Hurricane Nichole blew into Miami while I was there, but as soon as she sensed my presence, she made a sharp turn and a quick exit. Pretty well sums up my effect on women, but at least this time I didn't even have to get my feet wet.
Not too many women around here any more, not since they fixed the sign that says "MEN". Probably another communication issue, I'd guess.
Other than being aggressively solicited for sex by the majority of women I see on the street, I really don't have much of a social life.
I saw a really beautiful woman on the street today — almost collided with her in fact — but since I'm invisible, she didn't have to begin feeling creeped out or initiate her flight or fart sequence, and I didn't either.
Went down by the Wally Mart to check out the babes. They never cease to amaze.
Wow. Major babe walked by. On stilts. I guess stilts are back. It's been a long, long wait.
Have anything worth adding? Then try sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
Me? Wouldn't you like to know? If not now, then perhaps sometime?
Etc...
so says eff: sporadic spurts of grade eff distraction definitions: outdoor terms fiyh: dave's little guide to ultralight backpacking stoves boyb: dave's little guide to backpacks snorpy bits: nibbling away at your sanity last seen receding: missives from a certain mobile homer noseyjoe: purposefully poking my proboscis into technicals
Pat and Trite, the Obvious Sisters, are fully committed to ensuring that exactly everyone has a joyous, wonderful, and fulfilling holiday experience this year, which is why they have set up a neighborhood watch committee to patrol the streets, check IDs, photograph pedestrians and other suspicious folk, and inspect vehicles and yards. If you see them coming your way, by all means Do Not Run. Doing so may initiate an attack reflex, and most of us do not want to witness that, let alone be part of it. (Just ask the police about last year.)
Pat and Trite, the Obvious Sisters, are really big on the One and True December Holiday, usually initiating their first planning meeting about March 13. So far they think that they will be able to pull everything together by the end of the year, but they are getting older, at the rate of one year per year, which seems to them to be so precisely regular as to be patently suspicious, so it might be a good idea to stand back a little and try not to get personally involved, if at all possible.
Pat and Trite, the Obvious Sisters, have nearly finished putting up their non-denominational generic holiday decorations, the same ones they use for 4th of July, Labor Day, Halloween, April Fools Day, Remember-When Day, Tax-Due Day, and so on. This year they hired a crew, one with a crane, and should be finishing any minute now, if the weather holds, unlike what went down last year, when they were still doing it all themselves with volunteer help, and knocked out power to half the city for nearly a week. But that's life, isn't it? So often it is.
Pat and Trite, the Obvious Sisters, want you to know that they will review your membership application sometime after you submit one, but not before, and that if you act sometime this month, you very probably will be first in line.
Pat and Trite, the Obvious Sisters, are circulating a petition to make the first Thursday of each month, if directly following a full moon, to be designated Happy Face Time in their honor, during which period they are allowed to correct the diction, pronunciation, political and religious views, style of dress, and eating habits of anyone they encounter who obviously needs remedial instruction. The end.
Pat and Trite, the Obvious Sisters, have decided that there are too many stray hairs around town. Now they are stopping people on the street to give them a thorough defuzzing with sticky-rollers, which they carry at the ready. Stopping some people anyway. The others have proven ungrateful and even at times unaccountably refractory. This must stop, do you hear? Comply or bear the consequences.
Have anything worth adding? Then try sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
Me? I'm staying out of this.
Etc...
so says eff: sporadic spurts of grade eff distraction definitions: outdoor terms fiyh: dave's little guide to ultralight backpacking stoves boyb: dave's little guide to backpacks snorpy bits: nibbling away at your sanity last seen receding: missives from a certain mobile homer noseyjoe: purposefully poking my proboscis into technicals
I believe that if I was a bird, I'd choose to be a poodwhecker, fly backward, and confuse the hell out of everyone. And eat bugs that I found on trees. (Gotta keep your strength up, Bud.)
Cuneiform wasn't my best subject in school. In fact, they didn't even teach it where I lived. I had to design and fabricate my own typewriter in order to finish all my research papers. (I specialized in the history of bird feeder protocol.) Had a hell of a lot of fun though, and was formally asked to leave after completing my degree. (I still have the court order.)
I recently tried super-gluing myself to a flag pole, to see if anyone would salute, but even that didn't work. I just got kind of sticky and ruined my new pants. And a bird pooped on my head. Nothing new there, of course.
Walk free. Walk tall. Walk the plank, warts and all. (And watch the birdie. He bites, the little bastard.)
That's it. The birds have gone. I'm sitting here on the lawn, with the cat, drinking beer. (He's partial to Guinness, I hear.)
Have anything worth adding? Then try sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
Me? Still flapping around, pointlessly.
Etc...
so says eff: sporadic spurts of grade eff distraction definitions: outdoor terms fiyh: dave's little guide to ultralight backpacking stoves boyb: dave's little guide to backpacks snorpy bits: nibbling away at your sanity last seen receding: missives from a certain mobile homer noseyjoe: purposefully poking my proboscis into technicals
If anything, it's always too long until Xmas, and when it comes, it's just too long, and too disappointing. The good news being that I know someone who can put a big, red, flashing "X" exactly in the middle of it all to make it stop, someone who, however, can't stand the smell of me, or the sight of me, and so on, but it's still kind of interesting in a lonely way. Some people who aren't me have better lucks. (Lucks. Did I spell that right?)
Xmas will be early this year, wherever December has been banned.
I don't know about your family, but among my relatives, an enema bag is an always welcome Xmas gift.
Is Xmas coming early this year, or is it only seasonal diarrhea creeping across the carpet?
The cat gave me a box of poisoned raisin-filled chocolates for Xmas. He thinks I'm a dog. But I appreciate the thought.
So, pretty soon again it's Xmas. I'll have to dig up my ex. We always have fun together this time of year.
Have anything worth adding? Then try sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
Me? Due to contractual agreements, I dare not say.
