Blue Doodles

I have a guy living in a piece of glass on my wall. I never see him unless I go over there and look in. He's always there, looking back at me, but never says anything. This has been going on for years. He's growing older now and I'm starting to get spooked.

I have two left feet, except that one of them actually isn't, and I'm not going to tell which one.

Thursday came and went. No one noticed. Happens every week. Not like the old days. Mom would be pissed.

I can never seem to remember what it is I need to remember but have forgotten, regardless. Which is why I usually give up and just resume chasing my tail.

Me and Bug went down by the Wally Mart to eyeball some a tha babes again, like we usully do every week or two. Not as much fun as it used to be, what with the Corroded Virus face masks and all, and most women carrying pointy sticks these days to warn us off. Plus, some a them don't seem as pretty as they used to. Maybe I'm gettin too picky, I don't know. But somethins up for sure.

Whenever I yawn, the cat hisses at me, like its got too much air inside. Me, I just fart, usually right before I yawn. I don't see the connection.

 

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Me? Still wondering what the sky is for.

Hop To It

A diamond is for Eva.

Beauth is troot, and troot, beauthy.

Give a man a fish and he has a pet.

A turd in the hand is worse than poo in the bush.

A chain is only as strong as its weasel link.

It's only a mop in the bucket.

Just read the King James' Illustrated Version of "Kiss and Tell". My nips are now squealed.

Give the Devil his goo.

 

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Me? Still wondering what to say.

Gudrun Tunnel News

Gudrun Tunnel News for the intrepid, right here, right now.

Item One: Yes! I am a vert! Of some kind!

Prevert?

Postvert?

Paravert?

Who can say?

Ambivert? Could be.

Item Two: Paraversions and parsley seeds — can't get enough of either. Very sure of that.

Item Three: Top 25 procedures performed at ambulatory surgery centers? How about one of those? No, they do not include seed removal, so just forget about it, but Pre-Christian Discounts? Maybe? If you're lucky. Need one? (Available last week only, so don't be late now, hear? Never too early to ask or too late to miss out.)

Item Four: Latest Award Ceremonies — American Arbitration Association v. Tri-Institutional Pain Registry. A surefire smackdown event. Survivors get free cookies for life, or through the end of next week, whichever comes first. Taxes and medical expenses pre-paid by a beneficial benefactor. Most limits apply.

Item Five: Monkey noodles. Handmade in our interesting facility just outside the city limits. No other limits need apply. Mostly clean, pretty much edible if you like that sort of thing. Flies included at no extra charge. Call now. Right away in fact, if you know what's good for you. (Really, if you are fussy like that we can probably come up with something that'll work if you don't inspect it too closely.)

 

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Me? Still wondering about that thing.

As Far As God Goes

As far as God goes, what's right, wrong, or which end might be up, I don't know a whole lot. We're not so close these days as we used to. You know — back when we played checkers in the park every afternoon and all, and the rest of the world was still slime.

Did you know that God is only four feet tall and used to be named Larry?

God and me was talking about you. None of it good neither.

God came by yesterday, out of sorts again. Threw a few lightning bolts around the yard, had a beer, and went away still grumpy. But went away — that's the important part. I'm not sure that I need to keep this up.

God said not to do that, but I did. What the fuck — I'm usually right, and God already has a big enough ego. Plus, God is ugly as a turd on a birthday cake.

Got a call from God yesterday. Depressed. Finally realized after all this long time that Satan is also immortal. And that neither one of them exists.

 

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Brought to you this week only by Monica Aswaggen.

To The Pointlessness

Eyes on the ground, feet in your ears.

First the sun came up, then clouds chased me around for what seemed like hours, growling. Then I had lunch. Just another average day.

Read that "Kama Sutra" book, but no tailors around here make clothes like that.

Fish do not have feathers. Ever wonder why?

There's an odd sound underneath me. May be coming from my poopy hole. There are days when it gets lonely and needs attention.

Fuzz — got way too much around the house, and the bank won't let me keep it in my savings account. Something's wrong here — very wrong.

 

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Me? Saw another TRex in the back garden today, eating my neighbor. (Must be Wednesday.)

Convince Me Once

When face huggers hit the toad — what then?

Quantity time for sale. Big lots. Buy it by the decade. Get yours now. Quality not guaranteed while sale lasts.

The hut zone caps afternoon entertainment with nibbles from the Koran and moistened grain finger soaks. Admission: Confession of one or more recent sins.

First, an undertaker swaps identities with a straight-talking rock band, and only too late discoverers that there is no such thing, leaving him, her, or it overtaken by events. What a deal, eh?

Close, but no hand grenade — we're automated here.

Convince me once (just once), that the vague cassette object in your pants pocket has a dance ratio of greater than one. (In case that means anything.)

Call me Trud. I deserve it. Meanwhile, I'm working on a name for my first-born. Something like "Advance To The Kitchen Schmidkunz". Or maybe "Death In The Dungeons Jones"? How about "Remember The Depths Abercrombie"? Would "Accepting The Darkness McTavish" inspire confidence in middle school students? Would their parents ever develop trust in "Sounds Of The Country Swenson"? And I know that "Vanish In The Abyss Landsraad" would be good for a certain holiday, but how then about "Lurking In The Elements Deloitte" do? Hmmm?

 

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Me? Still cooking without gas. (Which the neigbors constantly appreciate.)

Howl At The Mood

Barfnozzle: Get yours today. Never leave home without it.

You can't judge a crow by its bar code.

Stand along the rail and try forming at the mouth. Cookies at eleven.

Cut out the mermaid — you can get along without one these days.

Like fodder like some. (Pumpkins don't need to worry about this.)

Next up: Bathing around in the bushes. Can be amusing if you have nothing else to do these days.

It's staining cats and dogs, a possible new business oppty.

Quick on the towel, me. Handy if there are more people than towels. Also polite to you.

High and tidy, going for baroque next week sometime. Wink as I go by.

Often needle-drunk but puncture-proof, giant lyrical list generator (gratis), divergent, satisfying, and quiet. I have other talents too frequent to brag about. Hire me now.

I'm a man of few words, and also a woman, previously a snake.

No ifsands, scuttles, or buts. (Except for Ed, my Mom.)

What goes up must become a towel. Sometimes though, it's a downer. (Didn't we already mention towels?)

 

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Me? Planning to sue some goo. (Stay tuned once.)

LC News, At Your Service

I am the Lonesome Cowboy, tootling on my nose flute, drinking champagne, tinkling in the dust, admiring the dark sky of night, and wishing you were here, so that I could leave but yet know, for certain, that someone true would carry on. And now a fart. Ahhh.

I am the Lonesome Cowboy, whose name is whispered only by a dark night wind, and once, once only, by a lopsided owl.

I am the Lonesome Cowboy, too tall for my boots, too short for a zoot suit. Maybe I'll bake a few pies by candle light and hum a solo tune to the sky.

I am the Lonesome Cowboy. I carry my name written on a card in my pocket, on the off chance that, being alone for so long I might forget it, or, still less likely, that you or someone resembling you will ask for it one day. And so it quietly resides with me until that moment, if ever.

I am the Lonesome Cowboy. Don't got no notches on my gun, just on my belt, cuz I'm a skinny critter. Like to hide behind bushes too, so's I usually stick to brush country, and travel a lot by night to remain unseen, playing my lonesome kazoo to keep me company, but only in the veriest most empty of places, though sing me a happy tune and I'll find someone who can give you a kiss in sincerest exchange.

