Melving was an Albatross. He regularly tripped over small stones. Because of this he was bruised beneath his feathers.
Melving loved to fly but hated landing. He pretty much hated being on the ground at all; which is why on any given day you could catch Melving soaring above the cliffs for hours and hours practically hovering, effortlessly.
He spent so much time up there that he was a bachelor. Many of the girls thought Melving to be noble and sad flying up there all alone like that as long as the wind allowed. Some of them would try to flirt with him, but he wasn’t too terribly interested. Matting took place on the ground. Eggs were laid on the ground. Eggs had to be sat on, on the ground. Sooner or later chicks would have to be fed, on the ground.
Melving had spent so much time up there riding the thermals that he could take naps up there in the sky. The girls soon tired one by one, leaving Melving to soar up there alone.
One day a mean little naked ape with a big pistol, shot Melving, three times before he hit the ground. Melving had been napping. It was senseless murder, albatross is not tasty and the naked ape had no plans to eat him. It was sad but not as sad as you might think: Melving was dead before he hit the ground.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Moby
Moby was a minnow. He wasn’t even a big minnow. He was fast though. 0-60 in less than five. He ate stuff smaller than him and knew there was a good chance something bigger than him might one day eat him.
He was okay with it. It was the nature of things.
He practiced swimming fast 3 times a week. Saturday nights he drank expensive cognac in a bar located at the mouth of a feeder stream on the Rock River in a mystical place called Illinois. It was minnow bar. No catfish allowed. The sign clearly posted over the entrance.
Moby was getting pretty hammered, when he spied a sleek looking female minnow in a red party dress. She looked familiar from the health club, but he had no idea what her name was. He waggled on over to her and introduced himself.
“My name is Gina. I live a long way from here in the big lady they call the Mississippi.”
“Wow,” Moby was really genuinely impressed. Impressed but hammered, so he couldn’t think of what to say next.
“I’m visiting my aunt Frieda,” Gina continued. “She’s ill, someone’s been dumping lead near her house.”
“That’s too bad.”
“What are ya gonna do....” She sighed.
“I can swim very fast,” Moby said for no reason at all.
Gina raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Yes. I practice constantly.”
Moby went home, as usual, alone.
He was okay with it. It was the nature of things.
He practiced swimming fast 3 times a week. Saturday nights he drank expensive cognac in a bar located at the mouth of a feeder stream on the Rock River in a mystical place called Illinois. It was minnow bar. No catfish allowed. The sign clearly posted over the entrance.
Moby was getting pretty hammered, when he spied a sleek looking female minnow in a red party dress. She looked familiar from the health club, but he had no idea what her name was. He waggled on over to her and introduced himself.
“My name is Gina. I live a long way from here in the big lady they call the Mississippi.”
“Wow,” Moby was really genuinely impressed. Impressed but hammered, so he couldn’t think of what to say next.
“I’m visiting my aunt Frieda,” Gina continued. “She’s ill, someone’s been dumping lead near her house.”
“That’s too bad.”
“What are ya gonna do....” She sighed.
“I can swim very fast,” Moby said for no reason at all.
Gina raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Yes. I practice constantly.”
Moby went home, as usual, alone.
Chucky The Lion.
The lion named Chucky lived not in the Savannah, nor the jungle but far north in the dark forest. All who knew him feared his roar.
Chucky practiced roaring seven hours every day except Saturdays when he only roared for an hour and slept a lot.
Such a large amount of roaring used to attract brave peasants who thought they would slay the great roaring lion of the dark forest. They thought this would somehow bring them fame and fortune, besides it really was quite a racket seven hours every day except Saturdays. Chucky was fierce though and ate every single peasant who came to slay him, as well as those that came in groups (usually no larger than three). Generally he used their arrows as tooth picks as these were poor peasants and rather sinewy and the sinew would always get stuck in his teeth.
Chucky the lion wasn’t just great and fierce. Chucky was a clever lion. He could be sneaky too.
Finally the peasants got together on this one and summoned a brave knight to slay the great roaring lion of the dark forest. They knew that left to his own devices, Chucky would never have bothered to come all the way down to the place where there were peasants just so he could eat them, but by now it was a matter of principle.
The poor brave knight was lion food the minute they talked him into it and he said yes.
Chucky just spooked the horse and the knight fall down go boom.
You can’t blame the horse really. Chucky was up wind and well hidden. The horse wasn’t even two feet away when Chucky let out one of his most well practiced ferocious scary roars.
As you well know Chucky had the practice.
If it would have been possible the horse would have jumped out of his skin. He took off just under light speed. You would too if you were casually walking along and before you knew it there was a lion right next to you roaring.
Chucky being a clever lion carefully removed the knight’s helmet so as not to chip a tooth. He found well-fed, over-stuffed, pompous knights much to his liking as compared to peasant. After that, nary a peasant or any one else for that matter, bothered the great roaring lion of the dark forest.
Chucky practiced roaring seven hours every day except Saturdays when he only roared for an hour and slept a lot.
Such a large amount of roaring used to attract brave peasants who thought they would slay the great roaring lion of the dark forest. They thought this would somehow bring them fame and fortune, besides it really was quite a racket seven hours every day except Saturdays. Chucky was fierce though and ate every single peasant who came to slay him, as well as those that came in groups (usually no larger than three). Generally he used their arrows as tooth picks as these were poor peasants and rather sinewy and the sinew would always get stuck in his teeth.