Etc...
so says eff: sporadic spurts of grade eff distraction definitions: outdoor terms fiyh: dave's little guide to ultralight backpacking stoves boyb: dave's little guide to backpacks snorpy bits: nibbling away at your sanity last seen receding: missives from a certain mobile homer noseyjoe: purposefully poking my proboscis into technicals
Breakfast with the frogs. By invitation only. Bring your own flies.
Saw a frog today, robbing a bank. Not such a common sight around here any more.
I could be out hiking now, but Mom said no, and she'll whup me if I don't bring her the usual breakfast treat (something wiggly on on a stick).
Lizards don't migrate. At least since the dinosaurs quit chasing them, so it has been a while.
What's a Fraunhofer line anyway? I'm asking because Mom said I couldn't have any. She can be a mean old lizard, she. For example, I remember once she took away my gas can as I was heading out back to roast the babysitter. Took it away, just like that — no ceremony, no explanation, no apology other than saying she'd show me the right way to do it when I was old enough. But cripes — I'm 47 this week. When does this IOU come due?
Have anything worth adding? Then try sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
Me? Just scrubbed off my warts, and now look.
Etc...
so says eff: sporadic spurts of grade eff distraction definitions: outdoor terms fiyh: dave's little guide to ultralight backpacking stoves boyb: dave's little guide to backpacks snorpy bits: nibbling away at your sanity last seen receding: missives from a certain mobile homer noseyjoe: purposefully poking my proboscis into technicals
Pat and Trite, the Obvious Sisters, are drafting a new city charter in hopes of improving life. Basically, they decided that the best way to handle things was to have every house in the city rebuilt as an exact copy of theirs, also decorated identically, and to require all residents to dress like them and request approval from the city council before doing or saying anything. More on this later, we expect.
Pat and Trite, the Obvious Sisters, are running for office, so they can have a national monument erected to themselves as an example to others, others who also are correct and proper models in all respects.
Pat and Trite, the Obvious Sisters, had a fight but it got away and seems to be hiding in the heating ducts, hooting softly every now and then. They claim that if they stand very still they can also hear a slight but distinct hissing coming out of the darkness that is not their normal water leak. And some intermittent thumping.
Pat and Trite, the Obvious Sisters, reserve Thursdays exclusively for holding court, by invitation, wear poofy skirts, and wait quietly for supplicants to arrive. Any week now, surely.
Pat and Trite, the Obvious Sisters, are starting a training school for homeowner's association middle-management aspirants. They're calling it "The What — Me Worry? School." Classes: clueless grinning, how to write and place harassing notes without being seen, giving dumb looks, and avoiding responsibility. Might be fun for droids. Lots of them around these days.
Pat and Trite, the Obvious Sisters, don't "do" their own laundry. During the day. Women of quality are never seen at laundering. So ordinary, so lower-class. But since they lack the assets to hire live-in menials they sneak in their chores, at night, by candle-light, during the dark of the moon, while whispering.
Have anything worth adding? Then try sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
Me? I don't know — I really don't know.
Etc...
so says eff: sporadic spurts of grade eff distraction definitions: outdoor terms fiyh: dave's little guide to ultralight backpacking stoves boyb: dave's little guide to backpacks snorpy bits: nibbling away at your sanity last seen receding: missives from a certain mobile homer noseyjoe: purposefully poking my proboscis into technicals
Good thing Mom knows how to sew. Chuck gave me a love bite yesterday. Ripped me in half. Frisky. Mom'll fix it all up. Be good as new soon. Need a smaller cat though. One with fewer teeth.
Got back from the restroom and found three people sitting in my chair. They were arguing about what to call me. I called myself a cab and left for Kazakhstan. Clever move on my part. See? I still have some smarts.
Had my armpits audited today. I suspect them of not being completely accurate in the accounting department. Several hairs have recently gone missing without a trace. Suspicious, to say the least, though I still smell good, which is why I've decided to keep my nose.
Harmony Weezels, my first grade teacher. She kept rats. For stew, I think. Rats anyway. Definitely rats. Always smacking her lips. Always.
I bet Mom she couldn't deck me with one punch and now she's pissed and I'm all bruised and stuff.
I craved something sweet so I kissed my reflection in the mirror. It gagged. Won't try that again either.
Have anything worth adding? Then try sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
Me? Been there, ignored that, and all the other stuff too.
Etc...
so says eff: sporadic spurts of grade eff distraction definitions: outdoor terms fiyh: dave's little guide to ultralight backpacking stoves boyb: dave's little guide to backpacks snorpy bits: nibbling away at your sanity last seen receding: missives from a certain mobile homer noseyjoe: purposefully poking my proboscis into technicals
For the first time in my life I have nothing to say while my mouth is full of food. Enjoy! (Tomorrow I'll be back to normal. Probably. What is normal anyway? Maybe I'll find out soon. Will let you know.)
Cow orkers. (Maybe you've had some, even some afflicted by cowboy mouth. A symptom of gallop disease, I hear.)
My accountant is Harvey Hammerhandel. You don't want to get on his bad side. That's why I pay him. Mostly in cornsilk, which he has a fetish for.
[Nobel prizes you never hear about] (Not here either.)
Albania did not impress me as a good place to lick. I tried all the buildings I could get to when I was there (and the insides too — even some of the doorknobs), but everything was a disappointment, especially my trip out of the country with a full military escort. You'd think that they could find better things to do with their limited funds, like upping the flavor profile of at least some of their toilet seats.
I bet I could teach myself to dance quicker than I could find a reason why I'd want to, let alone spending more time stuck here with you.
Have anything worth adding? Then try sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
Me? I don't know either. (I'm lying. I know everything, and am better than you in most other ways too.)
Etc...
so says eff: sporadic spurts of grade eff distraction definitions: outdoor terms fiyh: dave's little guide to ultralight backpacking stoves boyb: dave's little guide to backpacks snorpy bits: nibbling away at your sanity last seen receding: missives from a certain mobile homer noseyjoe: purposefully poking my proboscis into technicals
My sister Fweeba is contemplating starting her own navy. Gonna build it up from inflatable decoy alligators, so's she can surprise the enemy, if there is one. If not, she'll find something else to do with 1500 puffy reptiles. She always does. This isn't her first time around the block, you know.