I am the Lonesome Cowboy. Today might be Tuesday, but in my world all days have the same name: The First of Emptiness. It's just me and my pocket lint. If it weren't for my fuzzy pals in there, life would be pointless. So they do their best to bring me cheer, reliably as always.

 

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Me? Pondering the issues of banking while disguised as a hamster. Thoughts?

Please To Take Good Advice

Mwambe Twambo can help your fine self too, sir!

I saw this question and answer recently on an internet newsletter. It must be accurate and true because it was on the internet. And in a newletter. And written by a guy whose whole name has only two (but two very manly) syllables.

Another guy, 65 had just retired with limited money. How could he get by on it?

The Expert: "If all I had was $100,000 in an IRA, and I was worried that America could no longer give me the comfortable retirement I wanted, I would invest in gold, move some of my assets overseas, and work on creating a second active income. If you are in this situation, I recommend you consider a plan such as this."

Lessee, the plan in a nutshell is, take the $100,000 and:

• Buy $40,000 of gold coins
• Buy an empty $40,000 lot in Nicaragua
• Create an internet business with the other $20,000 and hope to make money

Let's call this the Position Of Sensibility or POS Plan, for short.

Sounds great but I couldn't do all of it in one go, so here's where I'm at.

I did buy several bags of gold coins recently. I wanted to hurry up and get in before the price crashed through the floor.

And you know? It turned out better than I could ever have expected. Here's the deal.

I thought the coins were kind of light, several bags full and all, and when I got home from the supermarket (where I bought them) I discovered that each and every one of these coins has chocolate inside. Talk about a deal!

So as long as I keep them cool (preferably frozen to preserve freshness) I'm in Cocoa Butter Fat City. I can buy things with them, take them out of the freezer and play with them, or if the global situation gets truly desperate and nobody wants gold anymore (Hard to believe, right?), I can always eat them and get a pleasant sugar rush.

I'm trying to negotiate for a piece of dirt in Nicaragua so I can bury my IRA statements there, and meanwhile I found this really helpful guy in Nigeria who is willing to get me started with an internet business for only $20,000. Very neat.

So good advice there, Mr. Financial Expert Man. I guess this is why you rate a logo with curlicues and such.

Well, gotta go and massage the cramps in my leg for a while. See y'all.

Captain A? Is that you over there?

Captain Anonymous, the singleton's hero, was today awarded the Nobel Prize for contributions to Unnamed Achievements, and actually did attend the awards ceremony, but no one could recognize him so they gave his medal to the cat.

Captain Anonymous, a friend in need. Of recognition, but no one can find him.

I once knew Captain Anonymous, before he became unknown. Now I don't, of course, not any more.

If Captain Anonymous were to become your pen pal, he'd sign his letters with a slight, tired exhalation.

Captain Anonymous, standing tall for nothing in particular. Ever vigilant, outside of nap time. Mostly quiet and unassuming. Never seen alone, or with others.

If Captain Anonymous were real, he'd be made of marshmallow, and covered in chocolate sauce, and good to lick, but you probably wouldn't want to even then.

If I were Captain Anonymous, I wouldn't tell you, preferring to let you guess, though you'd probably never think to try.

 

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Me? Don't know yet. Check back in another decade or two.

Straight Up News From Bushbunnyland

Hey. I can drag my own peanut.

Brought home a box. Had a cat in it. Must have been on short rations. First thing was to eat all the neighbors, but we get along just fine. Thursday is pizza and beer night, and we watch TV, Bengal T. and me.

I remain handy with tweezers but seldom say so, you know. Well — until next Thursday, that's all for now.

I haven't seen Professor Schmidt lately. I think she may be out running with the wolves. Or the ants got her.

Fuzzy Bob ate my monkey. Leastways he says he did. Someone did, even the monkey says so. Who am I to judge?

Ants are notoriously bad at keeping secrets. An ant told me that. It was supposed to be a secret, but now I know too. See?

Got fuzz stuck up my nose again. Looks like giraffe this time. Odd to be sure, since we haven't had one come through the house for at least a month.

 

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Me? Found another ransom note in my underwear drawer.

It Wont Hurt At All

I am the Lonesome Cowboy. I often amble the nighttime streets looking for kitties to tickle, just because.

Never tickle a TRex, even a dead one. My sister can tell you all about it. No, wait. Not any more. Come back some other time.

Tickle your nipples every now and then. You might be surprised at what happens among your bystanders.

My cousin Randolph played Left Tickle on the high school team. She was a year younger, but quite a bit beefier, and no one ever messed with her, so much more true now since she turned pro.

I'm working on a new crypto-currency that I'm calling "TiklBits", and it isn't virtual, as you might expect these days, just cryptic. You put a few into your pants pocket and wait for things to happen.

Chef Tooth le Tooth is now accepting new clients. Will brush your hair and give you a good tickling before cooking and eating you. Will also provide a postmortem review if you need something like that on your headstone.

 

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Me? Still yawning from my nap last year.

Tommy

I used to have a friend named Tommy Tourniquet. His mother was the former Sister Torquemada. Some called her twisted, but she got things done.

Had spider webs for breakfast. Sugar-frosted spider webs. I have the spiders in a jar for later. Right at the moment I'm on a low-protein, bug-free diet. Can't wait until it's over, and I don't have to sit and talk to the spiders any more.

Leafy greens were never my friends. Friends don't make you shit like a crazy dog. I hate dogs. Don't even like dog food any more.

Why do shoes have tongues? Pretty kinky, don't you think? (This thought brought to you by Melvin Mortvedt.)

High School cafeteria food — just found some on the sole of my shoe. I believe it's been there since 1967, I do.

The woman of my dreams knows how to lick her glass like she means it. And maybe drink beer through a straw stuck up her nose. If she can handle that, she might be able to handle me. And then there's the licking part to consider.

 

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Me? Tried the whole "I'm a little teapot, short and stout" thing — not really for me yet.

Put Five On Red

My grandma was a German-Russian sumo wrestler. Rare species. Had a short career, measuring 4'8". Lots of hair on her five tits. Tended to be scary.

I have five fingers on each hand but no arms. I need arms. (No suckers please.) Will write about you in my will.

It's hard trying to write about fives, if you never learned to count. Well, I myself did learn to count, but not past two. When I turned two I had to go work in the mines. Been at it ever since and still have some of my teeth.

If I've told you once, I've told you at least five times, and I still can't remember what it was. Maybe more beer will help.

Q: What's between four and six? A: My afternoon nap.

As for my grandfather, he was a turnip farmer, mostly. Walked with a slight limp due to the turnip he always carried in his hip pocket. Wore five pairs of glasses "All the better to see you with, Young 'un." Couldn't even find his way home by feel when he wore them. Grandma used to beat him with a flyswatter. It was her trump card, and he didn't know the difference anyway. Thought it was like the Ace of Bugs or something. Never made it big in the turnip business either.

 

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Me? Decided to buy a hamster. This whole leasing thing is only a racket.

Rabyt

Bunny Hump, both a sport and a landmark.

Uncle Benny is now recruiting for a 30-bugle band of tootling-marchers. Must be able to tootle while upright and look good in a bunny suit, or be able to fake it. So far, only one bunny showed up, so we've got an extra outfit, but if you're the only additional volunteer, you'll need to resemble 29 bunny-suited stomping marchers playing 29 other bugles and making them honk in time to the beat. (One free lunch provided to qualified applicant.)

