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.