Deametrus was a bullfrog with an attitude. He stayed up all night making bullfrog noises. Every one in the swamp and the surrounding area knew Deametrus. Many female frogs called him ‘Dirty Deametrus’ or worse because he was quite the lech. Lech being short for lecherous, neither you nor I have all day.
Most any day of the week you could catch Deametrus on the beach in the roots of an old willow tree catching bugs and ‘checking out the chicks.’
At night he had two favorite spots, on a huge lily pad by the stream mouth, or on a pile of mud surrounded by rushes right in the middle of the swamp. He would sit all night, drinking rum and smoking fat cigars, picking up female frogs. I can’t tell the difference either. He could.
You’d think Deametrus went home alone a lot. Truth is he had progeny in every swamp, pond and stream northwest of Winnemucca. Some of them even spoke Canadian.
It just goes to show you, with bullfrogs or anyone else for that matter: attitude is everything.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
The Primate Apostles
Mad Max and his primate apostles were playing a gig down at the beach at the edge of the world. They’d been playing for just over six hours and even the lion heart was beginning to wish they would stop and take a break when Max ended a drum solo with
“Right that’s enough,” he trotted out from behind his drum set shook hands with the apes, gorillas, monkeys and chimpanzees that made up the 40 piece drum only band and headed into The River Water House.
Inside he got a tall lemonade and ran into Sir Wallace Aurthur Grey.
Mad Max was happy and excited and tired: the way musicians are after a good gig. “Hey lets go play ‘Plato and Aristotle’ or something, after all that racket a bit of silence couldn’t hurt anything.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know; I’ll go sit on a rock and not come back until I have something to say that’s important. Or you can start--it doesn’t matter. Servant, master, student, teacher...it’s all the same. We can have The Lion Heart judge!”
Sir Wallace Aurthur Grey laughed and having nothing better to do agreed.
These games take time.
The Lion Heart reluctantly agreed to referee.
They chose a particular rock at the water's edge and Sir Wallace Aurthur Grey went first. Sir Wallace Aurthur Grey sat out there for close to three days and came back with “There are no ordinary moments.”
Mad Max made a sound like a disqualifying buzzer “Anghng! That’s plagiarism. And we all already know that: point for me.”
“No fair that was a good one.”
“Yeah but it’s not new.”
“You didn’t say it had to be new, just important.”
The Lion Heart interrupted, “No points for either of you. You can go again or let Max.”
Sir Wallace Aurthur Grey let Max go.
Max sat out there for about twenty hours then came back with “If you would know anything know self.”
“That’s not bad but it’s not a point...”
“I know: I got hungry. You go, I’m getting a bite.”
Sir Wallace Aurthur Grey sat out there for two days straight. When he came back he didn’t say anything but wrote in the sand with a stick:
‘AL(L)ONE’
Max took the stick and wrote ‘At One Ment’ then wrote ‘atonement.’ “We’re never going to score a point are we...?”
They played for six more months and no one got a point.
They play like that every now and then. Although they really enjoy it, it’s almost always pointless.
“Right that’s enough,” he trotted out from behind his drum set shook hands with the apes, gorillas, monkeys and chimpanzees that made up the 40 piece drum only band and headed into The River Water House.
Inside he got a tall lemonade and ran into Sir Wallace Aurthur Grey.
Mad Max was happy and excited and tired: the way musicians are after a good gig. “Hey lets go play ‘Plato and Aristotle’ or something, after all that racket a bit of silence couldn’t hurt anything.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know; I’ll go sit on a rock and not come back until I have something to say that’s important. Or you can start--it doesn’t matter. Servant, master, student, teacher...it’s all the same. We can have The Lion Heart judge!”
Sir Wallace Aurthur Grey laughed and having nothing better to do agreed.
These games take time.
The Lion Heart reluctantly agreed to referee.
They chose a particular rock at the water's edge and Sir Wallace Aurthur Grey went first. Sir Wallace Aurthur Grey sat out there for close to three days and came back with “There are no ordinary moments.”
Mad Max made a sound like a disqualifying buzzer “Anghng! That’s plagiarism. And we all already know that: point for me.”
“No fair that was a good one.”
“Yeah but it’s not new.”
“You didn’t say it had to be new, just important.”
The Lion Heart interrupted, “No points for either of you. You can go again or let Max.”
Sir Wallace Aurthur Grey let Max go.
Max sat out there for about twenty hours then came back with “If you would know anything know self.”
“That’s not bad but it’s not a point...”
“I know: I got hungry. You go, I’m getting a bite.”
Sir Wallace Aurthur Grey sat out there for two days straight. When he came back he didn’t say anything but wrote in the sand with a stick:
‘AL(L)ONE’
Max took the stick and wrote ‘At One Ment’ then wrote ‘atonement.’ “We’re never going to score a point are we...?”
They played for six more months and no one got a point.
They play like that every now and then. Although they really enjoy it, it’s almost always pointless.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Uncle Ned, Advice Of
Adolph was a Tanzanian Wanker Beast. He ate his vegetables every day and could run very fast. Thus he avoided being eaten by lions.
Many people confuse wanker beasts with wilder beasts, and then when they find out it really is wanker they point and laugh. Many wanker beasts are self-conscious because of this.
Not Adolph.
He was blessed with high self-esteem brought about by good parenting. It was in fact his father that had taken the required time it took to teach Adolph to run very fast.
One day Adolph was running around just for the heck of it, just for the fun of it, just for the sheer joy of being outside and alive, when he saw his uncle Ned.
Uncle Ned was really old. His heard fellows were teasing him by calling him “food-for-lions.” Ned figured better lions than vultures or those goofy hyenas.
“Adolph, my boy,” Adolph’s uncle Ned said. “Always remember to eat your vegetables, and watch out for Fat Eddie the rhino.”
“All I ever eat is vegetables, and Fat Eddie likes me, Uncle Ned.” That was; however, Uncle Ned’s last piece of advice.
He got munched by lions the very next day.
Many people confuse wanker beasts with wilder beasts, and then when they find out it really is wanker they point and laugh. Many wanker beasts are self-conscious because of this.
Not Adolph.
He was blessed with high self-esteem brought about by good parenting. It was in fact his father that had taken the required time it took to teach Adolph to run very fast.
One day Adolph was running around just for the heck of it, just for the fun of it, just for the sheer joy of being outside and alive, when he saw his uncle Ned.
Uncle Ned was really old. His heard fellows were teasing him by calling him “food-for-lions.” Ned figured better lions than vultures or those goofy hyenas.
“Adolph, my boy,” Adolph’s uncle Ned said. “Always remember to eat your vegetables, and watch out for Fat Eddie the rhino.”
“All I ever eat is vegetables, and Fat Eddie likes me, Uncle Ned.” That was; however, Uncle Ned’s last piece of advice.
He got munched by lions the very next day.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Matthew and Cerise
Mattidawane and Natasha Cerise whom everybody called Sharesse where in the commissary having lunch. The last time they had seen each other they had slept together but as was common parlance “nothing happened”. Well, nothing physical but something definitely happened.
“No. I mean it, I could use your help with this,” Sharesse was talking about her chemistry class.
“I mean it too. I want you to come up but I'm not that interested in helping you with your chemistry...exactly.” He trailed off and she blushed a little.
She was one of those girls that was beautiful without trying, and when she tried she was stunning. She had tried a little today because she knew she was meeting him for lunch.
“Okay, maybe I could come up later and you could help me with my chemistry first and then we could uh, do some other...uh, stuff...after.”
He couldn't help but smile, actually he beamed. One thing he did have was a winning smile, he smiled with his whole face and a lot of his body too.
She had never really noticed before. She also had a winning smile, people had told her so but his was somehow “bigger.”
They ate in silence for a moment. “I have lab till late,” she said.
“Okay, so like 7 or something?”
“Maybe a little earlier, I meant like 4:30...which isn't late but it's late for me: my classes all end by 2 except for that lab...”
“Oh...”
“But that sounds great...” She smiled at him. “Around seven.”
For Mattidawane the next eight hours passed like eight long eternities, each one longer than the last. He thought about relativity and how much he could get done because he would read and study and look at the clock, no matter how much he read or studied it seemed no time had gone by at all. “I could read War and Peace, this afternoon,” he chuckled to himself.
At 6:43 she appeared at his open door.
They actually studied chemistry for a solid 173 minutes, the nerd in him came out and he lost all track of time, because it was chemistry, but it was her chemistry. Turned out they had chemistry too. They did other stuff, and this time he was well prepared. He even had a well illustrated Kama Sutra by the head of the bed where she could see it. She found this quite amusing and endearing.
After that they were quite the item.
Years passed. Graduation: she was going to study at one university, he at another. The day she left he kept a bold composure and very few tears were shed on his part, but there was lots of long wet hugging. But when she was gone his sat down in his room and cried. They kept in touch. This was before email and texting. The phone bills were sometimes cumbersome. After a year he couldn't stand it anymore and he had a feeling if he didn't do something she would, only he wouldn't like it.
So he got in his car and drove to her house. She saw the car pull up but didn't know who it was. When he got out and gave her that smile of his she cried like a little girl and so did he.
And that was that.
They have kids now and the rest of it is actually kind of boring. I just told you the interesting parts.
It was a nice wedding.
A boy and two girls.
Samsara.
“No. I mean it, I could use your help with this,” Sharesse was talking about her chemistry class.
“I mean it too. I want you to come up but I'm not that interested in helping you with your chemistry...exactly.” He trailed off and she blushed a little.
She was one of those girls that was beautiful without trying, and when she tried she was stunning. She had tried a little today because she knew she was meeting him for lunch.
“Okay, maybe I could come up later and you could help me with my chemistry first and then we could uh, do some other...uh, stuff...after.”
He couldn't help but smile, actually he beamed. One thing he did have was a winning smile, he smiled with his whole face and a lot of his body too.
She had never really noticed before. She also had a winning smile, people had told her so but his was somehow “bigger.”
They ate in silence for a moment. “I have lab till late,” she said.
“Okay, so like 7 or something?”
“Maybe a little earlier, I meant like 4:30...which isn't late but it's late for me: my classes all end by 2 except for that lab...”
“Oh...”
“But that sounds great...” She smiled at him. “Around seven.”
For Mattidawane the next eight hours passed like eight long eternities, each one longer than the last. He thought about relativity and how much he could get done because he would read and study and look at the clock, no matter how much he read or studied it seemed no time had gone by at all. “I could read War and Peace, this afternoon,” he chuckled to himself.
At 6:43 she appeared at his open door.
They actually studied chemistry for a solid 173 minutes, the nerd in him came out and he lost all track of time, because it was chemistry, but it was her chemistry. Turned out they had chemistry too. They did other stuff, and this time he was well prepared. He even had a well illustrated Kama Sutra by the head of the bed where she could see it. She found this quite amusing and endearing.
