Mother's chickens came home to roost. They've been out West — Silicon Valley and such like. Got tired of the grind. Sold their company. Will be using petty cash to build a temp coop. They'll run their operations from there while they decide what to do next. And they don't settle for chicken feed any more. Not these gals.
Anyone who has spent time around chickens knows the true meaning of 'pecker', and it's not funny. Not any more.
If I were a chicken, I'd be tall for my age, and would have trouble finding pants that fit.
'Beak Over Troubled Waters' — my new fav song by Simon and Peckerhead.
While it's true that chocolate pudding is not my favorite construction material, I have finally learned how to nail it to a wall. The chickens taught me. They know a lot of weird shit.
Confession here — I've actually never seen a chicken except in my dreams. With their dream feathers off. And they seem different that way. Except at lunch too — I've seen them at lunch too. No feathers there either, not that I could taste.
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Me? Just found out that my assessed value is somewhere between zero and nothing. To a chicken.
Mom caught me smoking tuna again. But I need the mercury.
Saturday is when I chase the cat around the yard. Then we wrestle to see who pays for lunch. When he's short on exercise he tends to get grumpy, break loose, and eat a few of the neighborhood kids. Tigers are like that. Good thing we're solid pals.
I don't know what I would do without sauerkraut. Life would be too boring. I'd have no vegetables to laugh at.
The lady across the hall is good at crafts. She made a swimsuit out of sauerkraut. Although she did ask if I'd like to join her for lunch, today is my day to stay home and masturbate. Her loss.
No Thanksgiving Day parade floats have ever been made solely of sauerkraut, because squishy wheels. More's the pity. (Squishy.)
Mother made me a banana pudding using nothing other than sauerkraut and beer. I will forever value this moment. She's keeping the bananas for herself, to knit into a scarf. But I have beer.
If I could make a list of the one thing I've ever done wrong in my life, I'd say I didn't eat enough sauerkraut. No idea why.
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Me? Still haven't earned my scales.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy. I used to have one friend but I had to shoot him. Talked too much.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, drifting silently across the prairies like a stinky fart that no one claims.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, sober each morning, sober each night, pretty quiet in between, whispering only short observations to my pet sock puppet, Regina, also my main squeeze, who never complains neither.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, someone who used to have a name, now known only by my silences, and perhaps an occasional sneeze, or wheeze. (Recently tested allergic to wide open spaces.)
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, alone under the starry sky, solitary by day, ever wandering, ever wondering, counting and recounting my meager pocket change, never finding the price of admission to human society.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy. You may have seen me, but maybe you didn't. I seem to most only to be an indistinct blur, a missed movement, a pale shadow sliding sideways, perhaps carrying a sock puppet, my only remaining friend.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, and if you don't like that, well, I guess I'll need to keep drifting on quietly through the evening gloom.
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Me? Just spent a bit of time howling. Feels good to get back in the saddle.
Mom said if I went to my high school reunion I'd be disappointed, but I am already. I'm the Disappointed Cowboy, riding alone by moonlight. Not even Mom talks to me any more.
The moon came up over Miami last night. I wasn't there. Got better stuff to do these days.
I had a chance to spend some time howling at the moon recently, but still haven't heard anything back from it. Will have to check my email again after lunch.
Captain Automatic came by with a wedge of cheese. It's apparently the new spicy pork flavor. Imported. From somewhere exotic. I'll let you know. For now though, I'm only poking it with a stick. If it ever stops oinking I may bite it. You'll be the first to know.
Speaking of food, I tried some of the cat's beefy stew mix ("Just add water — makes its own gravy"). Not that great cold.
Now the cat's pissed at me too.
If I had a better car I'd try driving to the moon just to make sure that it isn't really green cheese. But anyway — green cheese? Sounds like a case of improper storage to me, especially when you get to the hairy parts.
Captain Automatic has feathers now. Can't be diet-related, can it? Might clear up with the next new moon. I'm hoping. He leaves a terrible mess behind whenever he comes to visit. And scares the shit out of the parakeets.
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Me? Mooning you.
For "Tough Through Dough" Week, Captain Anonymous is refusing to sleep, and eating only dougnuts, assuming he can find any. Doug's hard to deal with.
Meanwhile, Priscilla Punchbowl and Fernanda Firemonkey, partners in crime, are decorating their parade float, Mikey. They'll be throwing spoonfuls of sugar to the crowd and singing their theme song, "Turds For You", while challenging all comers to rounds of toe wrestling (best 10 out of 17).
Captain Automatic, not to be outdone, will perform nearly unbelievable feats on his set of miniature kazoos while balancing a pair of parakeets on his head. While kazooting. Impressive to some.
Lest we forget, there is also a afoot a singular rumor about Lester Forget, master of memoronies and soon to be forgot, including a showing of his 16-hour documentary "Through Tough Dough", about the now-forgotten Batter War of 1926 on the Pancake Peninsula. Now forgotten. Don't forget that part.
Priscilla Punchbowl, mentioned earlier, is a well-known professed wrestler, recurring perennialist, martial artisan, and smothering mother, while her current permanent partner, Fruni Fishbohner (nee Finkweezel), has a cat, and is the reigning world champion competitive finger-paintist (6 years running now). Sure to be some hot action there.
"Dough! Tough Through!" is the slogan of this year's events, which will be canceled in case of goo, but only if there's really a lot, or it smells bad, or in case of weevil infestation. (Can't stand weevils, none of us can.)
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Me? Either cleaning my mixer or mixing my cleaner. Depends.
"If I said you had a beautiful body, would you embalm it for me?" I'm thinking it over myself. My love, Echinoia Eeeps, said that her family needs a corpse for their Halloween party (coming soon), and I was the obvious first choice — gaunt, emaciated, jug-eared, slow-moving, dull-witted — everything she values in a man, and just right as a party centerpiece. Plus, Uncle Verben Eeeps is an amateur undertaker, so it wouldn't cost them anything either. They need to know soon. Am already getting "that look" from a few of them.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, decided to start a chess foundation to support the family medical waste incinerator. So far she can't quite find enough chess sets to mix with the cement, and you can't make solid, decent concrete with Barbie doll heads, even though she has enough of them to replace Hoover Dam, if they only worked.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, set a mouse trap, but when she went to check, she found a tiger in it. She always did want a cat, but unfortunately the mice got to it first, and it was only claws and fuzzy tufts by then. She's pondering artillery to at least keep the mice out of her sock drawer.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, told me that I'm now in her will. I get her string collection, and, if I want it, her tapeworm, but that would be hard to swallow, at 32 feet. (And what would I feed it?)
I sent a little note last evening to my love, Echinoia Eeeps. By semaphore. She has never come to trust the written word or any electronic devices, so, when the time comes, I stop by the family compound to check out my flags and schedule a waving session, and then station myself on a nearby hilltop (interesting indeed in lightning season), and wait for my turn to arrive. This all too often works.
I do miss what one could describe as human contact with my love, Echinoia Eeeps, since the entire family is now in its seclusion burrow for mourning season. Not only that, but at such times they also release their wart hogs to roam the grounds freely and cleanse the area of vermin. Prudent heads advise against visiting during these periods, and/or tempting fate, usually referring me to the story about Great Aunt Distemper Eeeps, whose days are now definitely over, and most of whose parts have never been found.
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Me? Recently nominated for something by someone, somewhere.