Captain Anonymous is also recruiting, for replacement members of his decades-old Gran Zipping Orchestra. (Bring your own zipper, tuned to Z-sharp. Also, if you're a drinker, bring your own coffee — we provide the cups. Official bunny suit mandatory, plus license to wear it.)

Ever drive past Bunny Hump, Nevada? Many things are actually legal in that state.

There is no 1789 law about chocolate bunnies and espionage. The law dates from 1788 ½ and covers only chocolate-covered bunny suits and the people who might be in them, but only if they're up to something fishy.

She had a nun in the oven, and it made for a tense supper, though the fried chocolate bunny heads were scrumptious.

 

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Me? Went fishing for fishy things, and got flushed. Too much sun at once, too big a drain hole.

Thursdays

After four days last week I ran out of paint, so Thursday, Friday, and Saturday just had to go commando.

Fridays were always difficult for me, so I eliminated them from my calendar. One effect is that I get old a lot faster. My year doesn't have all those useless days on it, and it's a bunch of fun to show up for appointments on odd days. "The 25th? No, that's a Tuesday, at least according to my calendar, and I have to nap then. What's yours say? Thursday or something?"

I don't know about you but I'm damn tired of being abducted by aliens — ruins my sleep something fierce, though the anal probing can be fun from time to time if not taken to excess (keeps me regular too). But hey, every single Thursday night?

If it weren't for Thursdays I don't know where I'd put all my anxieties.

It was as enlightening as a week of Thursday evenings spent home alone in the dark.

Well, actually, the first time I saw you, I did in fact assume that you were a wastebasket, so I guess I should apologize for those used coffee grounds and all, so how about if we try it next Thursday following my afternoon nap?

 

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Me? Someone deflated me while I was sleeping. Woke up all flat and wrinkly. No one noticed.

So, Girls

Dad said he wanted to run his first marathon. But we convinced him that because he's dead they wouldn't even let him register. Plus — the smell. So now he's hanging out by the grade school. Likes to leer at the 8-year-olds. Girls, mostly. No matter how often we bury him he won't quit.

European Stenography Girl. Not the same as European Photography Girl. Both are mostly OK, though one has a serious rubber band fetish. She's quite the snappy one, she.

I've forever wanted to meet a girl like you except for the hairy legs, beard, deep voice, biceps, and those other things. (Life can be so complex.)

Janson Clamps, the girls' gym teacher who once had a crush on me (specifically my head) way back when. Those were the (bandaged) days. I wonder if she still likes to pound rivets on her days off.

Mom confessed that she always wished I was a girl. Maybe that's why she named me Zoltan. Maybe not. So yeah, I did wonder why people snickered when they met me. But the dresses were ever so tasteful, so it must have been something else.

Grill fries girl. Girl fries grill. Fries grill girl. One of these cannot be right, just cannot.

 

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Me? Still waiting for permission.

Dootles

So two guys walk into a bar and they both get bloody noses. Two days later they decide to walk into a brick wall in case the first time was a fluke. Mom says I need a new hobby. And bandages.

There's a sale on Freds over by Fred Meyer. Buy one, get a free cookie. Probably better than the TooferOne wall deal down by Walmart, or the discount shears at Sears, the Three-for-A-Penny promotion at J.C.P., the Double-Or-Nothing Woolly-Mammoth-Excavate-It-Yourself at F.W. Woolworth or the Slightly-Used Cancer Ward Special at Montgomery Ward. Possibly.

I am the Lonesome Cowboy, tapping away along alley walls past midnight, a slight but fading taste of beer still on my lips, hoping to find a last final star yet in the sky to whisper to, briefly, before I yield to sleep.

Captain Obvious has been building a wall around his property. He has 14 square inches of turf he calls his own over by the storm sewer drain, next to the discarded fruit peels. Since he is slow to over-commit, the wall is built of sugar cubes, a prototype of sweetness.

Of what use would a wall comprised solely of used overcoats be, assuming that each was thoroughly dry-cleaned?

Never had much use for walls, except for that once, during the staring-contest mania days. My angle? Paint a couple of eyes on your wall, challenge the first dooter you see, then go home for a nap.

 

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Me? Passed the tuber this morning.

Day Broke Me Too

Scudge and Futt, my onliest last two friends. Been there since childhood. Selling their garbage business to go into heavy equipment pastry.

Monkeys have been seen running things lately, and people are beginning to notice. And more monkeys too.

Many shoes found under the bed, all left-handed, whispering to each other as they were served tea.

Snails have been proven effective as college professors, though there's still that slime issue that won't go away. But we're used to it.

Monetary incentives do not apply to monetary ranges because they don't care, and can't spell.

Day broke. Again. Good thing the broom is in good working order. But there is that strange smell around the edges. Someone please investigate.

 

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Me? Anything new out there? (As if.)

Show Off

My job as a wood dresser consisted mainly of putting paper stockings on table legs. I was fired for my incessant farts of delight. Plus frequent masturbation sessions.

Sidekickers are like pot stickers but made of vulcanized rubber and other petroleum products, and may include gravel, dead bugs, unwashed laundry, linen handkerchiefs, dandruff, slag, artificial coloring, and mud. For best results, never inflate yourself above 2psi.

The sun came up today and then went back down. It heard that you were nearby. So, dark all day. Nothing but a vague sizzling sound from out east somewhere. Good day for napping. Feel free to leave soon.

Only turtles know the loneliness of being turtle, though they still make good soup. No idea how they remember the recipe. Maybe it's tattooed on their nodules, out of sight somewhere, and whispers quietly to them in the dark.

Am laying in a supply of air against rumors of a coming shortage. Not cheap, but where you going to get any when the factory shuts down? Also horse hair, for similar reasons.

I knew a guy once. His name was Don. He became a professional Lutheran and I don't know him any more. Kind of how it goes around here.

Glad to say that my crotch still works. Not everyone can. I show it off at every opportunity.

 

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Me? Getting a kick out of this, usually from people I don't want to know.

Moist, Creamy, Possibly Wholesome

Follow your pottery wherever it leads you. Unless it's into my yard.

What is my home country known for? Exports of (1) Toilet paper. (2) Bulldozer blades. (3) A sort of stale, musty smell. (4) Water vapor. (5) Distant hooting sounds. (On Thursdays.)

Did your cat ever eat the neighbor lady? That could have been my mother. Assuming that you are who I think you are. Anyhow, you still need to return that phillips screwdriver you borrowed in 1972. I need it now more than ever.

Most coins have two sides, very rarely one. Now I found one in my junk drawer that has three. I do not know how they do these things. Do not. And it's watching me.

Moist, creamy goodness, spread thickly. Eat it or smear it, you can never go wrong. Unless it's something that came out of the cat. (Either end.)

Uncle Tiddly finally found the ashtray. In the car. Under the seat. Where I've been hiding. Which means that I have to move again. So unfair.

 

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Me? Recently committed. Still have to find out where though.

Flakes

At what age did you first realize that you were sexually attracted to corn flakes? (Post Toasties, of course — we're not perverts.)

How many tries does it take you to count your toes and consistently come up with an even number greater than two?

Got hair? If so, please tell us where you store it and how you keep bugs out of it.

Did your mother (a) name you, or (b) brand you?

Do you ever find yourself having deep philosophical arguments with fence posts?

What is your position on air?

 

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Me? Recently found unconscious on the ceiling.