After that they were quite the item.
Years passed. Graduation: she was going to study at one university, he at another. The day she left he kept a bold composure and very few tears were shed on his part, but there was lots of long wet hugging. But when she was gone his sat down in his room and cried. They kept in touch. This was before email and texting. The phone bills were sometimes cumbersome. After a year he couldn't stand it anymore and he had a feeling if he didn't do something she would, only he wouldn't like it.
So he got in his car and drove to her house. She saw the car pull up but didn't know who it was. When he got out and gave her that smile of his she cried like a little girl and so did he.
And that was that.
They have kids now and the rest of it is actually kind of boring. I just told you the interesting parts.
It was a nice wedding.
A boy and two girls.
Samsara.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Lion Heart, The
I’ve written many stories about the Lion Heart and you may or may not have read this one.
As you well know, the Lion Heart lived on the beach at the edge of the world. It was nowhere near the Florida Keys, depending of course on which dimension you're looking in from, or out from as the case may be, the multiverse being what it is, the center of it is anywhere but not necessarily everywhere and it's kinda the same thing with the beach at the edge of the world because as with the center so with the edges. But enough of that.
There he enjoyed dancing. He danced under the stars, to the music of the waves and wind in the trees. Sometimes he would swim out to the edge of the ocean and look down on the stars. The Lion Heart wondered what would happen if he ever went over the edge and what was down there for him because it was different for every person, if you could call the Lion Heart a person. He thought he’d miss dancing on the beach on the edge of the world if ever he did jump off. After his swim he would run through the dark jungle and stand in the place where cool water cascaded off the rocks. He didn’t like the feeling of salt water after it dried on his skin.
Many times he would pile up sticks and make a fire. Other times he would pile up sticks and fire never came.
He would dance and dance. No ballet dancer or ballerina was ever more graceful than the Lion Heart, nor did one ever jump so high or twiddle their feet as many times. The Lion Heart was very happy there on the beach at the edge of the world.
As you well know, the Lion Heart lived on the beach at the edge of the world. It was nowhere near the Florida Keys, depending of course on which dimension you're looking in from, or out from as the case may be, the multiverse being what it is, the center of it is anywhere but not necessarily everywhere and it's kinda the same thing with the beach at the edge of the world because as with the center so with the edges. But enough of that.
There he enjoyed dancing. He danced under the stars, to the music of the waves and wind in the trees. Sometimes he would swim out to the edge of the ocean and look down on the stars. The Lion Heart wondered what would happen if he ever went over the edge and what was down there for him because it was different for every person, if you could call the Lion Heart a person. He thought he’d miss dancing on the beach on the edge of the world if ever he did jump off. After his swim he would run through the dark jungle and stand in the place where cool water cascaded off the rocks. He didn’t like the feeling of salt water after it dried on his skin.
Many times he would pile up sticks and make a fire. Other times he would pile up sticks and fire never came.
He would dance and dance. No ballet dancer or ballerina was ever more graceful than the Lion Heart, nor did one ever jump so high or twiddle their feet as many times. The Lion Heart was very happy there on the beach at the edge of the world.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
‘Just can’t make love all the time.’
Joe Diamond was playing a honkey tonk joint in Shreveport, Louisiana, when he looked out into the crowd during a slow song. The stage lights were low and the hall lights were up a little bit more than usual, and he saw a myna bird that made him lose his place. She may not have been the best-looking myna bird ever, but she was close. Joe Diamond thought he’d never seen a bird so fine.
Right after that song he took a break to the booing of the crowd. They always booed if he quit playing. If the crowd had its way ol’ Joe Diamond would never take a break and just play all night. It took him awhile to find her because she’d been holding it ‘till he did take a break along with a bunch of other girls and you know how girls can get when they all get in the bathroom together.
Joe Diamond came face to face with her at the back bar. He had no idea what to say.
He wanted to say something like “you're the best looking bird I’ve ever seen,” but the words just wouldn’t come.
“Hey, you’re Joe Diamond,” Betsy Byrd exclaimed upon seeing him up close.
“Hey, you sure are pretty, what’s your name?” Joe Diamond said after a moment’s pause.
“I’m Betsy Byrd.”
“Well pleased to meet you Betsy Baird.”
“No, it’s Byrd, like myna-bird.”
Joe thought he was gonna die. “You make me nervous, I think I’d rather be dancing now...but who’s gonna play if I don’t. You must meet me after so we can go dancing in New Orleans.”
“But I have a boyfriend.”
“He doesn’t love you like I do.” Joe looked her square in the eyes and somehow she knew it was true. The rest, as they, say is history. (Look on the cover it says fiction, you and I both know this would never fly in real life, then again neither should bumble bees).
Three weeks later they were in Midland-Odessa, playing in a joint so small two cigarettes could fog out the place.
“Joe, why don’t you give it up and settle down with me?”
Joe Diamond almost coughed up beer through his nose. “Baby, I was born to play. If I don’t play my feathers will fall off and then I’ll die.”
“When we were in New Orleans and we went dancing weren’t you happy then?”
“Of course: I was with you.”
“Didn’t you tell me there was no place you’d rather be than with me?”
“You know I’d love to try but we can’t make love all the time.”
Six months later Betsy was gone, leaving Joe Diamond with a tear in his eye and a pretty big ding in his bank account. He wrote a song called ‘Just can’t make love all the time.’ And he never went dancing in New Orleans again, unless, of course, he was on stage.
Right after that song he took a break to the booing of the crowd. They always booed if he quit playing. If the crowd had its way ol’ Joe Diamond would never take a break and just play all night. It took him awhile to find her because she’d been holding it ‘till he did take a break along with a bunch of other girls and you know how girls can get when they all get in the bathroom together.
Joe Diamond came face to face with her at the back bar. He had no idea what to say.
He wanted to say something like “you're the best looking bird I’ve ever seen,” but the words just wouldn’t come.
“Hey, you’re Joe Diamond,” Betsy Byrd exclaimed upon seeing him up close.
“Hey, you sure are pretty, what’s your name?” Joe Diamond said after a moment’s pause.
“I’m Betsy Byrd.”
“Well pleased to meet you Betsy Baird.”
“No, it’s Byrd, like myna-bird.”
Joe thought he was gonna die. “You make me nervous, I think I’d rather be dancing now...but who’s gonna play if I don’t. You must meet me after so we can go dancing in New Orleans.”
“But I have a boyfriend.”
“He doesn’t love you like I do.” Joe looked her square in the eyes and somehow she knew it was true. The rest, as they, say is history. (Look on the cover it says fiction, you and I both know this would never fly in real life, then again neither should bumble bees).
Three weeks later they were in Midland-Odessa, playing in a joint so small two cigarettes could fog out the place.
“Joe, why don’t you give it up and settle down with me?”
Joe Diamond almost coughed up beer through his nose. “Baby, I was born to play. If I don’t play my feathers will fall off and then I’ll die.”
“When we were in New Orleans and we went dancing weren’t you happy then?”
“Of course: I was with you.”
“Didn’t you tell me there was no place you’d rather be than with me?”
“You know I’d love to try but we can’t make love all the time.”
Six months later Betsy was gone, leaving Joe Diamond with a tear in his eye and a pretty big ding in his bank account. He wrote a song called ‘Just can’t make love all the time.’ And he never went dancing in New Orleans again, unless, of course, he was on stage.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Beatris
Beatris was a chipmunk who had been tormented by demons, not figurative demons like demons of the mind, but actual nasty grubby demons with bat wings and pointy tails, breathing fire to boot. Beatris was quite sure she was done for, but kept her wits about her anyway.
She had been munching on an acorn, watching the last rays of light fade out over the horizon when a demon plucked her off her log, right by the scruff of her little chipmunk neck.
She was caught utterly off guard.
The demons pulled her tail and singed her toes with their hot breath. Beatris squeaked her displeasure. Then they put her in a little brass cage. Beatris noted immediately that the bars were too wide and escape would be easy. Being clever and sharp-witted Beatris bided her time.
The demons were ranting about witch’s stew and starting to raise a ruckus as Beatris slipped out of the cave the demons had kidnapped her to. A witch was yelling:
“I said ‘woodchuck’, you idiots!”
Beatris ran like screaming demons all the way back to the forest. She got back just in time for sunrise.
“Beautiful ssunrisse, aye Beatrisss?” Sammy snake said.
Beatris took a deep breath of crisp morning air.
“You have no idea.”
She had been munching on an acorn, watching the last rays of light fade out over the horizon when a demon plucked her off her log, right by the scruff of her little chipmunk neck.
She was caught utterly off guard.
The demons pulled her tail and singed her toes with their hot breath. Beatris squeaked her displeasure. Then they put her in a little brass cage. Beatris noted immediately that the bars were too wide and escape would be easy. Being clever and sharp-witted Beatris bided her time.
The demons were ranting about witch’s stew and starting to raise a ruckus as Beatris slipped out of the cave the demons had kidnapped her to. A witch was yelling:
“I said ‘woodchuck’, you idiots!”
Beatris ran like screaming demons all the way back to the forest. She got back just in time for sunrise.
“Beautiful ssunrisse, aye Beatrisss?” Sammy snake said.
Beatris took a deep breath of crisp morning air.
“You have no idea.”
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Edsil, Reality.
Edsil was walking down the beach, above him on a low cliff sat Reality. Reality had been walking along minding her own business, when she came upon the ocean. Reality was stunningly beautiful; more beautiful than even the ocean. She was completely aware of herself, and heedless of her beauty.
She didn’t care how incredible she looked sitting on a rock, on a low cliff, above a white sand beach, over looking the ocean. She had only just sat down when Edsil had happened to look up at her.
When he looked up at her he had, in an instant, a revelation. It literally knocked him down. He realized how beautiful Reality really was.
Reality does this to some people. Edsil was one of them.
He lay there on the beach enjoying his brief moment of clarity. When he looked up again Reality was gone, but Edsil would still be forever changed.
Just a glimpse of Reality can do this to people. Reality never saw Edsil again. Edsil was so stunned that he lay on the beach for a long, long time. Then he walked to his car, got in it and ran 9 stop lights in a row. He went to his office and told his boss he was a complete idiot for banging his secretary when he had a perfectly beautiful wife at home.
Edsil also told his boss he quit. Just like that.
He got in his car again and drove home. If he had had a wife he would have made passionate love to her. Instead, he packed up his meager belongings, threw away the things that wouldn’t fit into his daypack, and then drove to the bank.
It was 4:26.
The bank was just closing, but Edsil had that look on his face. Edsil closed his checking and savings: $23,916.21. He got all hundreds a ten, a five, a one, two dimes and a penny. He stuffed all this in his day bag, along with the receipts from his two accounts. Edsil drove to the airport and bought a one-way ticket to Bali.