Chucky the lion wasn’t just great and fierce. Chucky was a clever lion. He could be sneaky too.
Finally the peasants got together on this one and summoned a brave knight to slay the great roaring lion of the dark forest. They knew that left to his own devices, Chucky would never have bothered to come all the way down to the place where there were peasants just so he could eat them, but by now it was a matter of principle.
The poor brave knight was lion food the minute they talked him into it and he said yes.
Chucky just spooked the horse and the knight fall down go boom.
You can’t blame the horse really. Chucky was up wind and well hidden. The horse wasn’t even two feet away when Chucky let out one of his most well practiced ferocious scary roars.
As you well know Chucky had the practice.
If it would have been possible the horse would have jumped out of his skin. He took off just under light speed. You would too if you were casually walking along and before you knew it there was a lion right next to you roaring.
Chucky being a clever lion carefully removed the knight’s helmet so as not to chip a tooth. He found well-fed, over-stuffed, pompous knights much to his liking as compared to peasant. After that, nary a peasant or any one else for that matter, bothered the great roaring lion of the dark forest.
Parlartrix
Parlartrix was a wizard. Not the Grand Mage that Bob was and certainly not on par with Mad Max but at the same time a man-at-arms would never lay a sword or bullet in him.
He could amaze and stun you with card tricks and he really could see into the future. He kept it to himself because he knew that as soon as you say something about it you probably are going to change it. It’s just the nature of the thing called reality.
“Take a look at this,” said Foo Ling excitedly.
“Wow, that’s great...What is it?”
“A little thing I like to call self-contained controlled nuclear fission.”
“Not quite yet, Foo Ling.”
“No, it is, it is!”
“I know. What I mean is they aren’t ready yet.”
“Who?”
“Men. Mankind. People in general.”
“What a line a crap. You just don’t want me to look good.”
“Don’t get all offended.” Parlartrix spoke earnestly. “You have no idea. That black powder was bad enough.”
“Max thought it was a good idea.”
“Exactly.”
Foo Ling nodded dejectedly after a moment, but then he brightened suddenly. “Let’s give it to Max, he’ll have a great time with it.”
“Now, that’s a great idea.”
Max stuck it away somewhere after playing with it for a while and forgot about it.
Just as Foo Ling expected.
Parlartrix isn’t going to remind Max anytime soon.
He could amaze and stun you with card tricks and he really could see into the future. He kept it to himself because he knew that as soon as you say something about it you probably are going to change it. It’s just the nature of the thing called reality.
“Take a look at this,” said Foo Ling excitedly.
“Wow, that’s great...What is it?”
“A little thing I like to call self-contained controlled nuclear fission.”
“Not quite yet, Foo Ling.”
“No, it is, it is!”
“I know. What I mean is they aren’t ready yet.”
“Who?”
“Men. Mankind. People in general.”
“What a line a crap. You just don’t want me to look good.”
“Don’t get all offended.” Parlartrix spoke earnestly. “You have no idea. That black powder was bad enough.”
“Max thought it was a good idea.”
“Exactly.”
Foo Ling nodded dejectedly after a moment, but then he brightened suddenly. “Let’s give it to Max, he’ll have a great time with it.”
“Now, that’s a great idea.”
Max stuck it away somewhere after playing with it for a while and forgot about it.
Just as Foo Ling expected.
Parlartrix isn’t going to remind Max anytime soon.
Quinton
Quinton was a quail who lived all alone at the mouth of an abandoned gold mine. He was really a happy guy except for the living alone part. He pressed flowers to pass the time and was really most excellent at it: cards, book marks, paperweights and what-have-you.
He ate tender morsels he scratched up from the ground around the tunnel entrance, and ran around catching rain drops on those days it did rain. Rain didn’t come often. He ran around like a chicken with its head cut off when it rained. Sometimes he’d drink forty drops or more and pretend to be very drunk. Quinton couldn't care less; no one ever saw him because he lived up there by himself.
Once a year he’d head down the mountain for supplies. There was a little quail village where he could get anything he wanted on his good looks alone.
Okay, he had to trade his pressed flowers, but this was of no consequence to Quinton since he would just make more next year. Way up there, flowers were in no short supply.
Take something from where it is abundant to where it is rare and profit follows.
He was talking to Dan, a quail (as opposed to J. D. Quayle) who thought he might by mayor one day, when Quinton’s x-mother-in-law passed by.
Instantly they were fighting, feathers and wings everywhere, while exchanging many extra nasty expletives. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen quails go at it but it’s never pretty. Don’t get your shorts in a knot over the male on female violence thing either: these birds play by their own set of funky rules, males, females: true equals. It’s a size thing.
Dan got them calmed down and separated but not before Quinton had pulled out just about all her tail feathers.
“Get out of here, you stupid bastard,” Dan exclaimed. “She’ll sick the whole town on you.”
“It’d be a toss up who they’d attack first.”
He had a point, she wasn’t miss congeniality quail, but Dan shooed him off anyway. Quinton took his oversized bag of provisions and was off. He came to the tunnel entrance with a huff a good six hours later.
He set up the chessboard he had just gotten and played himself constantly.
“Well, one thing good about it,” Quinton said finishing yet another game, “is that I never lose.”
He ate tender morsels he scratched up from the ground around the tunnel entrance, and ran around catching rain drops on those days it did rain. Rain didn’t come often. He ran around like a chicken with its head cut off when it rained. Sometimes he’d drink forty drops or more and pretend to be very drunk. Quinton couldn't care less; no one ever saw him because he lived up there by himself.