Boomba

Crummy day. The bread truck exploded. Made me fart. I usually don't do that so early in the day.

Pretty noisy place. Every time someone talks another beer mug explodes. Interesting new concept in the world of Protestant churches.

My love, Echinoia Eeeps, gave me a roast. She was disappointed though, because when the fire died out I was still moving. And, in fact, I haven't quit yet. Currently at an undisclosed location until she finds a hobby that is easier for me to live with.

I am the Lonesome Cowboy, sitting by the campfire with a tin cup of black coffee in my hand. Or I was until the janitor came by and said I couldn't have fires in the hallway. Made me put out the fire and leave the building. Cowboy life — not for everyone.

Blue turned to Red and said 'How do you do it?' 'Stay fired up,' said Red.

From on high the snarl of twin turbo diesels and drifting tendrils of earth-hugging house smoke say that this is going to be another productive day of strafing for Leslie Zeppelin.

Captain Anonymous took flying lessons when he was seven, but later put them back where he found them, and never told anyone. Now you know, but you didn't hear it from us, understand?

 

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Me? Spent way too much time this week counting my fingers.

By The Light Of A Burned-Out Match

I am the Lonesome Cowboy. I've devoted my life to swearing, drinking, and kitty-cats. Find me on alt.cowboys.com (P.S. I wear purple underwear — matches my six-shooter.)

I am the Lonesome Cowboy, a face like autumn, a smile like sunset, an occasional tear reminiscent of a cold winter moon, riding endlessly toward what I do not know, still solitary save, every now and then, an hour spent at the laundromat, my last and only social life.

I am the Lonesome Cowboy. My boots are tight and my determination is weak. I am sitting still under a hazy sky, lacking even a reason to breathe, except for the involuntary gasping.

I am the Lonesome Cowboy. I have thirteen pairs of boots, twelve to get me where I'm going and one to keep kicking myself in the behind so's I keep moving. And a cat. I have a cat too, name of Beeline. Beeline the Feline. Got a real good appetite that one — a good eater there. We sing songs by moonlight, on the prairie, where nobody knows our names, cuz they'd laugh. (Beeline the Feline? WTF anyway?) But not many cats can read me to sleep at night, and I like that quite especially, so we're pardners. In the traditional sense of course. Don't ya see now how it can all work out?

I am the Lonesome Cowboy. I wear a hat but dress in dreams. My words are like silence itself. I live at large, crossing vast continents of thought, ever seeking that which cannot be found. Good thing I have a kazoo to defend against long eternities of boredom.

I am the Lonesome Cowboy. If you were me and I were you, could we tell? I fear I would pay you as little heed then as you pay me now, so listen: Can you hear me? Would you ever want to? Would you walk the lonely streets of endless night, lighting candles here and there, only to prove, to yourself, that you still exist? Or not? Who can say? I cannot. I know how only I can sing only then and again, under the dark of the moon, to my lonely self.

 

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Me? Mulling it over for now.

Panther!

Panther: That clath of animalths that can crawl up your panth.

Got several kinds of animals following me around. Maybe I'll call it a parade. Might start a zoo. Most of them are flies. Don't know yet how much I might charge for admission.

I ate a small animal, a former friend, bringing its life to an end and its utility to a new degree until tomorrow, when I set it free again.

We had a good rain yesterday. We needed some. My neighbor, Ed, got a chance to try out his new ark. It went pretty well considering that it was his first time at the helm, and it's so big and all, and hard to find a parking place for, but he still got a ticket when the current caught him and swept the whole thing through that strip mall. Scared all the cattle and most of the other animals, but at least they were out in the fresh air for a change. I can't wait until it all happens again.

Yeah — Headaches and Diarrhea — my two best friends these days. They go with me everywhere, even to the zoo. The animals are amused

I am the Lonesome Cowboy, endlessly traveling alone, without a friend, even a pet, since I'm allergic to animals. All of them, except my accountant and tax adviser, Squeaky. Squeaky the Hamster, whom I carry in my vest pocket, so I always have professional advice close at hand. And can keep an eye on things. Never trust a hamster. Never trust anyone.

 

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Me? Not — repeat — not responsible for that relentless itch you get from reading this.

Plant One For Me

Mom said I should plant ferns in my ears but I don't know why. So anyhow, they kind of tickle.

Why is it that plants like to eat shit? Mom never explained that to me and Dad only drank beer and the cat only napped.

The leaves of autumn have found a home in my closet, and I can't say why,* although they do add a certain counterbalance to my bargain-basement nubbin collection. * Sorry — undisclosable contractual obligation at work here.

Extraneous ants have taken up residence among my tropical plants. I shall move soon lest they find tempting my baggy, thrice-pleated pants.

Captain Automatic prefers his underwear to have a sturdy elastic band in it, preferably running horizontally, and easily removable whenever the urgent need for a slingshot arises, which also necessitates the need to carry a Y-shaped stick, a little leather pouch (handy for some other things as well) and a pocket full of stones. But no permit needed, so that makes up for some of the inconvenience. As always, though, don't forget your pants. No pro leaves home without them.

I do have nice pointy bits out on the tips of my leaves. Want to come over and get poked?

 

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Me? Found a kazoo stuck in my butt this morning. Saw the cat smirking. Makes me wonder.

Love, and Eeeps

My love, Echinoia Eeeps, was field-stripping one of the family tractors when she got a great idea. Why not rip out the supercharger and transplant it into a human? Get more work out of them. I declined to be the subject on the grounds that I'm at least part weasel, and she actually bought that. And then she bought a weasel trap. My gal — nearly always not more than a half step behind, if that.

My love, Echinoia Eeeps, has been cooking bakies, to see what effect doing things in reverse has on results. So far, she's said "Hello" when I've left the family bunker, and wished me "Goodbye" as I've arrived, but the biggest effect on my bowel habits has, by far, been due to her cooking.

My love, Echinoia Eeeps, sent me a package. The last time she did this, it exploded. Destroyed the house. She told me that I was simply too clumsy to deserve sympathy. And should get in some quality practice time on one of her dummy packages.

My love, Echinoia Eeeps, wants to specialize in high school reunions and mortuary services. She can do both, as well as pest control, which has been working wonders on me.

My love, Echinoia Eeeps, gifted me a dead rat to remember her by, and I will, if I know what's good for me, though this one is not going into the soup. Been there. Et that. Got in a bit of gagging practice.

My love, Echinoia Eeeps, invited me to dinner with her family on Saturday, if I'm willing to bring the food. Otherwise, we all have to spend the evening staring into each other's eyes and checking our watches a lot.

 

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Me? Always grateful to have been born with so many fingers.

Right On The Box

Some old guy followed me home. Said he just wanted a few cookies. So I cleaned out my browser cache and dumped everything into his socks.

Some old guy followed me home. Wanted to know if I had any bananas in my pants. Said he was with the fruit police and needed to see the evidence. Nope — just avocados.

Some old guy followed me home. Said he was looking for his teeth. Thought I might have a clue since I was riding a chopper.

Some old guy followed me home. Claimed to be Santa Claus. Asked me to sit on his lap and tell him all my secrets, but I couldn't, not with all these avocados in my pants.

Some old guy followed me home. Looked suspiciously suspicious. Some people are like that. So I put a bag over his head and called out the tigers, Bowser and Nagasaki. They have a way of sneaking up on the truth, but today it was only scattered remains.