My sister Fweeba's husband Mervon is trying on socks this week. It's a thing among his people. They are descended from a mostly extinct and seriously remote tribe of wandering investment bankers. Somewhere in there is a connection to fuzzy socks. I guess it works for them.
My sister Fweeba has taken a sudden and perplexing interest in houseplants with hairy leaves, going so far as to knit mittens for some of them, though you'd think that their fuzz had served them well enough. Maybe not. They don't talk to me any more.
My sister Fweeba's husband Mervon recently ordered a home-embalming kit from Amazion. (Yes, I spelled that right. It's a small company based in Wishek, ND. Don't go there.) Well, maybe not you, but I am amazed. Not so much that he is actually that stupid, but that he is actually that cheap — something like $17.95, although you need to provide your own rubber hose, but he already has one.
My sister was the only one in her girl scout troop named "Fweeba", and never acted like it bothered her. In fact, she suddenly became the only member of her girl scout troop immediately after that fourth-round knockout of Big Agnes, who made the near-fatal mistake of poking her with a stick just one time too often, or as some say, of poking her with a stick, just once, presumably. Once is more than enough for most of us, it seems, especially Fweeba, I'd say. No pokes for her.
I bet I'm the only guy on the volunteer fire brigade with a sister named Fweeba and a pet Himalayan artichoke. Or possibly the only one likely to talk about it.
Have anything worth adding? Then try sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
Me? Just kidding.
Etc...
so says eff: sporadic spurts of grade eff distraction definitions: outdoor terms fiyh: dave's little guide to ultralight backpacking stoves boyb: dave's little guide to backpacks snorpy bits: nibbling away at your sanity last seen receding: missives from a certain mobile homer noseyjoe: purposefully poking my proboscis into technicals
Pigs on toast with pinkley wings. Came outta nowhere and headed straight back again. No longer available at any price whatsoever.
The doctor's name is Jake and he raises pigs for fun and has hair in his nose.
I used to be a professional pork lift driver. Had a license and everything, and they called me Mr Oinkmobile, but I refused to snuffle for truffles, so now I'm back in the circus again.
Spotted a UFO right after lunch. Another Urologist From Ohio. They all retire here for unknown reasons. Eat a lot of pork chops.
At lunch. The appetizer arrived. Just as the street flies caught up with me. Buzzing sounds on all sides. Woo — I'm all excited now.
Have a mouth full of words and no place to spew them. Maybe the pork fairies will come to save me. Or maybe not. They take a lot of time off.
Have anything worth adding? Then try sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
Me? I'm kinda like that anyway.
Etc...
so says eff: sporadic spurts of grade eff distraction definitions: outdoor terms fiyh: dave's little guide to ultralight backpacking stoves boyb: dave's little guide to backpacks snorpy bits: nibbling away at your sanity last seen receding: missives from a certain mobile homer noseyjoe: purposefully poking my proboscis into technicals
With a mouth like you've got going, it seems like a career in solid waste disposal would be an obvious choice.
I couldn't have said it better myself, even if I had a mouth.
I haven't seen a rat crawling out of anyone's mouth lately. I wonder what changed.
I woke up to a strange, strangled sort of moaning. It didn't go away until I closed my mouth. Odd.
Just like that I was sucked straight out of my rubber boots and eaten by an octopus, forced to listen to the obscene sound of all eight of its mouths merrily munching me. I'll never forget it as long as I can remember it.
So if I read the menu right-side-up, then today they're serving jumping beef. I guess I'll have to hop to it if I want to get fed. Possibly could end up with some hair in my teeth if my technique is not fully up to par, but that one will be on me. Can't blame the cook this time. So I'm going in with my eyes shut and my mouth open.
Have anything worth adding? Then try sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
Me? I don't remember any more.
Etc...
so says eff: sporadic spurts of grade eff distraction definitions: outdoor terms fiyh: dave's little guide to ultralight backpacking stoves boyb: dave's little guide to backpacks snorpy bits: nibbling away at your sanity last seen receding: missives from a certain mobile homer noseyjoe: purposefully poking my proboscis into technicals
I had an uncle who spent too much time thinking about the wrong things and eventually turned into a chicken. Then someone cooked and ate him. Don't let this happen to you. Don't be a dumb cluck. Take off your beak when in public, and always wear a hat.
The crowd just arrived. Everyone is wearing hats. Some wear several, stacked, and are waving their feelers with excitement.
The man who mistook his hat for next Thursday afternoon — has to be a story in there somewhere.
Wednesday is "Wear Your Hat Backward" day, which is nice if you normally walk like that, because then there is at least one day a year when you can feel like a normal person and wear a hat. Am I making sense yet?
Is that a hat on your hair or hair on your hat? I can't tell from here and I'm too tired to come over there and set it on fire just to see what happens.
My other uncle invented the WeenTopper. It's a hat made out of hot dogs, so you can have sun protection and lunch all at once. Definitely a pretty new concept. At the moment he's still working to get the bugs out.
Have anything worth adding? Then try sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
Me? Wondering what vomeronasal really is.
Etc...
so says eff: sporadic spurts of grade eff distraction definitions: outdoor terms fiyh: dave's little guide to ultralight backpacking stoves boyb: dave's little guide to backpacks snorpy bits: nibbling away at your sanity last seen receding: missives from a certain mobile homer noseyjoe: purposefully poking my proboscis into technicals
Lunch will be my treat today. I lucked into some fresh roadkill on the way over. Cat. Ever have tenderized Cat? You can do worse.
God can be real annoying at times. We went out for burgers. Said it would be a treat. Guess who forgot their wallet? Yeah — happens all too often with this so-called deity.
Deep dish valley-baked nibbly bits, a pleasant treat in any time or space dimension. Better with beer.
Today is the first day of the rest of my life and I still can't stand it. Am I not supposed to get a treat or something?