Once a year he’d head down the mountain for supplies. There was a little quail village where he could get anything he wanted on his good looks alone.
Okay, he had to trade his pressed flowers, but this was of no consequence to Quinton since he would just make more next year. Way up there, flowers were in no short supply.
Take something from where it is abundant to where it is rare and profit follows.
He was talking to Dan, a quail (as opposed to J. D. Quayle) who thought he might by mayor one day, when Quinton’s x-mother-in-law passed by.
Instantly they were fighting, feathers and wings everywhere, while exchanging many extra nasty expletives. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen quails go at it but it’s never pretty. Don’t get your shorts in a knot over the male on female violence thing either: these birds play by their own set of funky rules, males, females: true equals. It’s a size thing.
Dan got them calmed down and separated but not before Quinton had pulled out just about all her tail feathers.
“Get out of here, you stupid bastard,” Dan exclaimed. “She’ll sick the whole town on you.”
“It’d be a toss up who they’d attack first.”
He had a point, she wasn’t miss congeniality quail, but Dan shooed him off anyway. Quinton took his oversized bag of provisions and was off. He came to the tunnel entrance with a huff a good six hours later.
He set up the chessboard he had just gotten and played himself constantly.
“Well, one thing good about it,” Quinton said finishing yet another game, “is that I never lose.”
Abalene
Abalene was a hooker. Her real name wasn’t Abalene. She was one of them beautiful hookers like you see in Texas. She was so good looking that she didn’t even wear much make up and didn’t dress that sleazy. Abalene’s mini skirts were shorter than you’d let your kids wear. But hey, she was after all, a hooker.
She wore hosiery that was so sheer it looked as if it was spray painted on. Perhaps air brushed would give a better image. Sheer hosiery was one of her passions.
She had kicked a nasty drug habit by herself, and still had a smile that could open any door, twice.
Abalene had one problem. (It’s just an expression). It was a man of course. He was her pimp. She practiced the oldest profession in a rough part of Dallas and he was, unfortunately a necessary evil. And he was evil. He never hit her.
Hard that is. But never on the face. We’ll just call him Rocko .
One time some rich old bastard thought he’d make Abalene an offer she couldn’t refuse, and when she did refuse he flipped out and started beating her.
Rocko should have been there sooner. Rocko kicked his ass all the way back to his shiny new Mercedes, busted out all the windows and sent him on his not so merry way.
He rushed Abalene to the emergency room of a nice north side hospital after making her change into something a whole lot more conservative. They even kept her overnight. Rocko smuggled in chicken soup. She never forgot this.
She also never forgot that Rocko sometimes took all of her money.
One day Abalene got in her car, took a wrong turn and just kept going. She wound up in San Francisco. She took a job in an expensive restaurant and went to night school. She became a high school guidance counselor and teacher. Best damn one that school ever had.
Last I saw her she was wearing one of them acceptable mini-skirts, with those sheer hose. She was smiling.
She wore hosiery that was so sheer it looked as if it was spray painted on. Perhaps air brushed would give a better image. Sheer hosiery was one of her passions.
She had kicked a nasty drug habit by herself, and still had a smile that could open any door, twice.
Abalene had one problem. (It’s just an expression). It was a man of course. He was her pimp. She practiced the oldest profession in a rough part of Dallas and he was, unfortunately a necessary evil. And he was evil. He never hit her.
Hard that is. But never on the face. We’ll just call him Rocko .
One time some rich old bastard thought he’d make Abalene an offer she couldn’t refuse, and when she did refuse he flipped out and started beating her.
Rocko should have been there sooner. Rocko kicked his ass all the way back to his shiny new Mercedes, busted out all the windows and sent him on his not so merry way.
He rushed Abalene to the emergency room of a nice north side hospital after making her change into something a whole lot more conservative. They even kept her overnight. Rocko smuggled in chicken soup. She never forgot this.
She also never forgot that Rocko sometimes took all of her money.
One day Abalene got in her car, took a wrong turn and just kept going. She wound up in San Francisco. She took a job in an expensive restaurant and went to night school. She became a high school guidance counselor and teacher. Best damn one that school ever had.
Last I saw her she was wearing one of them acceptable mini-skirts, with those sheer hose. She was smiling.
Fiercesome
Max was a fierce wolf, in fact just about everybody called him Max the fiercesome. Max the fiercesome spent his days hunting and his nights charting the stars. When the moon was full he howled at it until it went away so he could continue his work charting the stars.
Max (the fiercesome) liked to eat dogs, but dogs usually ran in PAC’s because they often had special interests and therefore lobbied the government.
These dog PAC’s were dangerous because Max, though fiercesome, was one of them loner wolves. Not the kind you borrow when your wolf is getting fixed, which by the way is a terrible thing to do to your wolf, but the kind that spent time all alone.
Max having spent quite a bit of time alone had become quite comfortable with his own fierceness. He even contemplated it on occasion, mostly while chewing the bones of his prey after a big meal.
“Yes, yes: I am quite the fierce wolf.” He’d think to himself, picking his teeth with a bone splinter. “But I’m seldom hungry.”
He used to keep his star charts in a box under his bed with his telescope, but one day he caught Jhonny-Two-Paw trying to pick the lock. Jhonny-Two-Paw was a ferret. He died that same day.
Nobody but his mother missed him and even her not for a very long while after.
