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.