I recently ran out of words. Treat me kindly if appropriate, while I get back up to speed, whatever that means. (I was told to say that.)
To entertain with food and drink without expense to the recipient by way of compliment or kindness (or bribery). Right. I can deal with that, so treat me, now and often.
Have anything worth adding? Then try sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
Me? I thought you'd ask, so I have no answer.
Etc...
so says eff: sporadic spurts of grade eff distraction definitions: outdoor terms fiyh: dave's little guide to ultralight backpacking stoves boyb: dave's little guide to backpacks snorpy bits: nibbling away at your sanity last seen receding: missives from a certain mobile homer noseyjoe: purposefully poking my proboscis into technicals
I gave up smoking when the fire truck came and put me out. Six years ago today, but I still miss it. The fire truck. The red one. Am therefore considering trying my hand at a bit of smoldering this weekend.
RaTalk is a new app just like Uber but you don't go anywhere and it still costs but you get to talk to a live rat and maybe pet it when it shows up, if you remember to bring hand sanitizer.
Seeking left-handed French torque wrench wrangler. Must have at least one working hand of your own. Hiring preference given to those who know how to bathe themselves. (No licking.)
Trondheim is a place? I always thought of it as a disease. That's what my mother told me. She got me to wash my hands a lot that way.
Speaking of, when will handwashing be an Olympic event anyway? And why don't they serve beer? Two more of life's mysteries.
Uncle Benny once showed up at work without his hands. No one knows why, and he never talks, but he did remember to bring his ceremonial artichoke. That's something. Write if you know what. We'll wait.
Have anything worth adding? Then try sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
Me? I've got two!
Etc...
so says eff: sporadic spurts of grade eff distraction definitions: outdoor terms fiyh: dave's little guide to ultralight backpacking stoves boyb: dave's little guide to backpacks snorpy bits: nibbling away at your sanity last seen receding: missives from a certain mobile homer noseyjoe: purposefully poking my proboscis into technicals
My love, Echinoia Eeeps enrolled in tank school. It was unclear just what this might amount to until I was instructed to run across the pasture carrying a giant bullseye target. I may have a clue now. And then there are the bleachers set up at the Eeeps Family Observation Post. So I guess the rumors I've heard about Cousin Erdle Eeeps...are...uh, former Cousin Erdle Eeeps...now deceased, etc. May be partly true, they say.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, is really pretty mellow, despite what you might have come to believe, based only on her behavior, unless, of course you startle her awake when she's napping near the artillery, which she does from time to time.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps sent me a box of roofing nails. It's nice to know that she's thinking of me. I do have a hammer, but at the moment can't remember where I left the roof. Best not to mention that detail within her hearing until I can sort it out.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, has taken up competitive gardening. She wants me to provide the fertilizer. Could be why I got the litter box for Xmas. Plus, the industrial-strength laxative gift sampler.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, told me that her lifelong dream was to invade Ukraine. I had a helluva time convincing her that it's been done already by a slightly better man than her (but only slightly, of course) and isn't as much fun as it sounds. But you know how women are...
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, took a vacation last week. Shoplifted it from the GetAway Store. Just grabbed it and flew the hell off somewhere without so much as a beep. Brought me back a coconut. Said it reminded her of me. All rough and hard shell on the outside but with a tough and tasteless interior. I still want to lick her all over though. Probably now more than ever.
Have anything worth adding? Then try sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
Me? Yeah, I already tried that.
Etc...
so says eff: sporadic spurts of grade eff distraction definitions: outdoor terms fiyh: dave's little guide to ultralight backpacking stoves boyb: dave's little guide to backpacks snorpy bits: nibbling away at your sanity last seen receding: missives from a certain mobile homer noseyjoe: purposefully poking my proboscis into technicals
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, has been pestering me all week, trying to find out how I got out of my cage, but I think a guy should be entitled to a few secrets here and there. I hope.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, is truly one of a kind, all her litter mates having died off during infancy. (There are certain rumors about this, but I choose to disbelieve very nearly all of them.)
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, said that what she most likes about me is that I'm not green — both because she has thoroughly trained me and because she recently finished painting me blue.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps herself turned green last week. I think her all-pea, no-pee diet may have been influential here, though I have been told not to notice if I know what's good for me — in other words, shut up unless I want a good pounding. So, yeah.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, flew to Australia to view a recent eclipse. She wanted to shoot it. True, they did confiscate her six-gun on arrival, but she planned for that, and had a spare, stuffed deep into her tuba. She enjoys playing marching music and martial lullabies in her hotel room while waiting for the darkness to come creeping in, and of course I get to tag along in case her toenails need buffing, or a fly disappears up her tuba (which has happened, unfortunately), but mostly I simply sit quietly in a corner and pray that nothing exciting happens this time.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, just found an ant costume in my size. She wants me to wear it for a while, to see if any random wasps will come and try to lay eggs in my brain. Says it would be cute, and probably wouldn't hurt all that much if I didn't struggle or try to think.
Have anything worth adding? Then try sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
Me? I better not say right now.
Etc...
so says eff: sporadic spurts of grade eff distraction definitions: outdoor terms fiyh: dave's little guide to ultralight backpacking stoves boyb: dave's little guide to backpacks snorpy bits: nibbling away at your sanity last seen receding: missives from a certain mobile homer noseyjoe: purposefully poking my proboscis into technicals
I thought about getting a cat, but I still have only a learner's permit.
Had a long talk with the cat about that mouse breath problem and what I can do to get rid of it. Not quite resolved yet but there's hope. Cats know about stuff like this.
Has anyone ever made a solo excursion to the South Pole by moped? I'm feeling frisky this week, and the cat needs to get out for a while too.
I stared at the TV for six hours yesterday. Then the cat came by, but he couldn't figure out how to turn it on either, so we went out back and did some 'nip.
My first cat was named Leonard the Pussyhearted. He had a reputation in the neighborhood.