After eating Jhonny-Two-Paw, Max got a safe deposit box in an old pine tree up there at Forest Bank. He told Sammy wood chuck to be careful with his star charts or he’d get eaten too.
Sammy couldn’t have been more careful, and pretended that he didn’t mind Max showing up in the middle of the night when there was no moon.
Sammy got to the point where he fell asleep easily when Max was howling at the moon because he knew that Max wouldn’t be needing his box of star charts.
All that howling put Sammy right to sleep.
Max (the fiercesome) liked to eat dogs, but dogs usually ran in PAC’s because they often had special interests and therefore lobbied the government.
These dog PAC’s were dangerous because Max, though fiercesome, was one of them loner wolves. Not the kind you borrow when your wolf is getting fixed, which by the way is a terrible thing to do to your wolf, but the kind that spent time all alone.
Max having spent quite a bit of time alone had become quite comfortable with his own fierceness. He even contemplated it on occasion, mostly while chewing the bones of his prey after a big meal.
“Yes, yes: I am quite the fierce wolf.” He’d think to himself, picking his teeth with a bone splinter. “But I’m seldom hungry.”
He used to keep his star charts in a box under his bed with his telescope, but one day he caught Jhonny-Two-Paw trying to pick the lock. Jhonny-Two-Paw was a ferret. He died that same day.
Nobody but his mother missed him and even her not for a very long while after.
After eating Jhonny-Two-Paw, Max got a safe deposit box in an old pine tree up there at Forest Bank. He told Sammy wood chuck to be careful with his star charts or he’d get eaten too.
Sammy couldn’t have been more careful, and pretended that he didn’t mind Max showing up in the middle of the night when there was no moon.
Sammy got to the point where he fell asleep easily when Max was howling at the moon because he knew that Max wouldn’t be needing his box of star charts.
All that howling put Sammy right to sleep.
Pherric
Pherric was a honeybee. She served her queen well by finding flower patches and then telling everyone else from the hive where and what she had found.
Pherric was a bee scout.
Pherric was indeed related to Eric a famous half cousin who had had an accident, but it was only by chance that their names rhymed. Pherric was of the Iron hive clan, named after ferrous metals.
At the moment we take up this little tale, Pherric is flying as fast as her little bee wings will take her. A big, blue, bird is chasing Pherric. What kind of bird I don’t know; however, Pherric knew it was the bee eating kind.
Imagine a bee flying at top speed--use some imagination, and throw in ‘Flight of the Bumble Bee’ for musical background accompaniment. If you don’t know how it goes, go ahead and ask some one educated to hum it for you, you’ll recognize it once you’ve heard it.
At any rate Pherric was flying top speed, wishing for something to drink, dodging in and out of leaves and finally flying into the part of the wood where Mr. Fox (James E. Fox) lived.
Mr. Fox had bit a bee as a pup, you know how young foxes are, and having been stung, never messed with another bee since, except for the occasional “hello” to Pherric when she was in his neck of the woods looking for nectar.
Shortly there was a bee being chased by a bird being chased by a fox. This didn’t last long. Soon the bird decided Pherric was much less important than being eaten by a fox and broke it off heading for the treetops.
Mr. Fox ran `round the tree the bird flew up to, an exceptional larch, noted immediately that he wasn’t climbing up there for a bird that was just going to fly off to another tree anyway, chased his tail a couple of times for good measure and then went back to what he was doing which was getting ready for a hot date later that evening.
Pherric was very aware that she was very near the bottom of the food chain, especially on days like these, but she kept a positive disposition anyway. It was becoming clear to Pherric that she probably wasn’t going to get to die of old age, what with all the spiders, birds, and many small reptiles that thought of bees as food or snacks.
Pherric returned to the hive had a bite to eat and went to sleep. Her sisters knew not to bother her somehow.
“Lay off her, she’s had a rough day.”
A moment in the life of a bee.
Pherric was a bee scout.
Pherric was indeed related to Eric a famous half cousin who had had an accident, but it was only by chance that their names rhymed. Pherric was of the Iron hive clan, named after ferrous metals.
At the moment we take up this little tale, Pherric is flying as fast as her little bee wings will take her. A big, blue, bird is chasing Pherric. What kind of bird I don’t know; however, Pherric knew it was the bee eating kind.
Imagine a bee flying at top speed--use some imagination, and throw in ‘Flight of the Bumble Bee’ for musical background accompaniment. If you don’t know how it goes, go ahead and ask some one educated to hum it for you, you’ll recognize it once you’ve heard it.
At any rate Pherric was flying top speed, wishing for something to drink, dodging in and out of leaves and finally flying into the part of the wood where Mr. Fox (James E. Fox) lived.
Mr. Fox had bit a bee as a pup, you know how young foxes are, and having been stung, never messed with another bee since, except for the occasional “hello” to Pherric when she was in his neck of the woods looking for nectar.
Shortly there was a bee being chased by a bird being chased by a fox. This didn’t last long. Soon the bird decided Pherric was much less important than being eaten by a fox and broke it off heading for the treetops.
Mr. Fox ran `round the tree the bird flew up to, an exceptional larch, noted immediately that he wasn’t climbing up there for a bird that was just going to fly off to another tree anyway, chased his tail a couple of times for good measure and then went back to what he was doing which was getting ready for a hot date later that evening.
Pherric was very aware that she was very near the bottom of the food chain, especially on days like these, but she kept a positive disposition anyway. It was becoming clear to Pherric that she probably wasn’t going to get to die of old age, what with all the spiders, birds, and many small reptiles that thought of bees as food or snacks.