Fortunately one of his meager belongings was a passport. He had three hours before his flight left. He used the time to sell his car to a deserving looking porter for $1,000.00. It was a two-year-old blue car. The porter thought Edsil was crazy. This didn’t stop him from calling his wife and telling her to bring cash though.
Edsil wasn’t crazy. Edsil was just high on Reality.
He flew to Bali and there became a poet. He lied about the part when they ask you how long you intend to stay. He never got famous. He never got depressed either.
He wrote a lot of really bad poetry, but once in a while he wrote a true gem. He was clever enough to know the difference.
He met an insanely sexy Balinese woman and married her. I still can’t spell her name. She was sweet though.
One glimpse of Reality was all it took for Edsil.
Some people never look.
She didn’t care how incredible she looked sitting on a rock, on a low cliff, above a white sand beach, over looking the ocean. She had only just sat down when Edsil had happened to look up at her.
When he looked up at her he had, in an instant, a revelation. It literally knocked him down. He realized how beautiful Reality really was.
Reality does this to some people. Edsil was one of them.
He lay there on the beach enjoying his brief moment of clarity. When he looked up again Reality was gone, but Edsil would still be forever changed.
Just a glimpse of Reality can do this to people. Reality never saw Edsil again. Edsil was so stunned that he lay on the beach for a long, long time. Then he walked to his car, got in it and ran 9 stop lights in a row. He went to his office and told his boss he was a complete idiot for banging his secretary when he had a perfectly beautiful wife at home.
Edsil also told his boss he quit. Just like that.
He got in his car again and drove home. If he had had a wife he would have made passionate love to her. Instead, he packed up his meager belongings, threw away the things that wouldn’t fit into his daypack, and then drove to the bank.
It was 4:26.
The bank was just closing, but Edsil had that look on his face. Edsil closed his checking and savings: $23,916.21. He got all hundreds a ten, a five, a one, two dimes and a penny. He stuffed all this in his day bag, along with the receipts from his two accounts. Edsil drove to the airport and bought a one-way ticket to Bali.
Fortunately one of his meager belongings was a passport. He had three hours before his flight left. He used the time to sell his car to a deserving looking porter for $1,000.00. It was a two-year-old blue car. The porter thought Edsil was crazy. This didn’t stop him from calling his wife and telling her to bring cash though.
Edsil wasn’t crazy. Edsil was just high on Reality.
He flew to Bali and there became a poet. He lied about the part when they ask you how long you intend to stay. He never got famous. He never got depressed either.
He wrote a lot of really bad poetry, but once in a while he wrote a true gem. He was clever enough to know the difference.
He met an insanely sexy Balinese woman and married her. I still can’t spell her name. She was sweet though.
One glimpse of Reality was all it took for Edsil.
Some people never look.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Wallace Aurthur Grey
Wallace Aurthur Grey was a huge rat. A gray rat of course. He was consort to kings, wizards and witches, and lawyers. Like all rats, he was ridiculously proud of his tail and you could often catch him on his hind legs grooming it. He had a tremendous aura and even demons wouldn’t risk tormenting him.
They didn’t have to; he tormented himself with narcotics, especially cocaine.
Mad Max, Bob the Grand Mage, Sir Frederick (the) Black and quite a few other characters you haven’t met yet were all friends of Wallace A. Grey.
He would take drugs and enter into worlds where the laws of physics worked backwards and inanimate objects divulged their deepest, darkest secrets.
He was a walking encyclopedia, knew more trivia than that postman in that bar in Boston and his powers of observation, reason and deduction made that certain English detective whose first name rhymes with ‘rock’ look rather pale.
“I have a solution,” was a phrase often uttered by Wallace A. Grey. This was then followed by a lengthy recount of the problem and then an even lengthier account of the solution. Those wise or evil and on occasion good or holy (Wallace didn’t care) would stop, listen and take notes when Wallace A. Grey started talking about solutions. He wasn’t, due to the abuse of cocaine, patient. He hated to repeat himself, although he delighted in expounding on certain points if asked to.
Mad Max got ideas for new spells, potions and drum solo’s from him.
Wallace wandered around the universe in the most random fashion, showing up unexpectedly here in this book and other odd places. If you pay attention and look around you just might catch him in a bus station coffee shop or something discussing reality with whoever happens to be near.
They didn’t have to; he tormented himself with narcotics, especially cocaine.
Mad Max, Bob the Grand Mage, Sir Frederick (the) Black and quite a few other characters you haven’t met yet were all friends of Wallace A. Grey.
He would take drugs and enter into worlds where the laws of physics worked backwards and inanimate objects divulged their deepest, darkest secrets.
He was a walking encyclopedia, knew more trivia than that postman in that bar in Boston and his powers of observation, reason and deduction made that certain English detective whose first name rhymes with ‘rock’ look rather pale.
“I have a solution,” was a phrase often uttered by Wallace A. Grey. This was then followed by a lengthy recount of the problem and then an even lengthier account of the solution. Those wise or evil and on occasion good or holy (Wallace didn’t care) would stop, listen and take notes when Wallace A. Grey started talking about solutions. He wasn’t, due to the abuse of cocaine, patient. He hated to repeat himself, although he delighted in expounding on certain points if asked to.
Mad Max got ideas for new spells, potions and drum solo’s from him.
Wallace wandered around the universe in the most random fashion, showing up unexpectedly here in this book and other odd places. If you pay attention and look around you just might catch him in a bus station coffee shop or something discussing reality with whoever happens to be near.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Paco
Paco was a penguin who always wore a black sombrero with silver trim. It was Paco’s lucky sombrero. He knew it was his lucky sombrero because one day he was wearing it and the wind blew it away.
Paco ran after it.
By the time he had it back on his head and had returned to his beach, half the guys he’d just been talking to had been munched by a pair of hungry killer whales. Paco figured if it wasn’t for his lucky sombrero, he’d have been munched too.
He was wearing it that day on the ice flow when he met Sally. Sally was the best looking penguin south of Terra Del Fuego and that’s saying something.
Paco and Sally lived blissfully for several years but one day a huge shark named Fergal happened by and--well you know the rest.
Paco never found another mate, but he always wore his lucky sombrero hoping he might chance on another pretty penguin.
Actually that sombrero made Paco look pretty darn silly. Many of the females in his flock wouldn’t dare be caught near him much less mating him.
“Here comes that weirdo with the stupid hat. Hide!”
This was both good and bad, depending on your point of view.
Paco lived out his days in that sombrero `till he finally laid down one day and died of old age. Nobody, not even carrion fowl thought he was dead for several days, they just thought he was snoozing with his sombrero tipped down over his face. Finally a strong gust of wind blew it away and the birds flew down next to our deceased hero.
“Hey Charlie,” one said. “It’s Paco and he’s dead.”
“You sure?”
“Look for your self. That’s one dead ass penguin.”
“Let’s eat `em,” said another bird.
“Well, sure. But where’s his hat? We can’t eat him with out the hat.”
“Wouldn’t be proper,” said Charlie.
They never did find his hat. They ate him anyway.
Paco ran after it.
By the time he had it back on his head and had returned to his beach, half the guys he’d just been talking to had been munched by a pair of hungry killer whales. Paco figured if it wasn’t for his lucky sombrero, he’d have been munched too.
He was wearing it that day on the ice flow when he met Sally. Sally was the best looking penguin south of Terra Del Fuego and that’s saying something.
Paco and Sally lived blissfully for several years but one day a huge shark named Fergal happened by and--well you know the rest.
Paco never found another mate, but he always wore his lucky sombrero hoping he might chance on another pretty penguin.
Actually that sombrero made Paco look pretty darn silly. Many of the females in his flock wouldn’t dare be caught near him much less mating him.
“Here comes that weirdo with the stupid hat. Hide!”
This was both good and bad, depending on your point of view.
Paco lived out his days in that sombrero `till he finally laid down one day and died of old age. Nobody, not even carrion fowl thought he was dead for several days, they just thought he was snoozing with his sombrero tipped down over his face. Finally a strong gust of wind blew it away and the birds flew down next to our deceased hero.
“Hey Charlie,” one said. “It’s Paco and he’s dead.”
“You sure?”
“Look for your self. That’s one dead ass penguin.”
“Let’s eat `em,” said another bird.
“Well, sure. But where’s his hat? We can’t eat him with out the hat.”
“Wouldn’t be proper,” said Charlie.
They never did find his hat. They ate him anyway.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Ted
Ted the buffalo was running around at top speed for no reason at all. Prairie dogs went flying down their holes.
“Mayday, mayday! Here comes that big, stupid buffalo again!”
Ted was, of course, just having fun. He liked to run around and show off for the girls. They thought he was a little goofy but they all liked him anyway.
Sometimes he would make train sound effects while he ran around. He would also run into other buffalo; only half on purpose.
“Dang it Ted; cut it out!”
“Sorry,” and off he’d speed in another random direction.
“Take a chill pill, Ted.” It was Joe Buffalo.
“You can’t catch me! Bet you can’t, and I’ve been running all day.” Ted slammed into Joe almost knocking him over.
“All right. That’s it...” Joe Buffalo turned around and took off after Ted. But Ted wasn’t fooling when he said Joe wasn’t going to catch him. Ted was, if nothing else, quick. Every time Joe got close Ted would turn it on.
Finally Joe was huffing and puffing. Ted danced in none too close and then ran a circle around him. Joe laughed at this.
The herd was heading for the Cimarron river about a hundred miles west of present day Tulsa very near what is now called Ames. Back when Ted was running around, the water was clear except after a really hard rain. Ted and Joe ran to catch up grazing on sweet green grass along the way.
Joe jumped in and swam around. Ted stood on the bank watching.
“C’mon in,”
“Don’t swim so well.”
“Just jump in, you goober. It’s as natural as running around.”
Ted just stood there.
“Chicken?” it was Barrynol a young female with huge brown eyes.
Ted jumped in. The water was cold and here it was also deep. Ted was struggling to keep his head above water. After a moment he had it down though.
“Indians!” It was the alarm everybody dreaded.
Barrynol was in the water and headed for the other side, so was Joe.
“Hold up,” Ted said. “‘Be not first nor last, let the fools run past.’ Is what my granny used to say. If they’ve set a trap we’ll be the first to run into them.” It was really hard to fight the instinct to run with the herd but when eight or nine hundred had gone by and a couple thousand were still behind them they took off too.
They were spared the arrow and the spear, and Joe and Barrynol got married soon after. You’d think it’d be Ted, but Ted was always too busy running around.
“Mayday, mayday! Here comes that big, stupid buffalo again!”
Ted was, of course, just having fun. He liked to run around and show off for the girls. They thought he was a little goofy but they all liked him anyway.
Sometimes he would make train sound effects while he ran around. He would also run into other buffalo; only half on purpose.
“Dang it Ted; cut it out!”
