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.