Pherric returned to the hive had a bite to eat and went to sleep. Her sisters knew not to bother her somehow.
“Lay off her, she’s had a rough day.”
A moment in the life of a bee.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Foo Ling Unscrambled
Foo Ling came running down the beach at the edge of the world and you could tell by the way he was running that he had just invented something he thought was cool.
The Lion Heart, Bob, Mad Max, that guy named George, Sir Frederick Black and that certain witch he was so found of, were all there on the beach toasting marsh-mellows, making smores and drinking really bad coffee out of a big pump thermos that George had brought with him from Roscoe’s Half Way Cafe.
They saw him coming a long way off.
He ran up panting.
“Good to see you, Foo Ling,” the Lion Heart said.
“Yes, it’s been such a long time since we’ve seen you here,” said Bob the grand mage.
“Well, it’s different for me. I have to meditate really hard,” said Foo Ling.
“How do you meditate hard?” George asked.
Foo Ling stopped to consider this and immediately began to fade away. Bob the grand mage reached out and grabbed him quick as he could, which was quicker than you or I could have done it; Bob was after all a grand mage (and no slouch either). Foo Ling stabilized and nodded his thanks.
“What is this outlandish looking contraption?” that certain witch asked.
“It’s my latest invention...”
There was an awkward silence as they all waited for him to go on.
“What is it?” Sir Frederick Black rarely missed a cue.
“An Egg Un-scrambler.” Foo Ling said with obvious pride.
“You actually built a machine for unscrambling eggs? I think you got something there!” Mad Max said. “I always have to throw a limited space time reversal spell. But now you got this thing: I’ll take one.”
“What the heck are you going to do with it?” she said undaunted by the elbow to the ribs Bob gave her.
“Do you have any idea how many chefs would give their eye teeth for this thing?” Foo Ling replied unperturbed.
“Make us all one.” Bob said. “Can it put it back in the shell too?”
Foo Ling gave him a hurt look. “Still working on that part,” he mumbled under his breath.
“Well, there went all the bird sales.” Sir Frederick Black said, but he said it good-naturedly.
“How `bout a nice cuppa coffee?” George asked.
A really long time ago there was a certain province in China where you could get unscrambled eggs of every description plus a couple more. Then they came up with egg drop soup and demand really fell off. Foo Ling never really marketed his inventions for too long because he was always coming up with something new; so his inventions didn’t spread as far and wide as you’d first think without somebody pushing it.
It’s too bad too, `cause just think where we’d be today if his silicon based personal computing device would have caught on back then.
The Lion Heart, Bob, Mad Max, that guy named George, Sir Frederick Black and that certain witch he was so found of, were all there on the beach toasting marsh-mellows, making smores and drinking really bad coffee out of a big pump thermos that George had brought with him from Roscoe’s Half Way Cafe.
They saw him coming a long way off.
He ran up panting.
“Good to see you, Foo Ling,” the Lion Heart said.
“Yes, it’s been such a long time since we’ve seen you here,” said Bob the grand mage.
“Well, it’s different for me. I have to meditate really hard,” said Foo Ling.
“How do you meditate hard?” George asked.
Foo Ling stopped to consider this and immediately began to fade away. Bob the grand mage reached out and grabbed him quick as he could, which was quicker than you or I could have done it; Bob was after all a grand mage (and no slouch either). Foo Ling stabilized and nodded his thanks.
“What is this outlandish looking contraption?” that certain witch asked.
“It’s my latest invention...”
There was an awkward silence as they all waited for him to go on.
“What is it?” Sir Frederick Black rarely missed a cue.
“An Egg Un-scrambler.” Foo Ling said with obvious pride.
“You actually built a machine for unscrambling eggs? I think you got something there!” Mad Max said. “I always have to throw a limited space time reversal spell. But now you got this thing: I’ll take one.”
“What the heck are you going to do with it?” she said undaunted by the elbow to the ribs Bob gave her.
“Do you have any idea how many chefs would give their eye teeth for this thing?” Foo Ling replied unperturbed.
“Make us all one.” Bob said. “Can it put it back in the shell too?”
Foo Ling gave him a hurt look. “Still working on that part,” he mumbled under his breath.
“Well, there went all the bird sales.” Sir Frederick Black said, but he said it good-naturedly.
“How `bout a nice cuppa coffee?” George asked.
A really long time ago there was a certain province in China where you could get unscrambled eggs of every description plus a couple more. Then they came up with egg drop soup and demand really fell off. Foo Ling never really marketed his inventions for too long because he was always coming up with something new; so his inventions didn’t spread as far and wide as you’d first think without somebody pushing it.
It’s too bad too, `cause just think where we’d be today if his silicon based personal computing device would have caught on back then.
Aurthur And Looise
Loopey Looise was eating her vegetables one morning while waiting for her clothes to dry.
She was still in them.
She had gone for a pre-dawn swim in Lake Kaneer. Loopey Looise always ate all her vegetables no matter how long it took. Just before she finished Sir Wallace Aurthur Grey was knocking on the big door at the entrance to her tower.
“Aurthur, what brings you here so late in the evening?”
“Got any mushrooms?”
“What kind?”
“Big purple and yellow ones L. Looise. What do you mean what kind? The kind.”
“Oh,” she nodded knowingly, but said nothing.
“Well?” Wallace Grey said just a tad testily.
“The well is in the back, where it always is.” She said with a vague frown.