Some old guy followed me home. Purported to be a physicist on the trail of a fundamental discovery. I guess I forgot to cover my neutrino leakage again, but managed to stuff him into the recycling bin just before the truck arrived on its way to the black hole.

Some old guy followed me home. Desperately needed to know something but couldn't remember what. I pulled out my dictionary and showed him "what", but he didn't have his reading glasses and claimed I was making things up. No, not "things" — "what", I said. But by then he was already on first, so it was a tie game — WTF — I just fed him to the tigers and done with it. At least they're happy when this happens. A fed tiger is a happy tiger. (It says so on the box.)

 

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Me? Someone sent me a bag of monkeys. What a surprise. Yip.

Lonesome Cowboy: Dao of the Balloon Girl

I am the Lonesome Cowboy, and my pants are tight, so I often leave them behind. After the wedding I had cake, out back, off the basement, near the dumpster, alone.

I am the Lonesome Cowboy, continually avoiding each and every pitfall and entrapment that life sets for me alone, plus my sock puppet and sole companion Charlene.

I am the Lonesome Cowboy, drifting through life without a care, or a single friend who knows my name. (It's Ferdinand, or at least that's what Mom told me, on her deathbed. She choked while eating grapes.)

I am the Lonesome Cowboy, endlessly kicking balls of lint down the dryer vent of life, all alone except for my 10-gallon hat, my trusty six-shooter, and my cat Puff.

I am the Lonesome Cowboy, looking for the raindrop I once had, once kept as a pet, as a boy, carefully folded in my handkerchief, but now it is no longer there, and it was my single best friend, ever.

I am the Lonesome Cowboy, and I have hair on my tits. Manly, lonesome hair. My tit hair is long and curly and black. I am not a bleached blond tit-hair sort of guy, not me. And I wouldn't tell you if I was, neither. And don't ask, likewise.

 

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Me? Searching for that last lit candle so that I can snuff it.

Woman

A woman without an artichoke is like a bicycle without a fish.

Geez — a woman just kissed me. How am I supposed to eat lunch now. #SlobberyCheekEd

I did buy an inflatable woman but she turned out to be like all the others. Pretty soon no matter how careful you are, all the air leaks out, and then your friends start asking those same difficult questions again.

I just saw a fish go by on a bicycle, followed by a woman without a man. We truly live in an age of miracles, my friend, miracles.

I met a woman named Kathryn Desmonfescu Furtzwangler Schmidtjohnsson Mugabutulala Foogeewoogee. She was just sitting around in the park wondering what to do for an encore. I didn't know either, so I offered her a cookie. (Couldn't hurt, right?) She took it in her beak and flew off, leaving a small pile of poop on my right shoe. Things like this frequently happen on Thursdays and I should be grateful for the diversion, I think.

I quit being a Christian when the pastor left his family and ran off with a fresh woman. The lesson: Just Do It. I took notes.

I saw an old woman today but she didn't see me. No shots were fired.

Met a nice woman, Lisette Laundrette. She's a clean freak.

Met a woman. Named Fernly. Likes catnip and moose casserole. Has an advanced degree in something or other beyond my comprehension. Can't stand me either.

Saw a woman today. They're rare in these parts. I forgot how big their horns get. Better not to mess with them. You always regret it.

So — everyone here seems to recognize me for some reason. The woman asked me why I don't call her "Mom" any more. I can't help but wonder what's up with that.

That naked woman you saw me with yesterday? That was my Dad. There's probably a story there somewhere.

The woman looks around the room with her eyes so dark as though she forgot to recharge them last night.

Wow — I saw a really lovely woman today. Too bad she saw me first. Impressive sprinting abilities though. That babe can MOVE!

I got here on time and she was late, not here, so now what? It's times like these that I long for my sock puppet, Angeline, who knows all about women and the sociable graces (Melanie and Joan) and how to handle them. Melanie, Angeline, and Joan make a formidable trio — too many to arm wrestle and win against, too few to consider a hostile army, yet so decisive in battle scenarios, and, at times, witheringly snotty in a way that I will never be able to cope with, so, perhaps I ought to take my box of coupons down to Mart d'Wally and purchase a posse of non-girly sock puppets with whom I could more indubitably relate to, even to the extent of dipping them into my beer before wringing them out over my mouth, thus strengthening that guy-on-guy bond much desired by all sock puppet aficionados (except the girly girls).

 

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Me? Had another lizard follow me home.

Flowers On Demand

God is having a one-deity show over at the community art gallery. Watercolors, flowers and kittens, stuff like my sister's dog can do. But still, there is excitement in the air, and a few lightning bolts. Smells of self-promotion.

Marvin Minsky — flower variety or intestinal parasite?

Ralph composted himself. Said he's doing it for the flowers. Screw the flowers. We need better carrots. Go, Ralph, get on it. Now.

The flowers are in bloom again. And they're hungry. One nipped me in the bud as I walked by.

Uncle Benny recycles cauliflower. It's been a hobby of his since he was sentenced to prison as a five-year-old. He would have done better to stick with grand larceny, you ask me.

What ever happened to flower power? I love that stuff. Been running my TV on it since 1969. Only problem is an occasional burst of pollen when I watch porn, but I can handle it. Truly. I can.

 

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Me? Gone to seed. Again.

Struggling To Get Organized

I bought a whole bag of dickey-clips yesterday. Who says I have attachment problems?

I checked my expiration date last week (I have to do that a couple of times a year so I don't goof up). All OK so far. I've got between seven seconds and 30 years to go. Am working on refining the precision of that estimate so I don't keel over in the middle of snack time, leaving half a plate of cookies uneaten, and spilling my beer.

I created a blog post. It's for my cat, Blog. He likes to scratch stuff. Hence the post. For Blog, my cat.

I got to third base with Louella. She's one hot potato. I baked her myself. Then got disqualified for playing baseball with a baked potato. Went home, and ate her anyway.

I grew up in an environment rich in ceramic air strikes. Mom liked throwing dishes and other crashy things.

I hogtied my teacher and stuffed her into the closet. When I was five. I should check on her one of these days. Now that I'm retired and have the time.

I just received a note from Mom. It surfaced as they were digging her up. She died a few years back but they forgot to perform the exorcism at that time, which is why the shovel work took place this week. So anyway, the note — it says "Please, whatever you do, you dumb fuck, don't let them bury me in the dirt." Not signed, but it sure sounds like what Mom would write. I'll have to give this one some thought. Maybe.

 

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Me? Recounting my toes. (Just to be real sure.)

Frenzy Dust

You've heard of the man who mistook his wife for a hat? Well I didn't. She's my sister and I can't get away from her. Ed is lucky. (That's her husband.) He's seriously delusional most days and loving it, as far as anyone can tell, so it doesn't really matter what sort of hat issues he's dealing with. Or not. And anyway, he's not either quick enough or strong enough to wrassle my sister when she's up on top of his noggin. She's a fighter, she is, and a bit on the hefty end even since the operation. (The one to remove those six cats from her arms). She's just been laying around since then, putting on weight, pondering her revenge, no doubt. The cats are all OK though it was dicey peeling off the velcro that my sister put on them (and herself) to prevent premature separation. And the twine. She used twine too, and tape (double-sided). It was a mess for all concerned, but she never did look the least bit like a hat, not with all those cats stuck to her, and maybe even less so now with all the tape residue, so maybe this will turn out all right.

You know, the problem with you is that you're talking to me, which is a bit disturbing. If you, for example, just tried turning around and walking away, I bet we'd both feel better immediately.

