A fish just flew by. One of the original escaped netizens.
A fish just flew by. What am I to think?
A fish just rode by on a bicycle, looking for the ghost of Gloria Steinem.
A fish just went past, in an open touring car, waving at everyone. A possible goodbye tour?
A fish just came by, with an offer to sell my used socks, saying it would give me half of the proceeds, in worms. Didn't say what kind of worms, and I already have some decent ones anyway.
A fish sent me a long letter, full of meditations on the state of the universe, mostly unintelligible, at least to me, seeming to revolve mostly around slime.
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Me? Soon to patent slime origami, once I perfect the greasy crease.
Whenever I'm asked what my religion is, I start giggling, and snorting, and then snot comes out my nose, and no one ever believes that that is my answer.
Religion is a funny thing, though in any group I'm usually the only one laughing.
How about a religion where people stay home and quietly mind their own business? Hm? Works for me.
I did try religion once, though it gave me diarrhea, and I'm not the only one, by a long shot.
I once asked God what the deal was with all this religion business, and got only a blank look in return. Followed by the sound of a fart.
Pretty soon it'll all be over, and I really can't wait -- God
It really isn't that much fun being omniscient. You never get surprised by anything stupid. -- God
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Me? Truly.
Fish concerts, fish dips, fish washers, fish whistles. So many topics, so easy to ignore.
Follow your fish. And bring a bag. Sometimes they get squishy.
I never met a fish I didn't not dislike on sight. Or ever after. Maybe both.
And I never had a fish chase me down the street. Not one. Unlike some Christians. What is it with all that barking and howling? But i run fast. Especially from any one espousing Lordan Savvyor Cheez Whizz Crust.
So it's fish fart week here in HappyLand, where all the fish fart and everyone smiles like it's normal. I for one would be content to know that this place never existed, but the fish eat the mosquitoes and fart away the ones that they can't snap up, and the beer is cheap: "FischBrau, lager for the lazy."
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Me? I don't smell like that any more, I think.
I can't honestly remember the last time I had some of Grandma's charcoal-grilled ice cream pie. Probably decades ago now, and no one knows how to make it because she ate the recipe just before she croaked. (Clarification — Croaked for the last time. She never could sing that well.) Yes, we did pump her stomach but all we got was nasty bilge and steaming mush. No recipe. It looks hopeless by now, and there are way too many maggots swarming the corpse as well. Kind of leans toward killing your appetite, mostly.
I don't pucker very well any more, unless I'm left out in the sun for a few days, and I still don't like cranberries, no matter what my grandmother thought about their intellectual capabilities.
Spider pie — recipes I found on a slip of paper stuck in Grandma's 1903 dictionary. All three of them were from the olden days before TV dinners. Remember TV dinners? Am I that old? (Keep in mind that I also bite.)
There has been a real decline in the number a hot babes you see over at the Wally Mart these days, and I blame it on all them dam liberals makin off with them for knee farius purposes and all that. It's gettin so I'm comin up excited with the grammas drivin around in the scooters with there size 18 love handles hangin out. Life aint gettin to be that much fun no more.
Grampa Fartenbumper escaped again and went out dancing, again. We had to tie him up with a chain and drag him home with the farm tractor. And then we painted him orange so's he'll be easier to spot next time. There's sure to be a next time. There always is. He can't stand just sitting at home with Gramma Fartenbumper, in the parlor, staring at the wall and making those noises with his nose.
Nobody talks much about Lady Gaga any more. I wonder what she turned into after that eight-month hibernation of hers. In the cave. Might have nippers on one end now or something, or horns, or maybe not, or maybe turned into someone's grandmother. Could be. There's always a chance. Moo.
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Me? Definitely never wanted to be a granny, or a walrus.
So the power is off today, and here I am with all the launch codes for all the nuclear missiles in all the silos in the country, and no way to make it happen.
So the power is off today, and it's just like the olden days around here. No radio, no TV, no refrigerator, no light, just a lot of quiet and nothing to do after sunset besides swearing and hunting bedbugs.
So the power is off today. and I have 17 metric tons of beef fat buried in the back yard. Tallow candles, anyone? (Bring your own wicks though — I'm fresh out.) 10% off if you bring your own gas masks too.
So the power is off again, and I have a whole bathtub full of electric eels. Kinda tingly, but you can get to like it.
So the power is off again, which is nice if you're one of those "go getters". I do believe that the world will be a better place when they have gone and have gotten, or when something eats them.
So the power is off again. Now if I suddenly got real stupid and decided that I wanted a tattoo, I'd have to sit here and just be stupid on my own, with the power off, and with no shiny new identifying marks.
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Me? Gettin' all sparkly here.
If you're a shy person, things are different. You feel OK around cats but that's about it. Everything else is too stressful. Cats understand this.
If someone asks where all the shy people go to hang out, well they don't. They're too shy for that. They just try to blend in. Like, you walk down a street, and if you pay attention you realize that all those trees and shrubs, or at least most of them, are shy people trying to blend in without feeling completely lonely either. True.
I used to know a shy person. His name was the same as mine, in fact. But then he went into hiding and no one realized that he was gone. Call it a success story.
Being shy isn't all that bad, except for all the things that go with it, like being around other people for your whole life, everywhere.
Too shy to write any more...
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Me? Pretty much.
I didn't quite catch what Mom said before she died. It was something like "You stupid bastard — bring back my ashtray", but she apparently didn't notice that I'd also made off with her cigars.
I don't mind paying a reasonable amount for lunch as long as Mom continues to pick my teeth afterward.
I sent Mom a cookie for her birthday but since she's dead it may take a while to catch up with her. She'll probably understand, and if not I'll take the goat over to poop on her grave. Goat poop always got a chuckle out of her.
I told Mom I was going to join the Aard Force and she said no, but she's dead now, and I'm in my 70s now, so screw that. Never take advice from the dead. All of them are dead for a reason, you know.
I went over to ask Mom what I should be when I grow up, but she's still dead. Now what? I'm in my seventies and still clueless.
If Mom were still alive she'd be dead by now. Something I can no longer help her with.
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Me? Maybe if I drink more vinegar.