“No, no, no. The mushrooms. Do you have any?”
“What kind?”
Wallace Grey exhaled loudly. “Magic Mushrooms.”
“Of course.” By this time they were back in the breakfast room and Loopey Looise resumed munching on her cauliflower. She swallowed and then said “would you like some?”
More patiently than you might think he said, “Yes L. Looise, I would like some.”
“Then I’ll go get you some.” She reappeared a full three hours later with a huge bag of mushrooms, wild flowers and red tree bark.
Wallace Grey had fallen asleep in the comfy chair by the bay window in her study. He opened one eye when she came in.
Her white flowing sundress was now wet again and the thing stuck to her like only wet cloth can. For the first time Wallace A. Grey noted that she was all woman, shapely too.
“Here,” she said dumping a good 15 or 20 pounds in front of him.
“I thought you might just have had some in a jar or something. Where the heck did you go?” Wallace Grey stretched his arms and began grooming his tail.
“To where the mushrooms are.”
“I could have gone myself, but I obviously didn’t know where they grow.”
“Arthur? Are you admitting that you didn’t know something?”
Wallace Grey rolled his eyes. “There are two kinds of knowledge: that from within and that from without. Information on where mushrooms grow can be deduced, but isn’t it easier to just go ask some one who already knows.”
“Like me?” Loopey Looise was blushing.
“Like you.”
“Let’s gobble these up and then go visit the Lion Heart on the beach at the edge of the world!”
“That wasn’t exactly my plan...But why not? I rarely get to spend much time with you or him lately. Perhaps we can all three be together.”
“Perhaps.”
It wasn’t long before they were dancing in the sand on the beach at the edge of the world.
She was still in them.
She had gone for a pre-dawn swim in Lake Kaneer. Loopey Looise always ate all her vegetables no matter how long it took. Just before she finished Sir Wallace Aurthur Grey was knocking on the big door at the entrance to her tower.
“Aurthur, what brings you here so late in the evening?”
“Got any mushrooms?”
“What kind?”
“Big purple and yellow ones L. Looise. What do you mean what kind? The kind.”
“Oh,” she nodded knowingly, but said nothing.
“Well?” Wallace Grey said just a tad testily.
“The well is in the back, where it always is.” She said with a vague frown.
“No, no, no. The mushrooms. Do you have any?”
“What kind?”
Wallace Grey exhaled loudly. “Magic Mushrooms.”
“Of course.” By this time they were back in the breakfast room and Loopey Looise resumed munching on her cauliflower. She swallowed and then said “would you like some?”
More patiently than you might think he said, “Yes L. Looise, I would like some.”
“Then I’ll go get you some.” She reappeared a full three hours later with a huge bag of mushrooms, wild flowers and red tree bark.
Wallace Grey had fallen asleep in the comfy chair by the bay window in her study. He opened one eye when she came in.
Her white flowing sundress was now wet again and the thing stuck to her like only wet cloth can. For the first time Wallace A. Grey noted that she was all woman, shapely too.
“Here,” she said dumping a good 15 or 20 pounds in front of him.
“I thought you might just have had some in a jar or something. Where the heck did you go?” Wallace Grey stretched his arms and began grooming his tail.
“To where the mushrooms are.”
“I could have gone myself, but I obviously didn’t know where they grow.”
“Arthur? Are you admitting that you didn’t know something?”
Wallace Grey rolled his eyes. “There are two kinds of knowledge: that from within and that from without. Information on where mushrooms grow can be deduced, but isn’t it easier to just go ask some one who already knows.”
“Like me?” Loopey Looise was blushing.
“Like you.”
“Let’s gobble these up and then go visit the Lion Heart on the beach at the edge of the world!”
“That wasn’t exactly my plan...But why not? I rarely get to spend much time with you or him lately. Perhaps we can all three be together.”
“Perhaps.”
It wasn’t long before they were dancing in the sand on the beach at the edge of the world.
Saddle Light Dish
Charlie the Cheetah and Larry the Leopard were sunning themselves on a big gray rock that rose up in the middle of the plain. They were surrounded by herds of zebra, gazelle, antelope, wilder beasts and rambling baboons.
“I’m telling you: it’s aliens.” Larry was saying.
“It’s not either aliens. It’s them wacky naked apes getting weird again.”
“It’s aliens.”
“No, it’s just naked apes. They put tranquilizer darts in their guns instead of bullets. Then they do nasty experiments on you and put annoying tags on your ear.”
“What about Skinny Albert? Disappeared for a while then came back with a tattoo he can’t remember getting and a yellow collar. He says ever since they always know where he is.”
“What’s yer point?” Charlie said stretching. “It’s them naked apes studying us again. They feel so guilty about it they got a story in their collective unconscious about creatures that do it to them. Those are the aliens.”
“What do you mean?”
“I saw this TV show where they get taken to a planet where chimps rule the world. The naked apes get experimented on--did you see it?”
“Nope.”
“Apparently enough of them did to get that Hundredth Monkey thing going. It’s on cable all the time. They made like fifty of them shows.”
“No cable where I’m at.”
“We oughtta get a saddle light dish.”
“Yeah!” Larry said rolling over. “500 channels, and I bet one talks about aliens kidnapping wilder beasts and innocent lions.”
“It’s naked apes.”
“Jury’s still out.” Larry the Leopard said.
“It’s not aliens.”
“Maybe it’s naked apes and occasionally aliens.”
Long pause.
Charlie nodded pensively. “Okay, maybe...but...”