Woofton Huffsey, Accomplice Fer Hire.

Gummint — what's it good for? Like the U.S. Department of Liver, the U.S. Treachery Department, the U.S. Virgin General (well, maybe...), the United States Toast Guard, or the United States Maurine Corps.

Furniture for Lefties at the Crown Prince Of Wicker discount warehouse.

Today is the day they put the balloons back into the bag. I can't express how this makes me feel.

 

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Me? Can't wait for something. Bye.

Pablo The Posterfaced

A mouse ran past, a look of fear in its beady eyes. Then I realized my socks didn't match. Maybe I should add pants too.

A new epoch and a new notebook. It's empty, so I guess I don't have a life yet.

A sign at the restaurant went up. It says either that they'll be open Sundays, or that they will continue not to be open on Sundays, depending on what happens next. Unsure about this, I asked one of the flies, but it was too busy bumping into the windowpane to address my concerns.

A sneaker's handful of dripping leeks.

Landline college, my almost mater.

Lard Portion #9. Try some. It goes down easy.

Larry Parallel, licensed parking instructor.

Captain Desperate rides the omnibus with his Adversity Lizard in hand.

I always thought I'd look better if I wore more pants. Maybe next week. Most of my legs are out for repair at the moment.

And I always wanted a steam locomotive, though I eventually settled for steamed vegetables.

That's about enough for now, innit? Keep checking the poster for further instructions.

 

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Me? Unaccountably smelling something like cheese this week.

Blue Bottle Blues

"The": Pronounced "the", but a little more heavy-set than you would normally expect, is a girl's name, if she was genetically destined to be a professional wrestler or concrete crusher. I knew several. Knew them well enough to know to avoid on sight. To quietly slip into the bushes and cower.

Snotty. Slippery knots. Slimy nots. Slottery Snits. Always naughty. Also, the fifth sibling of the Durgle family, the others being Evil Emil, Immoral Laurel, Corrupt Casey, and Unclean Eugene. Close friends of my uncle's next-door-neighbor's son's daughters Girl Scout Obergruppenführer's second cousin. They all grew up to be piggy bank stickup artists.

As a builder of concrete things, I needed forms, so I tried adopting a human one, but it ran away. And no one wanted me as a custom-built wall anyhow.

Even after proving the concept unworkable, my family continued to specialize in tug-of-water contests. I still have wet feet.

If you can't stand the kitchen at least you can get out of the heat. Always a handy excuse.

"Reply Mere Elbow" said the note in the bottle. I pretended to be deaf in the eyes because though still afraid of them, I never accept commands from bottles, and placed it back into the toilet where I found it.

I was hoping to crucify myself this weekend but the do-it-yourself-kit didn't arrive on time. Another Corroded Virus #19 casualty. We watched TV and drank beer instead. And had a nice nap together on the floor. Maybe a lucky break after all, even though beer makes the cat fart.

If you want something done right, pay someone to do it. That way, if it goes wrong anyhow, you still have something done in a half-assed way, which is average, but done, and also someone to blame. Very cool, and you don't have to get your hands dirty.

 

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Me? Still trying to hang by my thumbs.

Still Waiting For AI-Enabled Tweezers

A dog followed me home. Now I know where I live but I don't know how to ditch the dog. He wants money. What do I do?

"Mommy's Gonna Whup Ya". New reality TV show about a family of arm wrestlers, infected ectoplasm, and destiny. And bad tattoos.

Am thinking of returning to school. Something went sideways about halfway through first grade and maybe a do-over might be a decent option to pursue before I retire and lose the opportunity forever.

"Monkey Butt" is an actual thing. You can have mine if you want it.

A few days back I was run over by a tank, driven by my cat, Ed. I still don't know where he got the thing, but he certainly could use some driver training.

A guy just walked in with a bucket of flies. He claims they're pets, but was unable to tell me their names. #StillSuspiciousHere

A guy started talking to me. Says we met once. Could be. I never remember anyone I've met once. Because what's the point then?

Among my people, rice has traditionally been used as a weapon. So I carry some in my pockets, everywhere, always cocked.

 

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Me? Still on fire, somehow.

Must Look That Up

Pussy rockets. (Something about cats and stuff. Cats celebrating. Do they do that? Could be dangerous in the wrong paws.)

"Austerity" means never having to say you've got what it takes.

"Cheaper by the shovelful" applies to both food and manure.

"Don't you like people?" she said. "A few," I replied, dabbing my lips with a napkin. "But the really good ones have gotten too expensive to bother with."

"Winkle-puffery". Must look that up.

Thursdays — I never could quite get the hang of Thursdays, so I moved to a place that doesn't know about them.

30-word poet.

I once wanted to be like my grandmother when I grew up, but not as wrinkly.

A cousin of mine became a minister. He spent his whole working career doing that. Now he's retired and he still hasn't caught on.

A dog followed me home. Not the usual either — this was a guy in a dog suit. Seemed nice enough otherwise. but I decided to play it safe and shot him anyway.

A phalanx of wiggly things ate the cat again. Happens every Thursday and Tuesday but he's still not used to it.

Meanwhile, I hear another serious outbreak of typing growing nearer.

 

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Me? All the air went out of my apple overnight.

Moonlight Snodda

I am the Lonesome Cowboy, a gaunt and solitary figure you may notice way back in the shadows of your dreams, if those are the dreams you have, and you live alone without friends, without family, without even a place to call your own, or a cat named Puff, if it ran away last week. (...to be discontinued...)

I am the Lonesome Cowboy, and I have found that all roads lead to nowhere, alone, without exception, and I have socks in my pockets.

I am the lonesome Cowboy, chasing squirrels around the park while waiting for my moped to be repaired, singing a plaintive song, avoiding unavoidable uncomfortable eye contact, uncomfortably.

I am the Lonesome Cowboy, herder of cats, collector of lint, entrepreneur of small victories in tiny spaces.

I am the Lonesome Cowboy, resting, leaning gently against the shed, stroking my face mask by moonlight, accompanied by Ed, my only pal, a cat with permanent traces of mouse breath.

I am the Lonesome Cowboy. I stagger at noon and fart at the moon and don't get many dates at all. None in fact. I wonder why — I wash my socks every fortnight, come hell or flying tunafish. Tunafish, now. How do they manage?

I am the Lonesome Cowboy. I watch over you with binoculars (7x, multi-coated, tripod-mounted), and I never sleep.

 

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And me? Why do you ask?

Benny Bits

Uncle Benny says he's started collecting cattails. Asked me not to tell the cat. Wants it to be a surprise. Probably will be, for both of them.

Uncle Benny took up cow shaving, but then he doesn't have that many. Plus, he's retired, and all of his wives divorced him and set up a doily factory out east somewhere — so lots of free time to use up all those razors he got from his last hijacking run. Fourteen tons, he says. Good luck, guy.

Uncle Benny gave me a noodle for my last birthday. He said if I'm good, I can expect another one next time around. Other than that there hasn't been much happening around here. I've had to amuse myself by listening to my neighbor clear his throat. The good news is that he does it all day and all night, and drowns out the dog barks. The bad news is that he needs a tuneup. Or maybe it's the guy with the elephant else.

Whenever I think of Uncle Benny, the first thing that pops into my head is his mustache. He has it mounted in a picture frame, behind bulletproof glass and hanging over the cat feeder. The cat, for one, is highly suspicious, apparently regarding said separated facial shrubbery as an ill omen, and eats only when driven by an extreme need, or in the deep dead dark of night, unless it's the rats that are getting the food. Can't say for sure at this point.