“Sorry,” and off he’d speed in another random direction.
“Take a chill pill, Ted.” It was Joe Buffalo.
“You can’t catch me! Bet you can’t, and I’ve been running all day.” Ted slammed into Joe almost knocking him over.
“All right. That’s it...” Joe Buffalo turned around and took off after Ted. But Ted wasn’t fooling when he said Joe wasn’t going to catch him. Ted was, if nothing else, quick. Every time Joe got close Ted would turn it on.
Finally Joe was huffing and puffing. Ted danced in none too close and then ran a circle around him. Joe laughed at this.
The herd was heading for the Cimarron river about a hundred miles west of present day Tulsa very near what is now called Ames. Back when Ted was running around, the water was clear except after a really hard rain. Ted and Joe ran to catch up grazing on sweet green grass along the way.
Joe jumped in and swam around. Ted stood on the bank watching.
“C’mon in,”
“Don’t swim so well.”
“Just jump in, you goober. It’s as natural as running around.”
Ted just stood there.
“Chicken?” it was Barrynol a young female with huge brown eyes.
Ted jumped in. The water was cold and here it was also deep. Ted was struggling to keep his head above water. After a moment he had it down though.
“Indians!” It was the alarm everybody dreaded.
Barrynol was in the water and headed for the other side, so was Joe.
“Hold up,” Ted said. “‘Be not first nor last, let the fools run past.’ Is what my granny used to say. If they’ve set a trap we’ll be the first to run into them.” It was really hard to fight the instinct to run with the herd but when eight or nine hundred had gone by and a couple thousand were still behind them they took off too.
They were spared the arrow and the spear, and Joe and Barrynol got married soon after. You’d think it’d be Ted, but Ted was always too busy running around.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
All There Is
Sonny was a coconut who knew that one day she would grow up to be a coconut tree. Presently she was floating 10 or 12 degrees north of the equator, bobbing gently up and down with the waves.
She bobbed around for months.
Once a gang of dolphins struck up a game of volleyball using Sonny as the ball, replete with imaginary net, imaginary net refs. in black stripes and imaginary electronic scoreboard.
The game lasted several days. They took breaks for food and sex--you know those dolphins.
Dolphins have great imaginations.
They took Sonny with them for about a month and a half, but somebody forgot to take her along one day; and again Sonny was bobbing around alone.
Then one day a tremendous storm swept Sonny up and carried her to a tiny island north west of Tonga. The Tongans called it ‘that tiny island north west of here.’ We’re talkin’ really tiny. Not deserving of a name.
Sonny thought it’d be perfect.
She really wanted to be a coconut tree. The where part wasn’t important.
The storm had planted Sonny smack dab in the middle of a white sand beach way up past the usual high tide line on the south shore.
If you’d been looking for her you might not have found her. She was covered in sand, branches, leaves and other junk. Sonny soon sprouted leaves of her own, got oriented and soon sprouted roots. On occasion a rainsquall passed. Sonny had been floating in salt water for a couple of years so it was a most refreshing and welcome change.
Several years later, Sonny was a huge well-rooted coconut tree.
She lived happily and had sprouted many coconuts of her own to her left and right.
Sonny had grown up strait and tall, stretching her leaves skyward while remaining firmly rooted to her tiny island home. Once she dropped a coconut who rolled into the water. All morning the surf tossed him around, but then the tide went out and the coconut went with it.
Sonny always knew she would be a coconut tree. Now that she was she had time to ask “is this all there is?”
“Yes.” Was the firm reply. Sonny couldn’t have been more happy.
There’s a moral here someplace but I won’t bother to write it down.
She bobbed around for months.
Once a gang of dolphins struck up a game of volleyball using Sonny as the ball, replete with imaginary net, imaginary net refs. in black stripes and imaginary electronic scoreboard.
The game lasted several days. They took breaks for food and sex--you know those dolphins.
Dolphins have great imaginations.
They took Sonny with them for about a month and a half, but somebody forgot to take her along one day; and again Sonny was bobbing around alone.
Then one day a tremendous storm swept Sonny up and carried her to a tiny island north west of Tonga. The Tongans called it ‘that tiny island north west of here.’ We’re talkin’ really tiny. Not deserving of a name.
Sonny thought it’d be perfect.
She really wanted to be a coconut tree. The where part wasn’t important.
The storm had planted Sonny smack dab in the middle of a white sand beach way up past the usual high tide line on the south shore.
If you’d been looking for her you might not have found her. She was covered in sand, branches, leaves and other junk. Sonny soon sprouted leaves of her own, got oriented and soon sprouted roots. On occasion a rainsquall passed. Sonny had been floating in salt water for a couple of years so it was a most refreshing and welcome change.
Several years later, Sonny was a huge well-rooted coconut tree.
She lived happily and had sprouted many coconuts of her own to her left and right.
Sonny had grown up strait and tall, stretching her leaves skyward while remaining firmly rooted to her tiny island home. Once she dropped a coconut who rolled into the water. All morning the surf tossed him around, but then the tide went out and the coconut went with it.
Sonny always knew she would be a coconut tree. Now that she was she had time to ask “is this all there is?”
“Yes.” Was the firm reply. Sonny couldn’t have been more happy.
There’s a moral here someplace but I won’t bother to write it down.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Waspful Hershal.
Hershal was a Yellow Jacket; a wasp; an insect. Hershal had quite a mean sting and wasn’t afraid to use it. He wasn’t really mean. It’s just that he was a wasp and wasps have stingers. They can sting you as many times as they want. Hershal didn’t go around just stinging anybody for no reason, mind you. Hershal spent his time being the most perfect wasp he could possibly be, and that included stinging the crap out of anything animate that got too close to his paper and saliva nest.
He didn’t do it on purpose to be spiteful, he did it on instinct to be waspful.
He also went around pollinating flowers and drinking nectar, you know, useful things like that, but hardly anybody reminds anybody of that. It’s just “Oh, that Hershal the Yellow Jacket: he’s got a darn mean stinger on him.” A good thing because even birds and lizards left him alone...unless they were starved to the point of dying.
The only thing that hung him up was spider webs.
Hershal could be quite the careless wasp: flitting about exploring or just flying at top speed for the fun of it, when he’d get all sticky all of a sudden. He’d have to buzz like the dickens to get out of there before a fuzzy spider came and tried to bite him and wrap him up or vice-versa depending on the spider and their personal preference. He never got munched by a spider but one day he did get old and fell off the nest, stunned and unable to fly he was chewed to ribbons by ants.
He had been the perfect yellow jacket, in life and in death...an integral part of that grand thing called life.
He didn’t do it on purpose to be spiteful, he did it on instinct to be waspful.
He also went around pollinating flowers and drinking nectar, you know, useful things like that, but hardly anybody reminds anybody of that. It’s just “Oh, that Hershal the Yellow Jacket: he’s got a darn mean stinger on him.” A good thing because even birds and lizards left him alone...unless they were starved to the point of dying.
The only thing that hung him up was spider webs.
Hershal could be quite the careless wasp: flitting about exploring or just flying at top speed for the fun of it, when he’d get all sticky all of a sudden. He’d have to buzz like the dickens to get out of there before a fuzzy spider came and tried to bite him and wrap him up or vice-versa depending on the spider and their personal preference. He never got munched by a spider but one day he did get old and fell off the nest, stunned and unable to fly he was chewed to ribbons by ants.
He had been the perfect yellow jacket, in life and in death...an integral part of that grand thing called life.
Monday, January 17, 2011
In Which We Meet Roscoe, Wallace Grey and George.
Roscoe the raccoon was what in common slang is called a beat-nik. He played bongo drums smoked beedee’s and wore those stupid little round sunglasses' beat-niks like to wear. He had a little floppy black beret that he always wore cocked over his left side.
He sat around in coffee houses, joining in with little bands, drinking bad coffee, reading bad poetry on open mike night; being tragically hip and incredibly cool. Then he met The Evil Prince. Not the one you find in Thai restaurants. The one that comes in needles: heroin.
Roscoe didn’t realize just how evil this prince was `till one day he woke up face down in a puddle of his own urine, homeless.
“You still want me Roscoe,” The Evil Prince said. “I know you do.”
Roscoe heard a loud scream that went on and on. It took him quite a long time to realize it was the sound of his own voice. He was hoarse ever after.
“Come on Roscoe, get up. Come find me. I’m waiting here just for you.”
Roscoe went to a half-way house set up by some altruistic iguanas in Austin. There he got the shakes a lot and wrote a book of poetry that made him a comfortable sum of money. He quit cold turkey and seldom took methadone except on those really black days when The Evil Prince somehow found him, usually while sleeping.
Roscoe opened his own coffee shop and seldom slept after that due to mass doses of caffeine and the rigors of being a small businessman, er, raccoon.
He called it ‘The Half Way Cafe.’
He often took in smelly, urine covered, heroine addicts. He paid them in room and board only, and methadone if they wanted it. Most of the time they stole money out of his register and spilled about as much coffee as they managed to get in cups.
This was, as you can imagine, a financial strain on the business.
Sir Wallace A. Grey showed up a time or two but Roscoe respectfully asked him to leave when Roscoe caught him and his drugs in the bathroom. Wallace Grey was a rat, being stuffed with chemicals was something rats handle better than most, especially this particular rat. “The coffee here sucks.” Is all he had to say upon leaving.
Somehow folks showed up for bad coffee and good poetry anyhow; and Roscoe got pretty good on those drums.
“Why the hell do you bother Roscoe?” Suzie said wiping up freshly spilled coffee from the table a tad miffed.
“Sorry...” George, the newest arrival on the team said. “Got the shakes again.”
Suzie waved him off.
“You don’t get it do you?” Roscoe said in that deep scruffy voice. “I’m not doing it for them. I’m doing it because The Evil Prince and I are now mortal enemies, and I’ll fight him anyway I can.”
You get it, don’t you?
He sat around in coffee houses, joining in with little bands, drinking bad coffee, reading bad poetry on open mike night; being tragically hip and incredibly cool. Then he met The Evil Prince. Not the one you find in Thai restaurants. The one that comes in needles: heroin.
Roscoe didn’t realize just how evil this prince was `till one day he woke up face down in a puddle of his own urine, homeless.
“You still want me Roscoe,” The Evil Prince said. “I know you do.”
Roscoe heard a loud scream that went on and on. It took him quite a long time to realize it was the sound of his own voice. He was hoarse ever after.
“Come on Roscoe, get up. Come find me. I’m waiting here just for you.”
Roscoe went to a half-way house set up by some altruistic iguanas in Austin. There he got the shakes a lot and wrote a book of poetry that made him a comfortable sum of money. He quit cold turkey and seldom took methadone except on those really black days when The Evil Prince somehow found him, usually while sleeping.