They never did decide.
“I’m telling you: it’s aliens.” Larry was saying.
“It’s not either aliens. It’s them wacky naked apes getting weird again.”
“It’s aliens.”
“No, it’s just naked apes. They put tranquilizer darts in their guns instead of bullets. Then they do nasty experiments on you and put annoying tags on your ear.”
“What about Skinny Albert? Disappeared for a while then came back with a tattoo he can’t remember getting and a yellow collar. He says ever since they always know where he is.”
“What’s yer point?” Charlie said stretching. “It’s them naked apes studying us again. They feel so guilty about it they got a story in their collective unconscious about creatures that do it to them. Those are the aliens.”
“What do you mean?”
“I saw this TV show where they get taken to a planet where chimps rule the world. The naked apes get experimented on--did you see it?”
“Nope.”
“Apparently enough of them did to get that Hundredth Monkey thing going. It’s on cable all the time. They made like fifty of them shows.”
“No cable where I’m at.”
“We oughtta get a saddle light dish.”
“Yeah!” Larry said rolling over. “500 channels, and I bet one talks about aliens kidnapping wilder beasts and innocent lions.”
“It’s naked apes.”
“Jury’s still out.” Larry the Leopard said.
“It’s not aliens.”
“Maybe it’s naked apes and occasionally aliens.”
Long pause.
Charlie nodded pensively. “Okay, maybe...but...”
They never did decide.
Maury
Maury was a pretty pink and gray butterfly. She flitted about drinking nectar and shaking pollen off her legs, usually onto plants that needed pollinating, as nature intended. One day she was floating on a merry little breeze in a place the Indians named Wetonka in a place some other guys still call South Dakota when she saw the most glorious monarch butterfly flying by.
Her mouth dropped open.
“Wow,” she said silently.
“It’s mating season,” said the monarch, whose name was Larry. “I’m off to Mexico.”
“Why the heck do you want to go all the way to Mexico?”
“Funny you should ask...” Larry went on and on about ancestral habit, weather, tradition and more.
It bored the crap out of Maury.
If only she knew how many scientists--well, bug studiers anyway, wanted the full and detailed explanation Larry was giving.
“Well, have a nice trip,”
“Blah, blah, blah blah blah, blah, blah...”
“Okay, I’m going to go now...”
“Blah, blah-blah, blah blah blah...”
“Right. I’m off.”
She managed to get away almost an hour later.
“Darn it, he was so good looking,” she said to Iloher (Ill-low-here) her friend confidant and platonic bed partner a little later that day. “But he just wouldn’t shut up. You can’t even imagine. He went on and on and on. Worse than I am right now.”
“Well...maybe some day your prince will come and not just some monarch.”
“You’re not even funny.”
Her mouth dropped open.
“Wow,” she said silently.
“It’s mating season,” said the monarch, whose name was Larry. “I’m off to Mexico.”
“Why the heck do you want to go all the way to Mexico?”
“Funny you should ask...” Larry went on and on about ancestral habit, weather, tradition and more.
It bored the crap out of Maury.
If only she knew how many scientists--well, bug studiers anyway, wanted the full and detailed explanation Larry was giving.
“Well, have a nice trip,”
“Blah, blah, blah blah blah, blah, blah...”
“Okay, I’m going to go now...”
“Blah, blah-blah, blah blah blah...”
“Right. I’m off.”
She managed to get away almost an hour later.
“Darn it, he was so good looking,” she said to Iloher (Ill-low-here) her friend confidant and platonic bed partner a little later that day. “But he just wouldn’t shut up. You can’t even imagine. He went on and on and on. Worse than I am right now.”
“Well...maybe some day your prince will come and not just some monarch.”
“You’re not even funny.”
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Bertram
Bertram was a bear, not a cute hug-able bear, but a big, bad ass grizzly bear with an attitude. Bertram was the kind of bear Indians used hate to run into. He wasn’t stupid and the Great Spirit was strong inside him. This made him clever, but also cautious.
He didn’t throw his weight around--much.
He was getting older and grouchier with every year. He had lots and lots of offspring spread out through North America. Chances are the bear in your zoo is related to this old cuss.
Bertram was waking up from a long nap, not hibernation just a lazy Sunday snooze when he got the idea in his head to go pick berries down by a certain stream. He wasn’t a berry picker really, it was more of a roving hurricane that blew past, taking all types of fruit, nuts, berries, even roots and what have you with it.
Bertram chewed carefully on a paw full of wild raspberries that also contained an unlucky grasshopper or two, he had been so busy eating he hadn’t noticed he was now down near the rapids, where quite a few other grizzly bears were having a hay day eating salmon.
Bertram stood up on his hind legs to get a better picture of the situation.
On the opposite bank, there was a grizzly bear that was huge and beautiful and female and though Bertram didn’t get the urge that much anymore, (he was after all sixty-nine) this bear turned his head. He sauntered down to the water and took a bath all the while noting where she was. She had two cubs that were just old enough to be on their own soon.
“Rats,” Bertram thought to himself. “They’re always more receptive when they don’t have kids.” He forgot that it was because males sometimes killed cubs and not always by accident.
He went on through the river casually, and up the other bank seeming not to notice the other bears who fled in terror before him. One young, but fully-grown adult male bear decided he’d find out what was happening. He was the most dominant male in the area and huge as grizzly bears go. Bertram was bigger.
“Take a walk kid, you can have the rest of them: alls I want is her.”