The first memory I have of Uncle Benny is him with his arm stuck in the filler tube of his car's gas tank. All of it, up to the armpit hairs. So far, nothing more interesting seems to have happened over there. Maybe someone should check on him. (I'm busy this decade.)

Uncle Benny never had a chance to join the Boy Scouts, until he turned 45 one day. But they said he was too tall by then, and hadn't finished his sentence yet either. You have to write at least one decent sentence saying why you should be allowed in and his is into its sixth volume already, with no period in sight yet. And he's also 72 now, so maybe that's also a factor, since he's taller than ever.

I've never seen Uncle Benny drive his tractor, though I hear he's pretty good with it, given that he's a non-farmer, and keeps it locked in his bathroom. Some people do that, you know.

Saw Uncle Benny down at the mall, zooming around on a skateboard. Would probably attract less notoriety if he could figure out a way to hold his pants up at the same time, but you know uncles.

 

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Me? Just another dyslexic trying to turn back the crock.

Lonesome News

I am the Lonesome Cowboy and I am wearing my shorts. They have flowers, and pussycats. They smell good and keep me company through long, cold nights spent howling at the moon.

I am the Lonesome Cowboy, a monument to the victimhood of suburban convenience. (To be continued as soon as I understand what that means.)

I am the Lonesome Cowboy, at least for the weekend, but possibly forever, if I can't find a place to catch a bath and do my laundry. I keep asking the cat to pull his own weight but he just goes and has another nap. Still lonesome here.

I am the Lonesome Cowboy, sitting all alone in the dark, on a damp and dreary rain-stained evening, covered in ants, yet again. I swear, I have no idea how this keeps happening.

I am the Lonesome Cowboy, standing alone, in the wind, in the shade, with my tongue stuck to a flagpole, waiting for winter to give me a reason for this.

 

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Me? Oh, well.

Let The Eeeps Moon Shine Gently Upon Us

My love, Echinoia Eeeps, says she wants to exorcise me tonight. At first I thought she said "exercise", and was beginning to get a bit tingly, considering how things went last time we saw a new moon and had an empty pasture all to ourselves, but no — she said "exorcise". And I've become quite skittish about activities requiring red-hot pokers. (Or any kind of poky things, really, at this time of year.)

My love, Echinoia Eeeps, wants to try turdle farming. Her father, Obersturmbannführer Pappy Joe (Bubba) Eeeps, dug her a playtime sewage lagoon with the backhoe and salted it with a few of the family's heritage heirloom pet droppings, handed down through generations. And for my birthday she ordered me a Mattel Mini-Drooper as a starter kit. It's like an ant farm but with turds. Instead of ants. No ants at all. Only turds. (Small ones.)

My love, Echinoia Eeeps, hosted a high school reunion at the family bunker. No one showed up, yet again. The wolves have seemingly succeeded at their mission and can now be retired to the petting zoo. (Be sure to wash your hands first.)

About time to check in on the Eeeps family. My love Echinoia and I have been out of touch for a while. Presumably their raw gopher diet has been treating them well, though with the Eeepses one can never be certain of much aside from occasional furball regurgitation.

If there's one thing I can say for sure, it's that I don't know anything for sure, probably.

My love, Echinoia Eeeps, comes from a family, as you might expect. It's a big one. Up to now I've been unable to count them all, partly because they swirl through family events like a storm of locusts, and partly because they put a bag over my head and throw me into the pool whenever I become deliberate. I will be slightly more comfortable with this when the pool is finished and filled with liquid water. (Rather than the clan rats.) But it's always fun at the Eeeps compound no matter what, and I very seldom come home with lice any more.

My love, Echinoia Eeeps, has a new hobby — making mucilage. She's so good that she'll soon be selling it through the mail. 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. But still fun somehow.

 

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Me? Hiding now. Breathing quietly. So very quietly.

C-19 Bunny Death Edition

Bunnies of death? Yes. It can happen here.

Bunny cake, followed by a case of bunny rot. Count on it.

Does Tufts University have a college of dust bunny engineering, or do I need to look elsewhere? #JustWondering

Dust bunnies are not good to eat.

Gruntle bunnies are.

I am the Lonesome Cowboy, cooking supper for one, in my bunny slippers.

I am the Lonesome Cowboy, real name Earl Floyd Lloyd Putz. By profession I'm a putter. I had a pro shop once, "Putts By Putz". Nobody ever came in. That's why I kept the door locked. If only a few of them started coming in, I would have unlocked the door — even turned on the lights. Would have gotten dressed. (I usually hang out in my bunny jammies until there's a reason not to). So none of that worked, and here I am now, wandering the streets by candlelight, playing my lonesome kazoo.

I craved something sweet which is why I ate the heads off your chocolate Easter bunny collection. My bad, I guess. Yummy too.

I found a dust bunny under my bed this morning. I've been wondering where all the turd lints were coming from.

If you're looking for dust bunnies, I have more than I need. They make great Easter gifts. And when you're done playing with them, you can just shove them back under the bed and let them amuse themselves in the dark.

Little-known fact: Dust bunnies evolved from dinosaurs so they could hide under my bed and chew on my shoelaces.

Mom has a stick full of notches. I have a plate of nachos. The cat has a collection of gotchas, mostly dust bunnies named Alfredo. Clever beast.

My Mom thinks I can take you. The only problem is, she didn't say where, so I'll get back to you after I ask her. She's a sumo wrestler, so look out if she asks to sit on her lap, but you probably won't hear her coming because she always wears bunny slippers.

Right after lunch Ed asked me to blow on him though I didn't, no. I sent him back under the bed without even any friendly tickles. #MyOddFriendEdTheDustBunny

Rodney created a homunculus of of dust bunnies. You know Rodney, right? He's good with bunnies, Rodney is.

Rumplebunny never leaves his bathrobe. That's why

And finally, never underestimate the capabilities of anything that can survive on a diet of cat food.

 

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Me? Sniffing my armpits more than usual these days.

Corroded Virus News

Corroded Virus stole my socks. Last time I ever sleep in this dumpster.

Corroded Virus held a victory parade today. I watched from the balcony but there wasn't much to see since the cat stole my microscope.

Corroded Virus thought it could get the better of us. Good thing I bet my life savings on it. Now I can die rich.

Corroded Virus has been nominated for the YoubeeToobee Awards, most-authentically-viral category. This gooses my fever pitch something fierce.

Corroded Virus is leaving footprints on the Walk of Fame. So far only the flies are getting excited about this. The rest of us are busy puking and sweating.

Corroded Virus String Band. Remember you heard about it here first, if you're still alive tomorrow. And have really good hearing.

Corroded Virus tuna cakes, still faithful to Mom's oldtime recipe. Bite one — discover the unexpected.

Corroded Virus wants to own your nose.

Corroded Virus has a thing for mucus-filled bodily cavities. I myself cannot say that I do, but if I did, you wouldn't hear about it from me, would you?

Corroded Virus would surely appear on the cover of Look magazine, if Look hadn't also died, so very long ago now.

Corroded Virus does not come in designer colors, which must be one reason that people are running away screaming. Well, I am, and that sounds like a reasonable excuse.

Corroded Virus does not replace ice cream sprinkles. Or taste that good.

Corroded Virus dares you to lick me all over.

