Moist, Creamy, Possibly Wholesome

Follow your pottery wherever it leads you. Unless it's into my yard.

What is my home country known for? Exports of (1) Toilet paper. (2) Bulldozer blades. (3) A sort of stale, musty smell. (4) Water vapor. (5) Distant hooting sounds. (On Thursdays.)

Did your cat ever eat the neighbor lady? That could have been my mother. Assuming that you are who I think you are. Anyhow, you still need to return that phillips screwdriver you borrowed in 1972. I need it now more than ever.

Most coins have two sides, very rarely one. Now I found one in my junk drawer that has three. I do not know how they do these things. Do not. And it's watching me.

Moist, creamy goodness, spread thickly. Eat it or smear it, you can never go wrong. Unless it's something that came out of the cat. (Either end.)

Uncle Tiddly finally found the ashtray. In the car. Under the seat. Where I've been hiding. Which means that I have to move again. So unfair.

 

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Me? Recently committed. Still have to find out where though.

Flakes

At what age did you first realize that you were sexually attracted to corn flakes? (Post Toasties, of course — we're not perverts.)

How many tries does it take you to count your toes and consistently come up with an even number greater than two?

Got hair? If so, please tell us where you store it and how you keep bugs out of it.

Did your mother (a) name you, or (b) brand you?

Do you ever find yourself having deep philosophical arguments with fence posts?

What is your position on air?

 

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Me? Recently found unconscious on the ceiling.

Boomba

Crummy day. The bread truck exploded. Made me fart. I usually don't do that so early in the day.

Pretty noisy place. Every time someone talks another beer mug explodes. Interesting new concept in the world of Protestant churches.

My love, Echinoia Eeeps, gave me a roast. She was disappointed though, because when the fire died out I was still moving. And, in fact, I haven't quit yet. Currently at an undisclosed location until she finds a hobby that is easier for me to live with.

I am the Lonesome Cowboy, sitting by the campfire with a tin cup of black coffee in my hand. Or I was until the janitor came by and said I couldn't have fires in the hallway. Made me put out the fire and leave the building. Cowboy life — not for everyone.

Blue turned to Red and said 'How do you do it?' 'Stay fired up,' said Red.

From on high the snarl of twin turbo diesels and drifting tendrils of earth-hugging house smoke say that this is going to be another productive day of strafing for Leslie Zeppelin.

Captain Anonymous took flying lessons when he was seven, but later put them back where he found them, and never told anyone. Now you know, but you didn't hear it from us, understand?

 

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Me? Spent way too much time this week counting my fingers.

By The Light Of A Burned-Out Match

I am the Lonesome Cowboy. I've devoted my life to swearing, drinking, and kitty-cats. Find me on alt.cowboys.com (P.S. I wear purple underwear — matches my six-shooter.)

I am the Lonesome Cowboy, a face like autumn, a smile like sunset, an occasional tear reminiscent of a cold winter moon, riding endlessly toward what I do not know, still solitary save, every now and then, an hour spent at the laundromat, my last and only social life.

I am the Lonesome Cowboy. My boots are tight and my determination is weak. I am sitting still under a hazy sky, lacking even a reason to breathe, except for the involuntary gasping.

I am the Lonesome Cowboy. I have thirteen pairs of boots, twelve to get me where I'm going and one to keep kicking myself in the behind so's I keep moving. And a cat. I have a cat too, name of Beeline. Beeline the Feline. Got a real good appetite that one — a good eater there. We sing songs by moonlight, on the prairie, where nobody knows our names, cuz they'd laugh. (Beeline the Feline? WTF anyway?) But not many cats can read me to sleep at night, and I like that quite especially, so we're pardners. In the traditional sense of course. Don't ya see now how it can all work out?

I am the Lonesome Cowboy. I wear a hat but dress in dreams. My words are like silence itself. I live at large, crossing vast continents of thought, ever seeking that which cannot be found. Good thing I have a kazoo to defend against long eternities of boredom.

I am the Lonesome Cowboy. If you were me and I were you, could we tell? I fear I would pay you as little heed then as you pay me now, so listen: Can you hear me? Would you ever want to? Would you walk the lonely streets of endless night, lighting candles here and there, only to prove, to yourself, that you still exist? Or not? Who can say? I cannot. I know how only I can sing only then and again, under the dark of the moon, to my lonely self.

 

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Me? Mulling it over for now.