My first cat was named Leonard. I found out from going through his documents after he went to prison. Pretty nice cat overall, though they tend to regard bank robbery with some disdain in these parts. He'll be eligible for parole about the time I turn 80.
Have anything worth adding? Then try sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
Me? Not gonna say. Practicing mummery this week.
Etc...
so says eff: sporadic spurts of grade eff distraction definitions: outdoor terms fiyh: dave's little guide to ultralight backpacking stoves boyb: dave's little guide to backpacks snorpy bits: nibbling away at your sanity last seen receding: missives from a certain mobile homer noseyjoe: purposefully poking my proboscis into technicals
For the upcoming Xmas fighting season, my love, Echinoia Eeeps, would like me to wrestle her pet saltwater crocodile, Ed. Best 2 out of 3. Winner gets treats. Loser pays. Sounds like fun but will have to think about it.
I got invited again to spend Xmas with the Eeeps. It happens every year and they take it seriously. This time around they're christening a new crevasse just behind the outhouse — crevasse, parking pit, garbage dump, hostage pen — all rolled into one giant fissure in the ground. I'm still mulling it over. But then again, I have nothing better to do until they release me.
I told my love, Echinoia Eeeps, that if she wants to look up to me, she can try walking around on her knees whenever the mood takes her, but she says she's really committed to stretching exercises for me with the rope and the tree out front. It's a family tradition, I hear. Meanwhile, I'm still in hiding.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, caught me eating soup — says soup is for sissies, and made me do 100 sit ups to prove that I haven't begun turning into a sissy, which wasn't all that bad, unless you have to do it from a standing position while trying to avoid the rats (Clem and Joe).
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, has a large extended family. Some of them were also extruded, but only the more irritating, unrepentant and wayward ones who were reluctant to follow tradition. Following extrusion they were immediately freeze-dried, mounted in frames, and hung in the dining room, as a poignant reminder to others, with flashing red lights along the sides as extra attention-getters.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, has to be the best in the world. If I haven't done anything especially egregious, she pounds me only once a month or thereabouts, mostly to stay in shape and to keep her skills sharp. Then there is machine-gun practice out at the family tactical field, and bayoneting the occasional wild boar. I feel truly blessed to be on her good side most of the time, and plan to stay there to the best of my abilities. I'd bring her some flowers to show my appreciation but that might set her off again. She generally prefers a couple bags of Renaldo's Premium Blend Gold Medal Rat Chow for her friends, and I'm all too willing to get it for her and the boys, and stay safe, if possible.
Have anything worth adding? Then try sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
Me? Not sure — Haven't seen myself lately.
Etc...
so says eff: sporadic spurts of grade eff distraction definitions: outdoor terms fiyh: dave's little guide to ultralight backpacking stoves boyb: dave's little guide to backpacks snorpy bits: nibbling away at your sanity last seen receding: missives from a certain mobile homer noseyjoe: purposefully poking my proboscis into technicals
The sound of twin turbo diesels climbing slowly over the eastern horizon at sunrise tells me that Leslie Zeppelin's spring strafing season has finally arrived, and in all seriousness. We few survivors of last season once again scurry into the protective cover of our root cellars.
I don't know how it is where you live, but the snarl of twin turbo diesels always reminds me of my provisional vitality, my impending mortality, and the mechanics of wide-area strafing whenever Leslie Zeppelin is cruising overhead.
I grab the cat, head for the basement, and leave the house to the flies, and to Leslie Zeppelin, back for another bonus strafing run.
If we could blame anyone, I guess that we would blame Ed and Emily Zeppelin for bringing us Leslie, the deep terror of the snarl of twin turbo diesels, and all the suppertime strafing runs.
Leslie Zeppelin sighted 2km N. of town around dawn. Take evasive action or two aspirin, whichever you can manage, and hope for the best.
Well, it's that season again. I can tell by the distant snarl of twin turbo diesels, by the elongated shape dark against the clouds, and, of course by the telltale staccato of automatic weapons fire. Yes, it is Leslie Zeppelin, back with the all-too-familiar morning strafing runs.
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Me? Total pacifist. Ask the cat.
Etc...
so says eff: sporadic spurts of grade eff distraction definitions: outdoor terms fiyh: dave's little guide to ultralight backpacking stoves boyb: dave's little guide to backpacks snorpy bits: nibbling away at your sanity last seen receding: missives from a certain mobile homer noseyjoe: purposefully poking my proboscis into technicals
I found a turd in my pocket. No idea how it got there. Normally I'd expect to find it in the box under the stairs with the others, but it has no serial number either. Time to discuss this with the cat.
When out hiking, I saw an odd-looking turd on the trail. Looking closer, I saw a label on it: "Made in Heaven by God. All rights reserved." And then more turds fell from the sky. Now I'm more careful, more skeptical, and carry an umbrella.
If I was a turd, I'd probably be a small, shy one, and would hardly ever squeak.
Nobody seems to throw snowballs at cars any more, or turds. Times change.
Spent a pleasant afternoon in the park, throwing turds at passersby, until I ran out. Then I ran away.
Took a turd to lunch last week. Quite an experience. Good conversationalist, though pretty much limited to talking about compost issues. Had a lot of flies come by to say hello.
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Me? Never touch the stuff.
Etc...
so says eff: sporadic spurts of grade eff distraction definitions: outdoor terms fiyh: dave's little guide to ultralight backpacking stoves boyb: dave's little guide to backpacks snorpy bits: nibbling away at your sanity last seen receding: missives from a certain mobile homer noseyjoe: purposefully poking my proboscis into technicals
I bought a tuna today. I'm going to name him Fred, assuming that I don't open the can and have him for lunch. I'm prone to that sort of recklessness with pets.
I bought my first bag of gruffy dust around 27 years ago, and have been using it ever since. One of these days I'll have to find out what it is. Great name though.
I can hear the termites whispering again. I really wish they go back to sliding notes under the door.
I can't say for sure what the future will bring, but it's a good bet that it won't happen yesterday. Unless I've screwed up again.
