The Name of the Beast is Harvy — Harvy Soul Muncher. But secretly I believe it's a lady beast. (Could be wrong about this — will peek under its tail at first oppty.)
Avoid the lizard stew this week. (Maybe next week too.)
Hammers for sale. Also a box of rocks for anyone who needs one. (Must go to a good home with "facilities".)
Found something crawling around in my pants. Relieved to discover that it was me. (I know how to deal with this one.)
Afraid of the dark? We buy dark. Pay top dollar too. Unused, virgin dark only. ("If it's used, it's useless." Boo.)
Deliberately avoided teasing snakes for most of my life, and now I've found out that I should have avoided sneezing on rakes. (Never did adore lawn care for just this very reason.)
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Me? Just heard that you're sweet on me. Will be right over. I hope you like muskrats. I have several in need of friendship.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, will be entering a tasting contest next week. She wants to practice on me, though I need to be breaded and deep fried first. So far I'm just thinking about it.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, wants to use me for target practice — to make sure she knows how to shoot before wasting any of those expensive paper targets. I'm thinking it over.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, has a distant relative, Geeps. He's one of her brothers but never lets anyone get closer than 150 yards. Communicates only by leaving notes hidden under small stones. Usually one word per note, one note per stone, and one stone per acre. Conversation becomes thoughtful. It once took us a month to say "hello" to each other. He also wears a bag over his head and navigates by smell using a special GPS device that he invented himself. A pretty nice guy all around. Clever too, as you might suspect.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, is going to night school. She wants to become a Martian. Some of her relatives already are, though the schools around here don't have decent classes for that, so she's shooting for a trucking license.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, re-gifted me a box of bugs for my birthday. I can tell they're used because they smell funny, besides being partially masticated.
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Me? Have not yet reconsidered. (Though perhaps I should...)
Due to circumstances beyond remote control, I had a problem. What it was I was not sure, but there was that wasing sound continuing to was around, and it's usually a clue. A clue to be taken curiously, if not lightly. But I had my light along, Juztyn Case. My Juztyn Case Light, with fresh batteries.
In the event that anything needed battering, I was set. And then I set off. Set on discovering something. Something off, I suspected.
Off to the store, matey! Where I intended to purchase a selection of Dr. Killigram’s Moth Snappers. I needed more anyway, the cat having gotten into them last week. (He'll recover at a date to be determined later this year, he says.)
Once at the store, I stared. I do that a lot, not being able to understand the world I have been sent to live in. What, for example, is a "tit brush"? Makes me wonder. You can let me know its use if you dare. Send a manual if possible, for I am curious now, and am in fact a charter member of the Weird Old Guys Club (we meet on Thursdays if there is a full moon somewhere), and all of us would dearly love to know something, if not everything.
Before that (the Club), I was one of the Old Loners. The only one in fact, though I often whispered in the dark while pretending that I could understand what I might do if ever I heard an answering susurration. (Shush, Mikey, the void is talking. Step lightly now...)
Back before time began I had a close brush with the Club of One, which was never that popular, but very exclusive in its own ultimate way, and I went to great long lengths to keep it that way. Apparently successfully. Without using any tits at all.
That was again years before I met Monica Aswaggen and her Crockabilly Mountain Nippers. Those were the days, my friend. No one back then worried the least little bit about rabbit rot, or had even heard of it, and if so, where would one go to purchase neon mitts? Luckily life was easy and a short visit to the dinner hole was all anyone needed. Monica had it down cold, being verily the Aswaggen of Legend, and she could carry on all night, and even after the sun came up if the weather was cool, at least for a few breathless brief minutes.
Maybe instead of buying another dozen gross of moth snappers, I should re-read the "Tibetan Book of the Deadbugs". Have noticed a few around lately. Maybe that's where the wasing is coming from. Got to do something, and soon — the mirror is watching me again and it wants results.
Might be best to start with a bit of ham sanitizer and take it from there.
(From "My Life in the Bushes, An autobiography", by Creepy Ed. Not published yet, if ever.)
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Me? Found a quarter in my piggy bank, but had to reach in up to my elbow, and now my arm is covered in shit. Oh, well — it's a living.
