The Past Prince Of Print

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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Have anything worth adding? Then try sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
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

Drifting By Candle Light

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.

 

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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

Angelina, Wha Ha Ye Writ?

"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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Have anything worth adding? Then try sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
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, Obvious Preppers

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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Have anything worth adding? Then try sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
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

When Such A Family

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.

 

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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

Fish As Food For Thoughts

I paid my rent today. Six buckets of fish, a pound of catnip, and a tummy rub. #LivingWithAKittyLandlord

Fish don't wear clothes. Someone needs to take charge of this situation.

And fish don't smell good. Probably because they don't have noses.

If wishes were fishes, they'd be all stinky. On a side note, I never known a fish that could carry on a decent conversation about gardening, or even breathe properly out of water.

Farnsworth went out fishing again. Last time he did that he came back with a mouth full of hooks and some real bad worm breath.

Me, the last time I ate fish I was an octopus and went in well-armed.

 

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Have anything worth adding? Then try sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
Me? I suspected as much.

 

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

Sparkle Wars

I am a survivor of the Sparkle Wars. Mom was too, but she died, so I don't know if she still qualifies.

Even though Mom survived the Sparkle Wars, and despite the fact that she died, I didn't inherit her whole Sparkle Barbie collection (still boxed), so who do you think came out ahead on that deal?

Sparkle Wars, latest casualty report — All Barbies and Kens have been destroyed, with flamethrowers. Some residual sizzling heard, if you listen closely, along with scattered applause from a selection of onlookers.

Sparkle Wars, roasted marshmallow division — Probably self-explanatory. Residual taste of smoking plastic. You get what you pay for.

I am a survivor of the Sparkle Wars, even though I wanted no part of this, and have never glowed in the dark, and never wanted to, recent movies notwithstanding.

Not much for Sparkle. I prefer beer. Any beer. Glitz is another matter. I'll keep my views on that one to myself. Flame on.

 

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Have anything worth adding? Then try sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
Me? Even after all these years, I actually do still glow in the dark.

 

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

Fair Fownt

I am the Lonesome Cowboy, drifting along from place to place, never noticed, never heard, never missed once I am gone again.

I am the Lonesome Cowboy, ever slow to warm, ever reluctant to anger, wishing solely for solitude and my own single-minded pursuit of it.

I am the Lonesome Cowboy, listening for that sound, the sound that never arrives, the sound of someone I know and love and respect, one who calls my name fondly. All I have, for the interim, is a pair of worn boots and a trace of sand in my socks, and the cold, dark night.

I am the Lonesome Cowboy, sitting quietly in the light of the moon, lecturing an excited swarm of mosquitoes, all of them delighted to know me, and to listen, as long as I share my warmth with them, and my taste.

I am the Lonesome Cowboy, sitting, knees against my chest, re-counting the stars. Stars — my friends, my only friends, though they never speak or ever write, but they are here with me. They are here. That is something. Perhaps all I ever will get.

I am the Lonesome Cowboy. I toot my flute, sometimes hoot, and smoke a random cigar. Alone I go, through rain and snow, still seeking what is beyond, afar. Though today I believe that I will spend my time only scratching and yawning. It is enough. At times it is.

 

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Have anything worth adding? Then try sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
Me? Guess.

 

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

Love Is All About Invention

Little-known fact — my love, Echinoia Eeeps, invented the caterpillar tractor, the first version powered by 478,276 caterpillars, each carefully cinched into its own hand-sewn harness. And I'm not really sure why I'm mentioning any of this. I guess it's because she'll pound me if I don't give her credit for it or something. That sounds about right.

My love, Echinoia Eeeps, wants to start a cancer farm, where all the plants and animals, and all the staff have cancer, so school children can tour the place and get acquainted with the idea of the futility of life, and the reality that no matter who or what you are, it's all going to end badly, which she thinks is hilarious.

My love, Echinoia Eeeps, found out that octopusseses have beaks, and wanted to add one to her collection, but she's allergic to water, which, I guess, could be an explanation of why she uses whiskey to make her tea, so anyway, she gave me a pair of flippers and sent me out after some octo-beaks, and that's also how I got all these puckered sucker marks on my face, which I wear proudly.

My love, Echinoia Eeeps, is encouraging me to, as she puts it, "Hang in there," but my thumbs already really hurt a lot and I've nearly breathed up all the air in this box. And its dark. And I have to pee.

"Life is a wonder", as my love, Echinoia Eeeps likes to say, while wondering if she should keep me (but I really have grown accustomed to my cage by now).

Eeeps Family Groupthink Days are approaching. I have been invited for the first time ever (an honor, I am told), by my love, Echinoia Eeeps, who is this very moment out searching for the proper tape to use on my eyelids, so's I won't blink even once and possibly miss Something Very Important, as they say. I'm also practicing my breath-holding skills in anticipation. (Am up to three minutes and forty-seven seconds on that, and can hardly wait to demonstrate my social compliance, should breathable air become scarce at any time during the week of blindfolded festivities.

 

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Have anything worth adding? Then try sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
Me? Recently realized that boredom is fun.

 

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

Repossessed Underwear

Dad is still dead. I know that because he was photographed last Thursday night running down Main Street with no pants. But at least he was wearing his Farmall cap. Once they caught him they realized who he was and reburied him in the nearest vacant hole.

Yes, I know that picnics are supposed to be fun, a time to relax and stop worrying about things, but then you're facing police. Police asking if you know the naked guy running around the park, and it's your dad, and then you have to explain that he's been dead for six years but refuses to realize it, and on and on...

Yeah, Dad. He's a lot easier to live with now that he's dead. Mellower somehow, even though he smells worse.

Saw Dad yesterday. He's working at Ted's Turnip Tuneup Shop. But business is slow, so he can take all the naps he can stand. Still dead too, which helps.

I sold Dad to the circus. Got a decent price, considering that he's been dead for 17 years. But we could not — absolutely could not — figure out a way to keep him buried. So at least now he's someone else's problem,'s earning his keep running around frightening people, and we have enough money to relocate while he's occupied inside the big tent.

Speaking of Dad, the mortuary wants to repossess his underwear. They say it was only a loaner set. More problems for the dead.

 

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Have anything worth adding? Then try sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
Me? Good question.

 

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