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.