I could be out hiking now, but I'd miss all the action on the Cheese Channel. (It's Roquefort Week, featuring professional cheese squeezers.)
I craved something sweet so I filled the bathtub with maple syrup and put an ad on Craigslist for pancakes seeking adventure. Am almost drooling already.
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Me? As if.
Etc...
so says eff: sporadic spurts of grade eff distraction definitions: outdoor terms fiyh: dave's little guide to ultralight backpacking stoves boyb: dave's little guide to backpacks snorpy bits: nibbling away at your sanity last seen receding: missives from a certain mobile homer noseyjoe: purposefully poking my proboscis into technicals
A sober snake race is less like absence through skin than afternoon lagoon wrestling, with snacks.
Gothic Arc Cheese Wheels or government by aliens? Take your pick. (Hint — One of these is already running.)
I am the son of the sun and more than the sum of my parts since I began pooping so very frequently so very recently.
I asked to have the pork for lunch and got a dirty look from the pig. Sure, he's like that, but I'm hungry, eh?
I ate something that disagreed with me. This is usually the quickest way to win an argument. Something you learn as you age and grow wiser.
I bit a snake yesterday. The little sucker was hissing at me from the sidelines.
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Me? Trying to see how slow and low I can go.
Etc...
so says eff: sporadic spurts of grade eff distraction definitions: outdoor terms fiyh: dave's little guide to ultralight backpacking stoves boyb: dave's little guide to backpacks snorpy bits: nibbling away at your sanity last seen receding: missives from a certain mobile homer noseyjoe: purposefully poking my proboscis into technicals
Did you ever wonder where glaciers go when they retreat? Might be handy to know this. I bet they have a secret clubhouse.
International House of Pank Rats. Is that it?
Haggis cannot be housebroken. (Haggis do not normally bathe either, and why would they?)
I went to the butcher shop yesterday. All the guys there were named "Butch". There was too much early hacking and chopping going on, so I left before the main event. (Had to go water the turd garden out back of my house anyway. They get uppity if too dry.)
If the carpenters drove nails the way Grandma drives her truck, this house would be done in about half an hour.
Snorkelbunnies have been doing serious damage to my house. They eat siding. I guess at this point that I should express proper gratitude that, although snorkelbunnies are real, my house is imaginary.
"The consignment was abandoned because the Contents of the consignment was not properly declared by the consignee as "MONEY" rather it was declared as personal effect to avoid interrogation and also the inability of the diplomat to pay for the United States Non Inspection Charges which is $3,800USD. On my assumption the consignment is still left in our Storage House here at the John F. Kennedy International Airport Queens New York till date. The details of the consignment including your name, your email address and the official documents from the United Nations office in Geneva are tagged on the Trunk box." (What you get if your name is Redisent Opuccant.)
Have anything worth adding? Then try sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
Me? Hiding under the table with the cat. Now all I need to make this work is a cat.
Etc...
so says eff: sporadic spurts of grade eff distraction definitions: outdoor terms fiyh: dave's little guide to ultralight backpacking stoves boyb: dave's little guide to backpacks snorpy bits: nibbling away at your sanity last seen receding: missives from a certain mobile homer noseyjoe: purposefully poking my proboscis into technicals
"Mmph!" Another note left by the cat. His name is Walter. At least that's what it says on his driver's license. (I peeked while he was busy in a Zoom meeting.) But "Mmph!" is all he ever says. To me, anyhow.
Blame it on the cat. That's what I always do. (But don't tell the cat. He might raise my rent again.)
Bush cat eyes me warily, from behind that tree. Once friend, but friend no more, since that dumpster fight we had over chicken scraps.
Getting near the end. When there's more hair in your ears and nose than on top, well, you know what's coming. Except the cat. He don't give a fuck.
Getting out of bed in the morning, it's what I need to do to get the cat to work on time. (Also requires fresh mouse with his scrambled eggs, or he won't move for nothin'.)
Here I am, an old guy. I've spent my entire life wondering about the meaning of truth, and still, after all these years, I find myself lying to the cat about most things most days. On the upside, he doesn't seem to give a fat rat's ass either way. Maybe we were meant for each other.
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Me? I'm just like that sometimes.
Etc...
so says eff: sporadic spurts of grade eff distraction definitions: outdoor terms fiyh: dave's little guide to ultralight backpacking stoves boyb: dave's little guide to backpacks snorpy bits: nibbling away at your sanity last seen receding: missives from a certain mobile homer noseyjoe: purposefully poking my proboscis into technicals
I encountered a chicken crossing the road — said his name was Fred, and I should mind my own business.
I encountered a chicken crossing the road in a tank. A small tank, but heavily armed. When I asked, he just winked and stepped on the gas.
I encountered a chicken crossing the road, but upon closer inspection, it turned out to be hopscotch, a skill I never mastered, partly due to the cost of scotch, but the chicken seemed happy enough with the situation.
I encountered a chicken crossing the road. Since this was my day off, I pretended not to see anything.
I encountered a chicken crossing the road. In fact, a bunch of them, all marching to rhythmic tunes on fife and drum. I decided to stand back and not ask any questions this time.
I encountered a chicken crossing the road, so, today at least I wasn't the only one around here with my pecker out.
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Me? Recently nominated for something by someone, somewhere.
Etc...
so says eff: sporadic spurts of grade eff distraction definitions: outdoor terms fiyh: dave's little guide to ultralight backpacking stoves boyb: dave's little guide to backpacks snorpy bits: nibbling away at your sanity last seen receding: missives from a certain mobile homer noseyjoe: purposefully poking my proboscis into technicals
Mom told me never to bother believing in God unless I had bad cramps, and then see if it helped. So far, no cramps. So something is working in my favor.
I sometimes wonder if God would simply vanish if one particular day at a set time, everyone suddenly quit believing. Worth a try, probably, don't you think? How about next Thursday at two, after a leisurely lunch.?
God — responsible for the death of every human who ever lived. Not your friend, by most accounts.
When God created heaven and earth, it was supposed to be only a proof of concept, but look where we are now.