Roscoe opened his own coffee shop and seldom slept after that due to mass doses of caffeine and the rigors of being a small businessman, er, raccoon.
He called it ‘The Half Way Cafe.’
He often took in smelly, urine covered, heroine addicts. He paid them in room and board only, and methadone if they wanted it. Most of the time they stole money out of his register and spilled about as much coffee as they managed to get in cups.
This was, as you can imagine, a financial strain on the business.
Sir Wallace A. Grey showed up a time or two but Roscoe respectfully asked him to leave when Roscoe caught him and his drugs in the bathroom. Wallace Grey was a rat, being stuffed with chemicals was something rats handle better than most, especially this particular rat. “The coffee here sucks.” Is all he had to say upon leaving.
Somehow folks showed up for bad coffee and good poetry anyhow; and Roscoe got pretty good on those drums.
“Why the hell do you bother Roscoe?” Suzie said wiping up freshly spilled coffee from the table a tad miffed.
“Sorry...” George, the newest arrival on the team said. “Got the shakes again.”
Suzie waved him off.
“You don’t get it do you?” Roscoe said in that deep scruffy voice. “I’m not doing it for them. I’m doing it because The Evil Prince and I are now mortal enemies, and I’ll fight him anyway I can.”
You get it, don’t you?
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Speaking Spanish
Pookey was a piranha who lived in an incredibly lush part of the world called Roraima, in the Mucajai River, which eventually feeds the Branco.
Pookey wasn’t as mean as he looked but he was indeed a natural born killer. Actually he ate a lot of leftovers and seldom got fresh meat but he didn’t care; Pookey was happy.
He swam around in a big school of piranhas and was very popular in his class. All the girls wished he’d take them out and all the guys wanted to hang out with him because Pookey was a really cool piranha with good grades.
He had an old Alpha Romeo he and his Pop fixed up and boy could that thing go. He took a trip up to Boa Vista one time and met a fish that kept him awake all night if you know what I mean.
After that, all Pookey wanted to do was go up to Boa Vista and “practice his Spanish.” It sounded like a good excuse. Portuguese was what most everybody who wanted to get ahead spoke, but the big time was in Spanish. English is a lot harder, and what the heck, the American century is just about over anyway.
Pookey’s Pop wasn’t so quickly fooled though.
“Practice Spanish, eh?” Pop said waving a fin accusingly. “What does she look like?”
“Like a goddess Pop. She has big eyes--”
“She’s a fish of course she has big eyes, all fish have big eyes.”
“Not like this Pop. And watching her swim is like poetry in motion.”
Pop got an odd expression on his face and said, “ you sound like me when I used to talk about your mother.” Pop sighed. “She doesn’t speak Spanish does she?”
“Well, not exactly.”
Pop and Pookey have called it ‘speaking Spanish’ ever since.
It didn’t work out up there in Boa Vista: too far.
Pookey did however take his first wife up there to watch the planes take off. (Not a whole lot of airports in the area to this day). They got to speak a little Spanish before they went home too.
Now they have progeny all the way down to that mother of all rivers called the Amazon.
Pookey wasn’t as mean as he looked but he was indeed a natural born killer. Actually he ate a lot of leftovers and seldom got fresh meat but he didn’t care; Pookey was happy.
He swam around in a big school of piranhas and was very popular in his class. All the girls wished he’d take them out and all the guys wanted to hang out with him because Pookey was a really cool piranha with good grades.
He had an old Alpha Romeo he and his Pop fixed up and boy could that thing go. He took a trip up to Boa Vista one time and met a fish that kept him awake all night if you know what I mean.
After that, all Pookey wanted to do was go up to Boa Vista and “practice his Spanish.” It sounded like a good excuse. Portuguese was what most everybody who wanted to get ahead spoke, but the big time was in Spanish. English is a lot harder, and what the heck, the American century is just about over anyway.
Pookey’s Pop wasn’t so quickly fooled though.
“Practice Spanish, eh?” Pop said waving a fin accusingly. “What does she look like?”
“Like a goddess Pop. She has big eyes--”
“She’s a fish of course she has big eyes, all fish have big eyes.”
“Not like this Pop. And watching her swim is like poetry in motion.”
Pop got an odd expression on his face and said, “ you sound like me when I used to talk about your mother.” Pop sighed. “She doesn’t speak Spanish does she?”
“Well, not exactly.”
Pop and Pookey have called it ‘speaking Spanish’ ever since.
It didn’t work out up there in Boa Vista: too far.
Pookey did however take his first wife up there to watch the planes take off. (Not a whole lot of airports in the area to this day). They got to speak a little Spanish before they went home too.
Now they have progeny all the way down to that mother of all rivers called the Amazon.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
In Which We Meet Yet Another "Mad Max."
Mad Max was a wizard. J. Maximillian Copricus Jordashcium Arillius Rexter, was his full name. Even Mad Max had forgotten what the J stood for, and nobody knew Mad Max well enough to know his full name.
Max was older than dirt. No kidding if you asked Max what it was like before dirt he could tell you. He could also tell you how to cast just about any spell you can think of, and quite a few you’d never have thought of on your own, like “Congeniality With Ducks.”
Max delighted in playing musical instruments especially drums. He couldn’t sing worth a damn but that never stopped him.
He lived on the bad side of town in a run down town house that couldn’t have been more than 20’ x 30’ on the outside but due to a clever (and permanent) extra dimensional space spell he had a mansion on the inside with more rooms than you could count. You could get lost in there. Max often did. If you didn’t get lost, and you found your way to the lab you could catch Mad Max doing his wizard thing. Max would usually be cooking up some potion or another or beating on his drum set...sometimes both.
Mad Max had wild white hair and in his natural non-magically enhanced state stood 5’1” tall. This didn’t stop him from getting curvy babes though.
Once in a great while he’d go visit the Lion Heart on the beach at the edge of the world. They’d discuss things so totally foreign to you and me that I won’t even bother trying to write them down. On rare occasions they’d dance and party with Max on drums and the Lion Heart dancing, if there were females there they were so beautiful tears would come to the eyes of mere mortals.
Max was up late one night when he heard a knock on the door. It was Sir Frederick Black. “I’ve got bad news,” he said.
“When do you ever have good news?”
“I want you to cast a spell on me,” Sir Frederick Black was much more aware of the incredible jeopardy he was placing himself in than you are. You see, Mad Max was quite insane most of the time and even in his more lucid moments his spells could go far awry.
Mad Max laughed for all reply. “A certain witch has cast a spell on you that has made you lose both your head and your heart.” He laughed so hard he started to choke. When he gained just a little control he said “She is a most evil witch and would suck out your soul or cut out your heart if you tried to live with her for more than a day. I’ll not cast any spell on you, you stupid bird. Fly away before I make you drink my coffee.”
“I’ll have a cup.”
Max laughed ‘till he cried.
They drank coffee and spoke of mundane things like life and love. Sir Frederick Black resigned himself to waiting for someone sane to figure out how to grant his wish.
It was a long time coming.
Max was older than dirt. No kidding if you asked Max what it was like before dirt he could tell you. He could also tell you how to cast just about any spell you can think of, and quite a few you’d never have thought of on your own, like “Congeniality With Ducks.”
Max delighted in playing musical instruments especially drums. He couldn’t sing worth a damn but that never stopped him.
He lived on the bad side of town in a run down town house that couldn’t have been more than 20’ x 30’ on the outside but due to a clever (and permanent) extra dimensional space spell he had a mansion on the inside with more rooms than you could count. You could get lost in there. Max often did. If you didn’t get lost, and you found your way to the lab you could catch Mad Max doing his wizard thing. Max would usually be cooking up some potion or another or beating on his drum set...sometimes both.
Mad Max had wild white hair and in his natural non-magically enhanced state stood 5’1” tall. This didn’t stop him from getting curvy babes though.
Once in a great while he’d go visit the Lion Heart on the beach at the edge of the world. They’d discuss things so totally foreign to you and me that I won’t even bother trying to write them down. On rare occasions they’d dance and party with Max on drums and the Lion Heart dancing, if there were females there they were so beautiful tears would come to the eyes of mere mortals.
Max was up late one night when he heard a knock on the door. It was Sir Frederick Black. “I’ve got bad news,” he said.
“When do you ever have good news?”
“I want you to cast a spell on me,” Sir Frederick Black was much more aware of the incredible jeopardy he was placing himself in than you are. You see, Mad Max was quite insane most of the time and even in his more lucid moments his spells could go far awry.
Mad Max laughed for all reply. “A certain witch has cast a spell on you that has made you lose both your head and your heart.” He laughed so hard he started to choke. When he gained just a little control he said “She is a most evil witch and would suck out your soul or cut out your heart if you tried to live with her for more than a day. I’ll not cast any spell on you, you stupid bird. Fly away before I make you drink my coffee.”
“I’ll have a cup.”
Max laughed ‘till he cried.
They drank coffee and spoke of mundane things like life and love. Sir Frederick Black resigned himself to waiting for someone sane to figure out how to grant his wish.
It was a long time coming.
Dale Tyler and Norma Jean
Dale Tyler and Norma Jean were turtledoves. When I saw them it had just been raining, but now the sun was out. They were on a high voltage power line fooling around. They had just been to the beach and over to the bread crumb shop and were feeling ‘fat and happy.’
They spoke Canadian.
Dale Tyler would side step over to Norma Jean and peck her cheek, and when he did she would fly off a short bit and land next to him in his right. Norma Jean would then side step over to Dale Tyler and peck him on the cheek and when she did he would fly up and over and land on her right. They did this three or four more times and then turned and faced the other way and did it a couple more times.
Then they just sat there: side by side.
Norma Jean dipped her head a little and Dale Tyler gazed into her eyes.
“What if there weren’t any cats and bread crumbs fell from the sky even when there were no naked apes around?” Norma Jean asked.
“I wouldn’t be any happier than I am here with you right now,” Dale Tyler said without the slightest hesitation.
“Oh, you!” Norma Jean said and flew off just fast enough so that Dale Tyler would have to catch her. She flew down to a puddle and they both splashed around.
They laughed and laughed.
“What if I were the last turtle dove on earth?” Dale Tyler said.
“Then I’d be your lover ‘till I died.” Norma Jean said shaking her tail feathers at him. He smiled broadly. Her tail feathers really turned him on.
“Let’s go get beers,” Dale Tyler said.
“Where?”
“Over at Alioto’s”
She flew off in that direction for all reply and he flew after.
Victoria in the summer time is a fine place to be a turtledove.
They spoke Canadian.
Dale Tyler would side step over to Norma Jean and peck her cheek, and when he did she would fly off a short bit and land next to him in his right. Norma Jean would then side step over to Dale Tyler and peck him on the cheek and when she did he would fly up and over and land on her right. They did this three or four more times and then turned and faced the other way and did it a couple more times.
Then they just sat there: side by side.
