in about a day or two. Everything OK so far, though we'll eventually have to discuss that tuna breath issue.

Here in Ecuador they don't hang fuzzy dice in their cars. It's fuzzy avocados, though maybe I only saw the moldy ones. Or cats. Could be cats I'm seeing. Spotted cats.

Car shouting. Why not?

 


Comments? Send email to hoofist@nullabigmail.com

See if that helps.

Wednesday, January 09, 2019

Whuzzit?

Flatulent flatfish.

Terrible Tommy the Two-Tongued Toast Taster. (Former acquaintance.)

Somnambulent slime slide. (Like an avalanche but stinkier, and tends to snore more.)

Hand-to-hand wombat.

If I said you had beautiful brown eyes, would you quit trying to eat my brain? Just curious.

Commie kitty say "Mao". Camo kitty whisper "Moo".

Another holiday season in the Northwest, revealed by the scooped out muck pits where children have been making mud angels.

The night crept up and lay down next to me. My luck at work again.

Muffins — what are they really good for? (They'll never replace baseballs, for example.)

Tangle wangies.

Fur turds.

Half-assed fast gnats.

Mouse houses.

Harry Hatsmo, dynamic haberdasher and shampoo magician.

Klingon Clangers.

Red-faced rotifers.

Mom's home-made muffin huts.

First-class rat sass.

Preamble Postamble, pot wiper by trade, all-around nice guy by court order.

Sing me home to Jesus.

 


Comments? Send email to hoofist@nullabigmail.com

See if that helps.