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.)