Norma Jean dipped her head a little and Dale Tyler gazed into her eyes.
“What if there weren’t any cats and bread crumbs fell from the sky even when there were no naked apes around?” Norma Jean asked.
“I wouldn’t be any happier than I am here with you right now,” Dale Tyler said without the slightest hesitation.
“Oh, you!” Norma Jean said and flew off just fast enough so that Dale Tyler would have to catch her. She flew down to a puddle and they both splashed around.
They laughed and laughed.
“What if I were the last turtle dove on earth?” Dale Tyler said.
“Then I’d be your lover ‘till I died.” Norma Jean said shaking her tail feathers at him. He smiled broadly. Her tail feathers really turned him on.
“Let’s go get beers,” Dale Tyler said.
“Where?”
“Over at Alioto’s”
She flew off in that direction for all reply and he flew after.
Victoria in the summer time is a fine place to be a turtledove.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Dam, Fozworth, Dam.
Fozworth was a beaver. He traveled from stream to stream building dams...not out of instinct or duty but just for the hell of it. He liked building dams. He never stayed too long in one place. While he was wherever he was, which was usually Utah, up there in the Wasatch Mountains, he built some of the finest dams that ever a beaver built.
“Dam,” Rodney, a beaver who was looking for a new place to set up, said surveying the work, “this is one hell of a dam.”
“You like it?”
“It’s beautiful.”
“It’s yours, I’m off for Flaming Gorge.”
“That’s a long ways off.”
“I don’t give a dam.”
“You just did.” They laughed like idiots for over half an hour.
On the way there Fozworth had to cross I-80.
A truck sent him flying more than 50 feet. When he came to, he was on the beach at the edge of the world. The Lion Heart was dancing up a storm and it started raining. Mad Max was on drums. Loopey Looise was on the tambourine. There were babes of every description there, including beaver babes. “Dam,” Fozworth said eyeing up one in particular.
“Hi,” she said. “My name is Brenda.”
Fozworth spent a week partying there.
The Lion Heart noticed him after three days, but saw he was having fun there at the beach at the edge of the world and let him be.
“Commit to one stream and one beaver mate,” the Lion Heart said sternly.
“Screw you, bubb.” Was Fozworth’s first thought but he said, “How bout this one?” nodding at Brenda.
“What say you?”
“Love to.”
The Lion Heart picked them both up and cast them off the beach and over the ocean where they splashed into the midnight sky.
When Fozworth awoke Brenda was standing over him blocking out the sun.
“Flaming Gorge it is then,” she said smiling.
Fozworth shook his head trying to clear it; all he managed to say was “Dam.”
“Dam,” Rodney, a beaver who was looking for a new place to set up, said surveying the work, “this is one hell of a dam.”
“You like it?”
“It’s beautiful.”
“It’s yours, I’m off for Flaming Gorge.”
“That’s a long ways off.”
“I don’t give a dam.”
“You just did.” They laughed like idiots for over half an hour.
On the way there Fozworth had to cross I-80.
A truck sent him flying more than 50 feet. When he came to, he was on the beach at the edge of the world. The Lion Heart was dancing up a storm and it started raining. Mad Max was on drums. Loopey Looise was on the tambourine. There were babes of every description there, including beaver babes. “Dam,” Fozworth said eyeing up one in particular.
“Hi,” she said. “My name is Brenda.”
Fozworth spent a week partying there.
The Lion Heart noticed him after three days, but saw he was having fun there at the beach at the edge of the world and let him be.
“Commit to one stream and one beaver mate,” the Lion Heart said sternly.
“Screw you, bubb.” Was Fozworth’s first thought but he said, “How bout this one?” nodding at Brenda.
“What say you?”
“Love to.”
The Lion Heart picked them both up and cast them off the beach and over the ocean where they splashed into the midnight sky.
When Fozworth awoke Brenda was standing over him blocking out the sun.
“Flaming Gorge it is then,” she said smiling.
Fozworth shook his head trying to clear it; all he managed to say was “Dam.”
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Leopards, and Cheetahs, and Zeros.
Larry the leopard and Charlie the cheetah were deep in a philosophical discussion about the concept of zero and other un-imaginable things, when a most unlucky Wanker Beast stumbled upon them.
“Lunch!” Larry exclaimed.
“Yikes!” said the Wanker Beast, but it was way, way too late.
Everybody took off running, but the cheetah is the fastest land mammal on earth, not the wanker beast. Larry wasn’t exactly a slow poke and got there about point five seconds after Charlie had bit in. It was over for the Wanker Beast in no time.
They dined casually, with only the occasional argument over choice morsels.
“Hey, I wanted that thigh,” Larry said.
“You got the liver,
“Pass the salt,”
“Sometime we gotta go out for curry,” and so on.
Larry rolled over on his back when he had finished eating, crossed his legs and started picking his teeth with a stalk of grass.
“Anyhow, where were we?”
“Zero is nothing and you can’t prove nothing exists...”
“Ah yes, but you can deduce it from the absence of something--”
“Lunch!” Larry exclaimed.
“Yikes!” said the Wanker Beast, but it was way, way too late.
Everybody took off running, but the cheetah is the fastest land mammal on earth, not the wanker beast. Larry wasn’t exactly a slow poke and got there about point five seconds after Charlie had bit in. It was over for the Wanker Beast in no time.
They dined casually, with only the occasional argument over choice morsels.
“Hey, I wanted that thigh,” Larry said.
“You got the liver,
“Pass the salt,”
“Sometime we gotta go out for curry,” and so on.
Larry rolled over on his back when he had finished eating, crossed his legs and started picking his teeth with a stalk of grass.
“Anyhow, where were we?”
“Zero is nothing and you can’t prove nothing exists...”
“Ah yes, but you can deduce it from the absence of something--”
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
In Which We Meet Sir Frederick Black and Others Of Import
Sir Frederick Black was a sophisticated raven with a penchant for thurgery and magic. He hung out with wizards and sorcerers of all kinds. Mostly he brought them bad news and drank their coffee. He wore a gold chain that a Certain Witch had given him for luck, spoke in dulcet tones and often stood on one foot for no particular reason at all.
The witch was exceedingly beautiful, not the wart-on-the-nose-wrinkly-kind and her beauty wasn’t caused by spell either, but she sure could cast spells with it. Like trap the brave knight so I can suck out his soul, one of her favorites: she was quite an evil witch.
Sir Frederick Black loved her madly.
But that’s another story.
“There’s a bunch of Christians about to burn Loopey Looise at the stake down by the swamp.” Sir Frederick Black said to the grand mage named Bob. Bob backwards is still Bob: very mystic.
“What shall I do?” said Bob.
“Get her the hell out of there.” Sir Frederick Black replied. “Otherwise she’ll get all black and crispy and she won’t like that the least bit.”
So Bob went down there and raised quite a ruckus, by the time it was all over Christians were running everywhere shrieking, screaming about Armageddon and crying out for help. Bob was indeed a grand mage and no slouch either. Bob made off with Loopey Looise who was vaguely disappointed there wasn’t going to be a big bon fire after all, while Sir Frederick Black dive bombed anyone who even looked like their spirit wasn’t completely broken. He could shriek when he wanted to too.
It was all very exciting and talked about on both sides for generations.
The witch was exceedingly beautiful, not the wart-on-the-nose-wrinkly-kind and her beauty wasn’t caused by spell either, but she sure could cast spells with it. Like trap the brave knight so I can suck out his soul, one of her favorites: she was quite an evil witch.
Sir Frederick Black loved her madly.
But that’s another story.
“There’s a bunch of Christians about to burn Loopey Looise at the stake down by the swamp.” Sir Frederick Black said to the grand mage named Bob. Bob backwards is still Bob: very mystic.
“What shall I do?” said Bob.
“Get her the hell out of there.” Sir Frederick Black replied. “Otherwise she’ll get all black and crispy and she won’t like that the least bit.”
So Bob went down there and raised quite a ruckus, by the time it was all over Christians were running everywhere shrieking, screaming about Armageddon and crying out for help. Bob was indeed a grand mage and no slouch either. Bob made off with Loopey Looise who was vaguely disappointed there wasn’t going to be a big bon fire after all, while Sir Frederick Black dive bombed anyone who even looked like their spirit wasn’t completely broken. He could shriek when he wanted to too.
It was all very exciting and talked about on both sides for generations.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Non-Amazing Dragonswimmer
Theodore was an amazing dragonfly. He was foot long and bright red in color. No frog or lizard even thought about catching him.
He delighted in making 90-degree turns in every single direction spherical geometry allowed. He could walk on water when he felt like it, but this was far too tempting for the fish below. Theodore being an amazing dragon fly, had far too much self-esteem to make himself fish food. The fish seeing him walking on water were not, oddly enough, tempted to call him messiah but rather got really hungry and despite his size (and amazingness) started trying to figure out how to wrestle him down their gullets.
Some times he sat on a particular twig under a particular Jujube tree gazing out at the world through kaleidoscope eyes.
“What can I do that would be really amazing?” He thought to himself. He leapt up and made sixteen 90-degree turns in a row, some vertical, some horizontal and quite a few arcs in-between.
“That was really amazing,” several fish said to each other as they looked up at Theodore.
“Yeah, but can he swim?” said another.
He delighted in making 90-degree turns in every single direction spherical geometry allowed. He could walk on water when he felt like it, but this was far too tempting for the fish below. Theodore being an amazing dragon fly, had far too much self-esteem to make himself fish food. The fish seeing him walking on water were not, oddly enough, tempted to call him messiah but rather got really hungry and despite his size (and amazingness) started trying to figure out how to wrestle him down their gullets.
Some times he sat on a particular twig under a particular Jujube tree gazing out at the world through kaleidoscope eyes.
“What can I do that would be really amazing?” He thought to himself. He leapt up and made sixteen 90-degree turns in a row, some vertical, some horizontal and quite a few arcs in-between.
“That was really amazing,” several fish said to each other as they looked up at Theodore.
“Yeah, but can he swim?” said another.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Quite The Ant
Yosephi was quite the ant. He was one of them red warrior ants. He painted his face during wartime and had incredible tattoos. Nobody messed with Yosephi. He was always the first to fight and the last to leave. He protected his fellows be it against other ants or those pesky spiders. All the nest loved him and all the ladies wanted to be the first to excrete sweet honey-like nectar into his mouth. Yosephi was always flattered by this unto the end of his days and he never took it for granted. Yosephi was, after all, quite the ant.
One day some of those larger black-stinging ants showed up and started carrying off workers for slaves. Some of them were among the most beautiful maidens in all the nest. Yosephi went out there as soon as he got the news and started fighting it out with a big black dude who had Mable in his mandibles.
“Ha! You insignificant bug! You can’t hurt me and you’ll never see her again,” he taunted.
Yosephi didn’t even respond.
