Traffic-Control Bob is on duty today, and will sanitize your wheels upon request.
Traffic-Control Bob knows all the moves, having been trained in signal obedience school since childhood, and possibly even before.
Traffic-Control Bob wants to be your pal, provided that you obey the rules. (See previous item.) If you are not reasonable, he may cry, and none of us want to see that. Really.
Traffic-Control Bob occasionally does whistle while he works, but not if you are watching. Covert listening is allowed — say from behind a bush, or while lying under a covering of discarded newspapers (can be hard to find these days).
Traffic-Control Bob says "Be safe — never leave home without your underpants!", and a few other things, though often less memorable.
Traffic-Control Bob, formerly Air-Traffic-Control Bob, but he's trying to forget what happened after just that one small lapse in judgment, and is also attempting to find meaning in standing on the street corner waving his arms, hoping, ever hoping to find gainful employment (again) at a future date, somewhere. Anywhere.
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Me? Can't complain but will try again after they pull out the gag.
Captain Anonymous orders a plate of oysters, gets hamsters, goes home tickled but still hungry. (They bite back, you know.)
Captain Anonymous, a friend to all and to all a friend, etc., has half a mind to take charge today, and put himself firmly in control, and set things to rights, but the other half of his mind is still on vacation, so he reads comic books quietly in the corner.
Captain Anonymous, the great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandson of Anonymous Bosch, the world's most famous, and also weirdest, unknown artist, is now on his lunch break. Try again in about a week.
Not to be outdone, Captain Anonymous is doing everything inside these days. In private. In the dark. With the cat blindfolded. No news is good news they say, but are they sure?
Long gone are those days when Captain Anonymous was famous, if ever. If anyone erects a plaque for him it will likely be he himself, working quietly, on the sly, and it may not even be clear what it is about, if ever.
Contacted by aliens, Captain Anonymous declined an opportunity for an interview, letting go of his one and likely only chance to speak for humanity, since he was busy trying to smooth the bumps from his memorial plaque and could not be lathered into a bother over it all.
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Me? Mom always liked me best (after cigarettes and beer).
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, wandering the High Plains solo, ever vigilant for wild polka-dots. (Collecting them is my main lonesome hobby.) (Also headless Barbie dolls.) (Don't know why.)
I am the Lonesome Cowboy. Some call me "Lonesome Bob". Others call me "Lonesome Evelyn". Most don't call me, even Mom, which has something to do with why I'm lonesome, I guess, though life could be worse, somehow. Please tell me that tomorrow will be better. Or at least the day after that. Please.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy. I have a nose for beasts. Strange, untamed, undomesticated, untrained, unregistered beasts. Beasts with teeth. Nippy beasts. Hungry beasts I know. I have personal knowledge of said wilders, having been nipped severally, often on the nose. From, I suppose, becoming too close and sniffy among various parts. (Can't help it.)
I am the Lonesome Cowboy. It's on my business cards. Write me if you want one. (Address currently unknown.) Have to go now. Moaning time.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy. No one else can say that, and mean it. Not alone in the dark by the dark of a dark new moon in a dark hole under a dark tree. And no one wishes to either, I suppose, since I have been for years unable to unload my LC franchise license. Contact me if interested. Even if you aren't. I need distraction. (Please bathe first.)
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, listening, alone in the dark, as the howls grow nearer. Ever nearer. Ever nearer to me some ravenous drooler comes. In the dark. Unless that's the TV in the next room. Could be, but I'm still lonesome and afraid, and haven't washed my socks yet. Maybe I'll try that. Couldn't hurt. But first I shall switch on the light. All the better to see my polka-dots with. More howling. (Is that me?)
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Me? Trying to remember if I have pants. What are pants?
Help! I'm being held prisoner in a small shoebox. It's the one on the corner of Infinity and Forever (next to where the old phone booth was before it was removed and replaced by a small mound of virtual turds, just before the big wind storm we had about two or three years ago, if memory serves). Anyway, I'd appreciate some help, if you've got the time, or at least maybe you could drop off some reading material? (Print only please — the battery for my Kindrel went dead some time back, so I can read only print-on-paper, and by match-light too, at night anyways, so if you have extra matches, hey, drop them off too.) Thank you very much and have a great day/morning/afternoon/evening/night/life.
Howdy, Podna — my name is Glib Gibberish and I don't know either, thank you very kindly for asking.
Whatever happens, follow the monkey. You'll never go wrong for very long.
When I was free to roam, and did roam, which I did from time to time, I once or twice had breakfast at the NonBinary Cafe. Most places like this, you either avoid, or eat at and die young, but at the NBC it was different. Exactly how different I never quite learned, since I did not fill out an application, let alone go through the initiation process. You had to achieve the status of Adept, Level 16.5(c) before you could even have syrup to put on your pancakes, and it seemed like a lot of bother just to get my lips sticky, so I didn't follow through on that. Anyway, I'm not really into the binary/non-binary stuff. I personally lean more toward the non-decimal, myself. (Gives me more options to avoid, more degrees of refusal. Like that, and so on. No tattoos either, so I guess I'm really pretty normal for my kind, especially if you ignore the frequent homicidal outbursts.)
I noticed that my old high school English teacher, Hormonia Honkweezl, got married to a 2x4 (fir, SD, grade 2-and-better) at the age of 86. And then she died, which was the part that amused me the most. Not to say that I wasn't expecting this because she just was not the sort who was up to handling a 2x6 (of any grade, or plywood even), although I did have 10¢ bet that she would die a spinster, even if one full of splinters. My loss I suppose. At least she's finally where she belongs.
As soon as they take the clamps off my nipples, I'm free to go, I guess. Kind of quiet out there. Not sure if anyone is even around any more. It would all be different if someone had popped the lid off this shoebox I'm in, or even had lifted one corner a bit, but I can't see a thing out there, at all. So maybe it's only a matter of waiting a little longer. Patience is a virtue, right? Hello? Bob, you still out there?
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Me? Now thinking that monkeys are not at all funny. Especially the one that's been following me lately.
How we got from when to now — it's a story begging to be told, but I'm feeling lazy at the moment. Have some serious personal begging to look into. Etc. Just go away.
Got my tongue caught in the mousetrap again. Why? Why is this taking so long to learn? Can't be the taste of mouse wood. I hope. (Some hair still on my tongue since yesterday too. How did that happen?)
My shoelaces are demanding another raise, again, and paid vacation, and laundering twice a month. Things would be sincerely different around here if I didn't have this terrible fear of velcro.
A thermonuclear aphorism is one you need to recite only once. Permanently clears the room. Removes your name from all invite lists. Gets you some breathing room of your own. Gives you the gumption and personal space you need to go live in a cardboard box under a bridge. Best reserved for that moment when you really can't pull any other tricks. No match for a stellar fart joke though. Not even close.
First the good news — I found myself surrounded by a crowd of wonderfully happy and boisterous relatives all glad to see me and hear about exactly everything I've been doing for the past 10 years. Now the bad news — I found myself surrounded by a crowd of wonderfully happy and boisterous relatives all glad to see me and hear about exactly everything I've been doing for the past 10 years. And couldn't get away from any of them.
Not every cloud has a silver lining. Because some of them are farts. (What did I just say about fart jokes?)
When in doubt, don't lick it.
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Me? If this is June, then I probably need a bath.