And then God said "Let there be bureaucrats", and Lo! Again! look what we got here.
People are forever talking about God's will. So, are you in it?
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Me? Still my own supreme being.
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so says eff: sporadic spurts of grade eff distraction definitions: outdoor terms fiyh: dave's little guide to ultralight backpacking stoves boyb: dave's little guide to backpacks snorpy bits: nibbling away at your sanity last seen receding: missives from a certain mobile homer noseyjoe: purposefully poking my proboscis into technicals
If God was to show up at a costume party, I'm guessing as a wombat. I mean, what else?
God created another universe yesterday. It's a little better then ours because God had either 6000 years to rethink the process, or 28.6 billion years, depending on who you believe. Considering what we have to put up with here, I personally would prefer waiting a bit, another version or two, before even considering making a commitment toward a future move.
Ever see God in a dress? Possibly something you never want to hope for.
God might join the Hell's Angels some day, but only under an assumed name I'm guessing. Still might be too obvious. People are always watching. They do that.
God wears size seven shoes. I thought you should know that. I really never would have guessed.
God came by again. Awkward. Always awkward. For lack of anything better to do, I drove us down to Wally Mart. God likes to ogle the babes. Prefers 45 and up, or those that look it, especially the ones with gravelly voices from heavy use of cigarettes and beer since their time in grade school. At least this way I don't have to make popcorn and provide gallons of KoolAid. God likes KoolAid. (Grape, no sugar.)
Have anything worth adding? Then try sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
Me? Never touch the stuff.
Etc...
so says eff: sporadic spurts of grade eff distraction definitions: outdoor terms fiyh: dave's little guide to ultralight backpacking stoves boyb: dave's little guide to backpacks snorpy bits: nibbling away at your sanity last seen receding: missives from a certain mobile homer noseyjoe: purposefully poking my proboscis into technicals
I recently found out that my father was a Hologram survivor. Maybe that's why he could never stay focused enough to hold down a job.
I still smell bad. Let's blame it on the accident. Next year it will just be something else anyway.
I think I finally figured out popcorn. It has to do with the inevitable result of vegetative overexuberance and heat. Heat. Heat is important. Boom!
I think today might be Friday somewhere. That's what all the banners and parades are for, right? I sort of like the storm troopers, even if they are a little scary. Can't wait to see what 1934 brings.
I tried one of those Improbability Burgers today even though I'm not licensed for that kind of thing. Made me fart a lot. I do like that part. Still thinking about the rest.
I tried to use PayPal to pay a pal, which is when the payment system went pie-shaped and I got punched in the puss. Poop. Poop, I say. Poop on it all, my friend.
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Me? Polishing my peeper.
Etc...
so says eff: sporadic spurts of grade eff distraction definitions: outdoor terms fiyh: dave's little guide to ultralight backpacking stoves boyb: dave's little guide to backpacks snorpy bits: nibbling away at your sanity last seen receding: missives from a certain mobile homer noseyjoe: purposefully poking my proboscis into technicals
Fructose Fantasies — whatever works for you. Sweet too. (May result in sticky lips. Not guaranteed to be healthy.)
Fulsom Honeydew, my new girlfriend. Hey — never had one before. Says she likes my eyelashes. Slightly over-ripe. Squeaks a little when I run my finger along her side. This could be fun.
Glacial mice. Like dustbunnies but bigger, and made of rock. Non-negotiable.
Give peace a sex change.
Hamsters aren't the only ones who worry about both nuts and the Fermi Paradox.
(1) Happiness is best achieved when not directly pursued. -- Aristotle (2) Happiness is just another word for minty-fresh enema bags. -- Dave
I really didn't expect this. But things do happen. They do. So, then.
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Me? I still don't care.
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so says eff: sporadic spurts of grade eff distraction definitions: outdoor terms fiyh: dave's little guide to ultralight backpacking stoves boyb: dave's little guide to backpacks snorpy bits: nibbling away at your sanity last seen receding: missives from a certain mobile homer noseyjoe: purposefully poking my proboscis into technicals
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, forever moving, footloose and fancy-full, never still, always stirring, slow to slow or come to rest. Will you be my friend? I need some cash.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, sitting quietly, picking though pebbles, searching for the perfect one, but aren't they all?
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, sleeping alone under the stars, wrapped in my rain slicker, trusty six-shooter right here beside me, in case my sock puppet Ed tries any more funny stuff.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy. Chicken Pot Pie is my nickname. My mother assigned it to me that one day. That one day she chased me with a knife in one hand and a fork in t'other, intent on converting me. Into dinner, as I suppose. I have not often seen my mother since. Since so deeply disappointing her by running fast, away from her idea of what I might amount to if I did just but slow my pace a bit. Perhaps I should look in on her one day. I shall give it thought.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy. You may know me by another name, or might, if I had one, and perhaps I did, once, when times were different, and the days were shorter, and so often louder.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, tootling my tiny tooty-flute, humming away at the sky, and the stars, and whatever else my fancy may dictate.
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Me? I never learned how not to learn.
Etc...
so says eff: sporadic spurts of grade eff distraction definitions: outdoor terms fiyh: dave's little guide to ultralight backpacking stoves boyb: dave's little guide to backpacks snorpy bits: nibbling away at your sanity last seen receding: missives from a certain mobile homer noseyjoe: purposefully poking my proboscis into technicals
I am the Lonesome Cowboy. Silence is my name, stealth is my game, shadow is my home. Quiet backwaters of life are my preferred haunts, and few if any are ever my companions.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy. I do not advertise. No room for a billboard on my horse, not willing to pull a trailer, and mostly shy, though every now and again I do become tempted to howl into the night, though quietly.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy. That about says it then, whatnot and all.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy. I sit, combing my hair, all the day long, singing gently, gently to it, my lone, lonesome hair. And when it is gone, this hair of mine, I will buy a cap and a cup, and wear the cap as I shuffle along, collecting stray coins with my cup in memory of my last lone hair.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, watching the stars by lantern-light, counting pebbles, breathing deeply, slowly, at rest, waiting for a sign that somehow this is all for a purpose.