Yosephi snipped off one of the big ant’s legs while dodging his stinger, and then nimbly hopped up on his thorax and bit into his neck with all his might. The black ant let go of Mable post-haste. Seconds later his head was just about off and Yosephi left him wordlessly in search of another opponent. Yosephi slew quite a few enemies on his own and had 23 assists. All told a pretty good day; he didn’t get himself dead which to a soldier is usually the ultimate sign of success.
That evening Mable put on a slinky, black, short dress and made the sweetest nectar you could ever imagine. She found Yosephi surrounded by his fellows. She was quite pleased to be the first to get to him. She never said a word, but the others left him with her almost as if disappearing. She looked into his eyes and never let his gaze fall from hers. Slowly, ever so slowly, she put her mouth on his mouth, her nectar passed directly into him. He drank deeply. Usually a large droplet was put into his mouth. This was entirely different. He felt an odd sensation sweep over him. He gazed into her eyes, she caressed his antennae with her own...he wanted for it to never end. Mable was always the first ant who fed Yosephi ever after.
One day some of those larger black-stinging ants showed up and started carrying off workers for slaves. Some of them were among the most beautiful maidens in all the nest. Yosephi went out there as soon as he got the news and started fighting it out with a big black dude who had Mable in his mandibles.
“Ha! You insignificant bug! You can’t hurt me and you’ll never see her again,” he taunted.
Yosephi didn’t even respond.
Yosephi snipped off one of the big ant’s legs while dodging his stinger, and then nimbly hopped up on his thorax and bit into his neck with all his might. The black ant let go of Mable post-haste. Seconds later his head was just about off and Yosephi left him wordlessly in search of another opponent. Yosephi slew quite a few enemies on his own and had 23 assists. All told a pretty good day; he didn’t get himself dead which to a soldier is usually the ultimate sign of success.
That evening Mable put on a slinky, black, short dress and made the sweetest nectar you could ever imagine. She found Yosephi surrounded by his fellows. She was quite pleased to be the first to get to him. She never said a word, but the others left him with her almost as if disappearing. She looked into his eyes and never let his gaze fall from hers. Slowly, ever so slowly, she put her mouth on his mouth, her nectar passed directly into him. He drank deeply. Usually a large droplet was put into his mouth. This was entirely different. He felt an odd sensation sweep over him. He gazed into her eyes, she caressed his antennae with her own...he wanted for it to never end. Mable was always the first ant who fed Yosephi ever after.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
In Which We Meet Don-Riki
Don-Riki was a very clever mongoose, an adventurer of the highest degree. Because he usually goes alone, he seldom comes into our tales. Even the Lion Heart would be hard pressed to find him when Don-Riki set out on one of his really grand adventures. He would come back telling tales no one could believe and smoking something rare and expensive like Mongolian Sheep Tobacco.
“Made by actual Mongolian Sheep,” Don-Riki would say puffing sagely.
Don-Riki also was of that select group who call themselves warriors, mostly by nature not exactly through training. He would usually battle snakes for their treasure: eggs.
Don-Riki had the grandest collection of eggshells you have ever seen. He knew how to put the tiniest of tiny holes in the shell, then suck out the insides and then (most of the time) he put the piece back so you could barely tell there was a hole there. His collection was the rival of any that had ever been. The Smithsonian had maybe about a third as many eggs as Don-Riki did.
Needless to say he was quite proud of it, but I said it anyway.
He was known in some circles as a sly mongoose; a shady character to be avoided.
Lady mongooses loved and hated him in turns...or sometimes at the same time.
Snakes feared and despised him, his very name bringing hisses of disdain. They hated him because they couldn’t defeat him. To add to the insult, he also took their eggs...after eating his fallen enemy.
In back alleys and dive bars Don-Riki made deals for eggs that he couldn’t get himself. These were usually from dinosaurs and extinct birds with crazy names.
Don-Riki would laugh and chuckle to himself after procuring an especially rare specimen. During those times Don-Riki was most enjoyable to be around.
Don-Riki had found that ‘one thing’ and was rich beyond measure of money because of it.
Most aren’t because most never do.
“Made by actual Mongolian Sheep,” Don-Riki would say puffing sagely.
Don-Riki also was of that select group who call themselves warriors, mostly by nature not exactly through training. He would usually battle snakes for their treasure: eggs.
Don-Riki had the grandest collection of eggshells you have ever seen. He knew how to put the tiniest of tiny holes in the shell, then suck out the insides and then (most of the time) he put the piece back so you could barely tell there was a hole there. His collection was the rival of any that had ever been. The Smithsonian had maybe about a third as many eggs as Don-Riki did.
Needless to say he was quite proud of it, but I said it anyway.
He was known in some circles as a sly mongoose; a shady character to be avoided.
Lady mongooses loved and hated him in turns...or sometimes at the same time.
Snakes feared and despised him, his very name bringing hisses of disdain. They hated him because they couldn’t defeat him. To add to the insult, he also took their eggs...after eating his fallen enemy.
In back alleys and dive bars Don-Riki made deals for eggs that he couldn’t get himself. These were usually from dinosaurs and extinct birds with crazy names.
Don-Riki would laugh and chuckle to himself after procuring an especially rare specimen. During those times Don-Riki was most enjoyable to be around.
Don-Riki had found that ‘one thing’ and was rich beyond measure of money because of it.
Most aren’t because most never do.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Fergal Sharkey
Fergal shark, otherwise known as Fergal Sharkey (because he was), loved to eat. He enjoyed a meal more than anything. Sharks are the perfect eating machines, and Fergal Sharkey was the perfect shark. All Fergal liked to do was eat and reproduce...swimming goes without saying.
Fergal was a great white shark, as opposed to an average white shark, which would be a good name for a garage band.
Fergal Sharkey had grown up big and strong on account of his superior intellect and awesome speed; or, if you like, awesome intellect and superior speed.
He never tried to eat anything a bigger shark was already eating, other than that he ate pretty much anything: fish, bottom crawlers, ambergris, floating refuse, sinking refuse, even humans.
He wasn’t picky at all.
This one rule about never eating anything a bigger shark was already eating insured that Fergal would grow up to be one of the biggest darn sharks there ever was. He was always amazed at how many other sharks violated this one rule and wound up bit in half or worse.
What could be worse? Two words: slow death.
Being a shark was all Fergal ever tried to be. He was alone most of the time being his own sharkey self and in this fashion grew to enormous size.
Soon he could eat anything any other shark was already eating because there were precious few sharks bigger than him, and eat other sharks when he felt like it. Mostly he ate them when they got in his way, or tried to eat his food.
Many sharks got to know of Fergal Sharkey:
“Oh, shit! Here he comes! Dive! Dive! Dive!”
Fergal thought he had a working relationship with other sharks. He was completely unaware of that thing called friendship, or courtship.
He just liked to eat.
Once in a while around spring he got the urge to seek out a female and he heeded the call--if he wasn’t too busy eating. He knew what was important: staying alive, passing on genes.
One time Fergal tried to eat a dolphin. Not a dolphin fish. A dolphin, dolphin. (Say that word over and over again until you realize what an odd word it really is.) What a bad idea that turned out to be. They ganged up on him and beat him up really good, or really bad depending on your attitude and diction.
Fergal Sharkey never tried that again. Rule number one: no eating it if the shark eating it is bigger than you. Rule number two: no eating dolphins that aren’t already dead.
Now you know, too.
Fergal was a great white shark, as opposed to an average white shark, which would be a good name for a garage band.
Fergal Sharkey had grown up big and strong on account of his superior intellect and awesome speed; or, if you like, awesome intellect and superior speed.
He never tried to eat anything a bigger shark was already eating, other than that he ate pretty much anything: fish, bottom crawlers, ambergris, floating refuse, sinking refuse, even humans.
He wasn’t picky at all.
This one rule about never eating anything a bigger shark was already eating insured that Fergal would grow up to be one of the biggest darn sharks there ever was. He was always amazed at how many other sharks violated this one rule and wound up bit in half or worse.
What could be worse? Two words: slow death.
Being a shark was all Fergal ever tried to be. He was alone most of the time being his own sharkey self and in this fashion grew to enormous size.
Soon he could eat anything any other shark was already eating because there were precious few sharks bigger than him, and eat other sharks when he felt like it. Mostly he ate them when they got in his way, or tried to eat his food.
Many sharks got to know of Fergal Sharkey:
“Oh, shit! Here he comes! Dive! Dive! Dive!”
Fergal thought he had a working relationship with other sharks. He was completely unaware of that thing called friendship, or courtship.
He just liked to eat.
Once in a while around spring he got the urge to seek out a female and he heeded the call--if he wasn’t too busy eating. He knew what was important: staying alive, passing on genes.
One time Fergal tried to eat a dolphin. Not a dolphin fish. A dolphin, dolphin. (Say that word over and over again until you realize what an odd word it really is.) What a bad idea that turned out to be. They ganged up on him and beat him up really good, or really bad depending on your attitude and diction.
Fergal Sharkey never tried that again. Rule number one: no eating it if the shark eating it is bigger than you. Rule number two: no eating dolphins that aren’t already dead.
Now you know, too.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
More. Beautiful. Still.
Jazmine was a late bloomer. Actually she was a night bloomer. She smelled sweet and at night you could get intoxicated on her fragrance alone.
All the insects thought her beautiful.
The breezes and birds scattered her seeds far and wide.
Bees made special trips just to see her.
Leaf eaters ate some place else.
Some of the other flowers were actually privately jealous. Jazmine was as sweet as her smell though, and no one could stay mad at her for long. She hadn’t a care in the world until a bunch of naked apes woke her up one morning with a surveying tripod and plat map.
The words ‘sub-division’ came up a couple times.
“Uh-oh.”
Somehow this made her more beautiful still.
All the insects thought her beautiful.
The breezes and birds scattered her seeds far and wide.
Bees made special trips just to see her.
Leaf eaters ate some place else.
Some of the other flowers were actually privately jealous. Jazmine was as sweet as her smell though, and no one could stay mad at her for long. She hadn’t a care in the world until a bunch of naked apes woke her up one morning with a surveying tripod and plat map.
The words ‘sub-division’ came up a couple times.
“Uh-oh.”
Somehow this made her more beautiful still.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Dead Love
Mort Amore or Dead Love for those of you who speak that other language, was a Penguin salesman in King Arthur’s Court. He never did meet that certain Yankee. He did; however, sell a whole lot of penguins. Mostly to Ladies in waiting whom were bored out of their minds waiting for their knight to return from whatever chivalrous quest happened to be on the agenda that month.
A nice penguin made a fine addition to any castle.
The penguins however were most unhappy during the summer because Mort Amore had gotten a load of them Arctic penguins who need cold weather to survive. It was all well and fine during the winter up there in England, but the summers were just too darn hot. So the penguins often died of heat exhaustion, insuring sales for the next year.