Corroded Virus never shaves its arm pits. Never washes them either. Think about it next time you lick me all over.

Corroded Virus couldn't be happier. Because it's a virus and has no happy glands. So there is a limit.

Corroded Virus is yet one more epic story of endless success even without a diploma. I should have tried this.

 

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Me? Wordlessly awaiting wonders.

Effeluntings

Facts do not cease to exist because they are ignored. -- Aldous Huxley (dead)

FailureMate tubular tubas. Discounted for the holidays.

Fair trade shade butter. Discounted for ever.

Far out into deep space there was an eclipse, if anyone had been there to see. No one was. More space waste.

Farble Nart, my new friend. One of the eastside Narts, known especially for their handy ways with darts.

Faster joy. None too soon.

Father Potato was a dud. You can't make holidays from a spud.

Fear gas. Got any?

Feat belts.

Feed chunks.

Tropical feet wave.

Ferd baked some bacon back by the bunkhouse to plop into his beans. He's like that.

Fernando began dancing gleefully shortly before bursting into flames and roasting himself right there in the ballroom. Good thing we brought ketchup.

Fernando Poo — no longer a hot tourist destination, if it ever was. My hotel room smelled funny too.

Fernando? You mean Fernando Poo? No, he don't do that here no more.

Fight through it on a Wednesday.

Filter festival.

Finally hit bottom. Had to sell my sister to buy cigarettes and pay my health insurance premium. (Rates just went up.)

Finally. This is the day I've been waiting for. Now I only have to remember why.

Fire monkey.

First day of summer, but since I'm south of the equator, I go down the drain backward, and it's winter too. Damn.

First go the eyes, then the ears. Old age slows me and then the hyenas arrive. Death lunch.

First I saw my reflection in the doorway. Then it turned and walked away shaking its head. Then I did too. We shake alike.

First the rain, and then the rain. No sign of a drystorm blowing in. I guess I'll go back to playing with my lizard.

First the universe popped up. Then it inflated, and now I'm grumpy and have gas.

First things first, always. But which one is that, really? And who's actually going to know? Want a kiss? (I always carry a spare.)

First time I ever ate an entire rosebush was the summer of '62. I was out on parole and had to do something, but times are different now.

First time I ever sewed my lips together. Last night. Not quite sure how that happened. Maybe the cat knows. He likes to watch stuff I do.

First time I ever took a bath was when the ship went down. Lost all the towels in the process. Never want to do that again.

First, nibble a few gnats. Crunch some caddis. Munch a millipede madly, or two. Then, to be safe, brush your teeth briskly.

First, you put your left foot in and shake it all about, after which you break for lunch, change your name, and never come back.

First-rack carbon dating app.

First-rate snake plate.

Fish farts quietly, making bubbly sounds.

Fish Lips to blow bubbles in the 4th, coming in third behind Tuna Gas. All told not a great place to be.

Enough! I've had enough! Someone call the nearest flush monkey.

 

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Me? On the lookout for a better virus.

Lickry

Dad taught me everything he knew. And then he died. Loser — I mean. So I forgot all that and started listening to the cat. Now I can lick my own butt and also have eight more lives in waiting, in case. #No_Loser_Me_Eh?

I covered myself in stamps and sent myself to the lady next door. She has cats. All of them enjoy licking me now.

I never licked Captain Kangaroo, so, did you? Which parts?

I spent some quality time with my new girlfriend today. She's a cat. Nothing serious though. We just both enjoy nibbling mice. And mutual licking of selected furry spots.

Last night I had my first bath in cookie dough, then licked myself clean. Seems like a lot of effort. I don't even like cookie dough. But it was either lick myself for an hour or sit in a 350° oven until brown.

Mom said it's OK with her if I lick you.

That woman who just came in, and our eyes met, who looked away? She doesn't like me. When I asked if I could lick her, she said mean things. I heard them all. Mean.

 

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Me? Resting my tongue this week.

Frankly K

Frank pants? No. Anderson Frangipani pants.

Francine just ate my laundry. I keep asking her to wait until the rinse cycle ends, but she says it ruins the flavor.

Franny got a panny to do her baking in. It was blue and green and crinkly hot and all her cookies exactly hit the spot, etc.

Frantic rants. Can't get enough.

Rildoniss Sporkmaleny, Mom's private exorcist, says that I'm not allowed back in the clubhouse until he can remove all the demons from my wallet. You know — all the dead white guys printed on paper — Washington, Jefferson, Hamilton, Franklin. All the dead. I'm waiting this out, on advice form my pet rat and legal advisor, Beelzebuddy, 3rd Deputy Associate Prince of Semi Darkness (Squeaky Division).

Was it Frank Zappa who said that only assholes get broken hearts? Well, I'm a broken-heart-free non-asshole, despite what Mom says.

Fran said I looked old, so I tried punching her but it didn't take because I'm feeble too. So then she pounded me good. My gal Fran.

In case you weren't paying attention, neither was I.

Insert more frantic rants about here.

There was a sale on smoked hermans this week, and though I do enjoy them, I'm currently dallying with caramelized francines.

I've formally retired from all lost opportunities.

Zoot Fooky.

The End.

 

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Me? I'm buying two this time. Still not sure of what. (Could be worse.)

Unidentified Flying Monkeys

Birds walk funny but it's considered impolite to say anything about it. Ask me. I had a bird punch me in the nose when I pointed and started laughing. His name is Al and he's a big sucker. No nonsense kinda flocker. Maybe I'll hire him as a bodyguard. In a pinch I could always eat him.

Feathers up your nose. New fashion statement. Not popular with birds.

If I were 10 feet tall I could inspect your scalp for lice, or bird droppings.

It looks like today is the day for the annual worm parade. It's a big deal in these parts, given the local songbird population and the general slow pace of life. Also a good time to replace worn-out pets if you enjoy the legless kind.

It's the first of the month and my birdseed allotment will be along shortly. Gotta keep my pecker happy.

Noticed UFOs hovering near bird feeder today. The feathers do not fool me one bit.

First the hordes of flying monkeys, then the dust tornadoes, now the Wicked Witch is selling Girl Scout cookies and I have the sort of headache that only cookies will cure.

Fly fishing with Ghengis Khan.

Fly music.

Flying tuna? Yes, shortly after lunch. It crashed into the gutter right after it left my stomach.

Friday saw the last flyby of flugelhorns for this year. (Possibly, according to Mr Postlethwaite.)

Have you seen an unusually large number of flying monkeys lately? I found two of them in my sock drawer just this morning, and then there was another one I caught trying to make off with a bunch of cat toys. Good thing the cat was awake. It took both of us to restore order, though said cat did the greater part of the hissing. He's really, truly good at that, whereas, all too often, my teeth just fall out when I try.

Here we are at the Flying M Ranch. All monkeys, as expected. All D-Trump fans. Lots of feces being thrown today, in every direction.

I bet the cat that most of my toes would fall off before I learned to fly, and now I'm sprouting feathers all over.

I don't know how I ended up here. I told the flying saucer people to drop me off back at the highway and pointed right out the window but for some reason they never listen. With them it's all about the anal probing.

Monkeys. Monkeys. Have seen way more than usual this week, most of them flying.

On my drive through the Alps I encountered a stray tunnel. Was able to fly home with it in my luggage. Made a cat toy out of it. Much better than a cardboard box. Tigers don't like them much. Way too small.

Unidentified flying optics.

 

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Me? Fruitlessly flapping.