I am the Lonesome Cowboy, slow to arrive, reluctant to leave, never seen, never regarded with undue respect, always thoughtful, full of regret, but free. Still free. I am free.
Have anything worth adding? Then try sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
Me? Enjoying deep, long conversations with my sock puppet, Ferd.
Etc...
so says eff: sporadic spurts of grade eff distraction definitions: outdoor terms fiyh: dave's little guide to ultralight backpacking stoves boyb: dave's little guide to backpacks snorpy bits: nibbling away at your sanity last seen receding: missives from a certain mobile homer noseyjoe: purposefully poking my proboscis into technicals
"Crunch Bunt", a new game. Sure to be massively popular. No rules yet.
"Sparfel Nuggets" — new boxed breakfast munch for the stupid.
"Whimsy Whammer" — you wake up late, feel great, head out happy for a date, get splattered on the front of a truck.
All I ever wanted was to be a sausage.
Am considering the purchase of a castle built of chocolate. Don't really know if I want to live there. May stop by and give it a trial nibble first.
Angelina Terdslinger has a new novel, "Angels Inside Switzerland", and it's about what you'd expect from a person with a name like that.
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Me? Never get tired of being smart. Not yet, anyway.
Etc...
so says eff: sporadic spurts of grade eff distraction definitions: outdoor terms fiyh: dave's little guide to ultralight backpacking stoves boyb: dave's little guide to backpacks snorpy bits: nibbling away at your sanity last seen receding: missives from a certain mobile homer noseyjoe: purposefully poking my proboscis into technicals
Pat and Trite, the Obvious Sisters, have indicated that Sunday will again be the date of the annual Lawn Chair Festival, when everyone sets up their recently repaired and refurbished, freshly washed and waxed turf furniture for inspection by the Neighborhood Decency Association for Decent Neighborhoods and Orderly Tomorrows. I guess this requires a response — which reminds me that I still have that two-gallon bucket of diarrhea in the freezer. Will need to give it some thought, because with diarrhea, your first shot is your only shot, especially if you thaw it out first.
Pat and Trite, the Obvious Sisters, are now preparing the opening celebrations of "Doily Week". It actually goes on for the entire month, given the depth of the subject, and the time needed to write, edit, and publish their commemorative magazine and YouTube series.
Pat and Trite, the Obvious Sisters, are sending their children to school soon. They had been homeschooling, until that became tiresome, so from now on they'll let government drones do the indoctrinating. (As soon as, it should be noted, that they actually find themselves in possession of breathing children.)
Pat and Trite, the Obvious Sisters, are speculating about the possible financial rewards of soup recycling, because who else thought of that? Seems like an overlooked field of possibly unlimited liquid opportunities.
Pat and Trite, the Obvious Sisters, got tired of homeschooling after they discovered that it was more work than telling their kids to pray, and giving them Jesus Action Figure coloring books.
Pat and Trite, the Obvious Sisters, have declared a war on waste, given the climate crisis, and they immediately declared a truce, to save resources, and endless pointless effort.
Pat and Trite, the Obvious Sisters, want to start a preschool for gifted children, specifically for children whose parents have gifted them at least $10 million to cover expenses. They'll give it a year or two and see how it goes. No refunds. Not in the plan.
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Me? Staying out of the line of fire.
Etc...
so says eff: sporadic spurts of grade eff distraction definitions: outdoor terms fiyh: dave's little guide to ultralight backpacking stoves boyb: dave's little guide to backpacks snorpy bits: nibbling away at your sanity last seen receding: missives from a certain mobile homer noseyjoe: purposefully poking my proboscis into technicals
My love, Echinoia Eeeps has a family as I've mentioned before, and one day I may qualify to meet them all. At this juncture in our relationship, I have managed to finagle introductions to Weeby, Blem, and Forb, though I'm not quite sure if they are full-on, purebred, pedigreed family, or even completely human, not to mention actually living, though they do seem to occasionally change positions. They could of course be garden gnomes but I'm not taking a chance on making that mistake again. My recovery was one thing — one long thing — but the medical bills on top of all that made the whole episode nearly unbearable. I had more than enough drama the time I tried to scratch Brutus behind his ear (he has just the one now), absent-mindedly mistaking him for a pussycat (he's a warthog). Well anyway, nowadays I check before I touch.
And then, also, Klem, Flem, and Ansel Eeeps.
So, you see, my love, Echinoia Eeeps has a family that just won't quit. In fact, they can't, because they adamantly refuse to even start. (Family tradition, backed up by televised torture and days spent in Confinement Cage #1 at the family rat ranch.)
My love, Echinoia Eeeps wants me to build a bird house. She has a flock of condors, about 30 nowadays, and just keeping them supplied with rotting meat imposes a significant drain on the Eeeps family ungulate herd. And condors are nippy, which might explain why they should have a place of their own, rather than being randomly arranged in the family dining room, which can also be a tad awkward during anniversaries and birthday parties, not to mention wedding receptions and wakes.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps was awarded the Gratuitous Achievement Award, awarded by the Gratuitous Achievement Award Award Committee for Gratuitous Achievements. She immediately hung it on her wall, but it immediately melted away, since it was made of ice, leaving behind only a damp stain. Then she pounded me because I'd congratulated her on it. And I had to lick the stain off the wall. At least I'm good for something.
My love, Echinoia Eeeps, is lying dormant — says it's something that she needs to do every few centuries to ensure continued growth and freedom from fungal infestations. Who am I to argue? I don't. Not any more. She bites.
Have anything worth adding? Then try sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
Me? I had nothing to do with this.
Etc...
so says eff: sporadic spurts of grade eff distraction definitions: outdoor terms fiyh: dave's little guide to ultralight backpacking stoves boyb: dave's little guide to backpacks snorpy bits: nibbling away at your sanity last seen receding: missives from a certain mobile homer noseyjoe: purposefully poking my proboscis into technicals