The English back then didn’t realize it was the weather. They thought it was a Penguin Thing, like leaves turning color.
Then one day a clever penguin by the name of William found his way down to the cold, dank dungeons under the castle he was living in one summer, and lived to be 50.
This got the attention of many other penguin owners, who have a tendency to get attached to their pet penguins, and it was found that although it was unpleasant down there, somehow if you put your pet penguin in the dungeon during the summer it wouldn’t die after all. They never did put two and two together, or if they did they got five.
Sir Parcival, the penguin lover, got wind of this situation and the next time he saw Mort Amore, he ran him out of England.
Chased him all the way back to France. Mort Amore couldn’t make a living in France because the Frenchmen couldn’t suffer to have pets that were naturally better dressed than they were.
Mort Amore wound up dying a pauper, just before the revolution. The first revolution.
The English wound up inventing the tuxedo.
A nice penguin made a fine addition to any castle.
The penguins however were most unhappy during the summer because Mort Amore had gotten a load of them Arctic penguins who need cold weather to survive. It was all well and fine during the winter up there in England, but the summers were just too darn hot. So the penguins often died of heat exhaustion, insuring sales for the next year.
The English back then didn’t realize it was the weather. They thought it was a Penguin Thing, like leaves turning color.
Then one day a clever penguin by the name of William found his way down to the cold, dank dungeons under the castle he was living in one summer, and lived to be 50.
This got the attention of many other penguin owners, who have a tendency to get attached to their pet penguins, and it was found that although it was unpleasant down there, somehow if you put your pet penguin in the dungeon during the summer it wouldn’t die after all. They never did put two and two together, or if they did they got five.
Sir Parcival, the penguin lover, got wind of this situation and the next time he saw Mort Amore, he ran him out of England.
Chased him all the way back to France. Mort Amore couldn’t make a living in France because the Frenchmen couldn’t suffer to have pets that were naturally better dressed than they were.
Mort Amore wound up dying a pauper, just before the revolution. The first revolution.
The English wound up inventing the tuxedo.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Henry
Henry was a common leafhopper. He had never met or even heard of an uncommon leafhopper much less a rare leafhopper, but nonetheless being called common annoyed him.
“Henry the common leaf hopper” just didn’t command respect in the insect world. Worse than all this, the common leaf hopper provided protein and nutrients for the rest of the food chain. Frogs, spiders, foxes, birds of every description, heck--even bears would have been happy to have Henry for lunch. This gave Henry a bit of a complex.
Henry was nervous. He often shook like a leaf. He also looked like a leaf so the metaphor is more appropriate than you originally thought. Henry was in his mid fifties. (Bug years of course, about three weeks for naked apes). Anyway, he had been to the tops of thirty-seven trees in his lifetime, there to gaze down on the jungle, while calming his nerves.
Finally, he resolved his inner conflict and decided to resign himself to his purpose in life: an important part of the food chain. He would have liked to be a bigger part of the tapestry of life but he understood that the thread, the stitch, and the patch are equally important to the beauty of a quilt, none more important than the other. All this in his little bug brain.
That day he went down to the swamp to eat mung grass and have a drink. After his meal a Skinny Billed Pond Jumper ate Henry.
Henry chuckled, “What timing.”
“Henry the common leaf hopper” just didn’t command respect in the insect world. Worse than all this, the common leaf hopper provided protein and nutrients for the rest of the food chain. Frogs, spiders, foxes, birds of every description, heck--even bears would have been happy to have Henry for lunch. This gave Henry a bit of a complex.
Henry was nervous. He often shook like a leaf. He also looked like a leaf so the metaphor is more appropriate than you originally thought. Henry was in his mid fifties. (Bug years of course, about three weeks for naked apes). Anyway, he had been to the tops of thirty-seven trees in his lifetime, there to gaze down on the jungle, while calming his nerves.
Finally, he resolved his inner conflict and decided to resign himself to his purpose in life: an important part of the food chain. He would have liked to be a bigger part of the tapestry of life but he understood that the thread, the stitch, and the patch are equally important to the beauty of a quilt, none more important than the other. All this in his little bug brain.
That day he went down to the swamp to eat mung grass and have a drink. After his meal a Skinny Billed Pond Jumper ate Henry.
Henry chuckled, “What timing.”
Monday, January 3, 2011
Joe Diamond
Joe Diamond was a myna bird, and man could Joe Diamond sing. He played a mean sax. He loved that president. He loved his country but feared his government.
Joe Diamond played and sang in basement clubs all over Texas and Louisiana. Joe Diamond was so good even aardvarks would have to get up and dance when old Joe Diamond came to town.
One day Joe Diamond decided that he didn’t particularly want to play the gig he had that night and almost caused a riot. He was thinking he’d just show up and dance around flapping his wings every which way. Joe Diamond was also a dancing myna bird.
No such luck.
So he satisfied himself with dancing around on the stage while he played that night. He powered through a couple of classics: Basin Street Blues, East Side Strut, E Train and a song he wrote his ownself called Shreveport Shuffle. Always a popular one with the crowds that knew him, even if he never played it the same way twice. The place was smokin’ ’till 6am. The gig was in New Orleans of course. A couple of big dogs got into a fight, but other than that there was only musical mayhem. Besides big dogs always fight when they get together. Next morning you know they’ll be friends again, chasing cats like it never happened.
Joe Diamond was a happy myna bird though there were times he’d rather have been dancing.
Joe Diamond played and sang in basement clubs all over Texas and Louisiana. Joe Diamond was so good even aardvarks would have to get up and dance when old Joe Diamond came to town.
One day Joe Diamond decided that he didn’t particularly want to play the gig he had that night and almost caused a riot. He was thinking he’d just show up and dance around flapping his wings every which way. Joe Diamond was also a dancing myna bird.
No such luck.
So he satisfied himself with dancing around on the stage while he played that night. He powered through a couple of classics: Basin Street Blues, East Side Strut, E Train and a song he wrote his ownself called Shreveport Shuffle. Always a popular one with the crowds that knew him, even if he never played it the same way twice. The place was smokin’ ’till 6am. The gig was in New Orleans of course. A couple of big dogs got into a fight, but other than that there was only musical mayhem. Besides big dogs always fight when they get together. Next morning you know they’ll be friends again, chasing cats like it never happened.
Joe Diamond was a happy myna bird though there were times he’d rather have been dancing.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Arnold
Arnold was a sand crab. He lived happily on white sand beach in Micronesia. This beach had no name but it was located near Babelthaup on a tiny rock island with a cave in the middle and lush vegetation on top.
Arnold had a brain smaller than a very small pea, but he still looked up from his sand hole burrow at those trees and wondered what it would be like to climb up them. He scuttled into the water for breakfast, lunch, dinner and numerous between meal snacks. As he headed back to his sand hole burrow, he looked up longingly.
Several times birds would swoop down on him, trying to make him a meal--but Arnold wasn’t bird food. He was an adventurer, or at least a wanna-be adventurer, who could scuttle like lightening down his hole when he had to.
He had to pretty often.
In fact he sometimes stood off forty feet or more just to tease these birds. If you listened carefully you could hear a crack as the air imploded into the vacuum Arnold left when he bolted off toward his hole.
One day Arnold put on his hiking boots, put some sludge in his back pack for lunch and headed off for the nearest tree. He got all the way to the top of it just before dark. The huge clouds that carry rain to the Palau archipelago were forming up and heading his way, the way they do every night, but this only augmented the sunset.
“I think I should like to be a sand crab beholding a sunset from the top of a beatlenut tree...” Arnold penned down that couplet but never finished the poem. He waited till dark. The rain began to fall as he made his way back to his sand hole burrow, a satisfied crab. Wanna-be adventurer no longer.
Arnold had a brain smaller than a very small pea, but he still looked up from his sand hole burrow at those trees and wondered what it would be like to climb up them. He scuttled into the water for breakfast, lunch, dinner and numerous between meal snacks. As he headed back to his sand hole burrow, he looked up longingly.
Several times birds would swoop down on him, trying to make him a meal--but Arnold wasn’t bird food. He was an adventurer, or at least a wanna-be adventurer, who could scuttle like lightening down his hole when he had to.
He had to pretty often.
In fact he sometimes stood off forty feet or more just to tease these birds. If you listened carefully you could hear a crack as the air imploded into the vacuum Arnold left when he bolted off toward his hole.
One day Arnold put on his hiking boots, put some sludge in his back pack for lunch and headed off for the nearest tree. He got all the way to the top of it just before dark. The huge clouds that carry rain to the Palau archipelago were forming up and heading his way, the way they do every night, but this only augmented the sunset.
“I think I should like to be a sand crab beholding a sunset from the top of a beatlenut tree...” Arnold penned down that couplet but never finished the poem. He waited till dark. The rain began to fall as he made his way back to his sand hole burrow, a satisfied crab. Wanna-be adventurer no longer.
Spanky
Once there was a dog named Spanky. He was a happy dog. He almost never ate grass. Dogs only eat grass when they are unhappy. Like everything else this is almost true.
Spanky was also a wonder dog. His friends called him Spanky the wonder dog and so shall I.
Spanky the wonder dog found himself in Lahaina one day, so he wandered into a bar called Long E’s. Spanky took a walk on the wild side once and had been to Shortie’s in San Francisco, but Long E’s was nothing like that. He had a beer and a fine supper, for which he paid a fine price. Spanky the wonder dog was chewing on the flesh of a dead animal as many carnivores do when hungry, when he saw a most pleasing female walk by on the sidewalk outside.
Spanky got very excited. Spanky got so excited he almost spilled his beer. He almost ran out after her, but he didn’t. It may have been a good thing too, because in reality she was very mean and lived all alone.
Finishing his meal Spanky the wonder dog left the bar fat and happy, but without his usual wonder dog skills, and stepped into the street they call Front Street.
He was killed instantly by an unobservant tourist in a late model Dodge.
Spanky was also a wonder dog. His friends called him Spanky the wonder dog and so shall I.
Spanky the wonder dog found himself in Lahaina one day, so he wandered into a bar called Long E’s. Spanky took a walk on the wild side once and had been to Shortie’s in San Francisco, but Long E’s was nothing like that. He had a beer and a fine supper, for which he paid a fine price. Spanky the wonder dog was chewing on the flesh of a dead animal as many carnivores do when hungry, when he saw a most pleasing female walk by on the sidewalk outside.
Spanky got very excited. Spanky got so excited he almost spilled his beer. He almost ran out after her, but he didn’t. It may have been a good thing too, because in reality she was very mean and lived all alone.
Finishing his meal Spanky the wonder dog left the bar fat and happy, but without his usual wonder dog skills, and stepped into the street they call Front Street.
He was killed instantly by an unobservant tourist in a late model Dodge.
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