“But they’re all mine. I fought by rights for all of them.”
Bertram snarled at this: “I’ll not tell you again.”
The other bear thought it over a short second, then made a dignified retreat. Bertram once ate one of the males that challenged him.
“Get the hell out of here you old coot,” was the greeting Bertha the bear gave him. “And stay the hell away from my cubs,” she was snarling up a storm.
“I could care less about those cubs of yours. I came all the way over here for you.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah: beat it.” She said with a growl that verged on a roar.
Bertram was digging the heck out of this chick: “Pretty feisty, I like that.”
“Look, I’m warning you...”
About three hours later she was smiling that smile and was carrying Bertram’s genes inside her.
She had two cubs. The last Bertram ever sired. One boy and one girl, the boy grew up to be just a little bigger than Bertram, and the girl just a little smaller than her dad which made her one of the largest females ever. Many confused her for a him, except other bears that is; they always know. It’s in the walk. Bertram ran into her one day in a pine forest munching on some pinecones.
“Hey, pop,” she said. “How ya been?”
“Getting old. How bout you?”
“Pregnant.”
He nodded. “Well, see you around.”
“Have a pine cone,” she said rolling one at him. They wound up talking for hours. Somehow she knew that she was his last daughter, and the winter coming was his last winter.
She smiled, and savored the moment.
He didn’t throw his weight around--much.
He was getting older and grouchier with every year. He had lots and lots of offspring spread out through North America. Chances are the bear in your zoo is related to this old cuss.
Bertram was waking up from a long nap, not hibernation just a lazy Sunday snooze when he got the idea in his head to go pick berries down by a certain stream. He wasn’t a berry picker really, it was more of a roving hurricane that blew past, taking all types of fruit, nuts, berries, even roots and what have you with it.
Bertram chewed carefully on a paw full of wild raspberries that also contained an unlucky grasshopper or two, he had been so busy eating he hadn’t noticed he was now down near the rapids, where quite a few other grizzly bears were having a hay day eating salmon.
Bertram stood up on his hind legs to get a better picture of the situation.
On the opposite bank, there was a grizzly bear that was huge and beautiful and female and though Bertram didn’t get the urge that much anymore, (he was after all sixty-nine) this bear turned his head. He sauntered down to the water and took a bath all the while noting where she was. She had two cubs that were just old enough to be on their own soon.
“Rats,” Bertram thought to himself. “They’re always more receptive when they don’t have kids.” He forgot that it was because males sometimes killed cubs and not always by accident.
He went on through the river casually, and up the other bank seeming not to notice the other bears who fled in terror before him. One young, but fully-grown adult male bear decided he’d find out what was happening. He was the most dominant male in the area and huge as grizzly bears go. Bertram was bigger.
“Take a walk kid, you can have the rest of them: alls I want is her.”
“But they’re all mine. I fought by rights for all of them.”
Bertram snarled at this: “I’ll not tell you again.”
The other bear thought it over a short second, then made a dignified retreat. Bertram once ate one of the males that challenged him.
“Get the hell out of here you old coot,” was the greeting Bertha the bear gave him. “And stay the hell away from my cubs,” she was snarling up a storm.
“I could care less about those cubs of yours. I came all the way over here for you.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah: beat it.” She said with a growl that verged on a roar.
Bertram was digging the heck out of this chick: “Pretty feisty, I like that.”
“Look, I’m warning you...”
About three hours later she was smiling that smile and was carrying Bertram’s genes inside her.
She had two cubs. The last Bertram ever sired. One boy and one girl, the boy grew up to be just a little bigger than Bertram, and the girl just a little smaller than her dad which made her one of the largest females ever. Many confused her for a him, except other bears that is; they always know. It’s in the walk. Bertram ran into her one day in a pine forest munching on some pinecones.
“Hey, pop,” she said. “How ya been?”
“Getting old. How bout you?”
“Pregnant.”
He nodded. “Well, see you around.”
“Have a pine cone,” she said rolling one at him. They wound up talking for hours. Somehow she knew that she was his last daughter, and the winter coming was his last winter.
She smiled, and savored the moment.
Gongga Shan
Gongga Shan (if it’s still called that) is a very tall mountain. You can’t miss it: 24,900 feet tall snow capped all year round. Very pretty to look at from any direction.
After the 12,000 foot mark it gets a little sparse when it comes to vegetation, but under certain rocks there are bugs. Bugs so teeny tiny they never visit the other bugs that live under other rocks--at least not any more. In fact it’s been so long since the bugs have visited each other their great-grand children are debating whether there are other bugs under other rocks. Some bugs are positive there aren’t and of course some bugs are positive that there are.
It’s really quite ridiculous if you think about it.
One day Willy, a very adventurous little (and I do mean little) bug set off to settle the debate. He never returned because he fell in love with Wanda and Vicki two bugs he met under the very next rock he came to. They both loved him back and because of their wacky culture had no problem sharing Willy (in)between them.
Willy, as you may guess, had not the slightest proclivity for travel after this. He died an old and happy bug with over 43,009 grand children none of whom ever argued about whether or not there was life under other rocks.
If ever you get the chance, climb up Gongga Shan and say hello to the little tiny bugs that live under the rocks up above 12,000 feet. Chances are they’ll be related to Willy because unlike Willy in his later years, most of his grand children did get out from under their particular rocks...
After the 12,000 foot mark it gets a little sparse when it comes to vegetation, but under certain rocks there are bugs. Bugs so teeny tiny they never visit the other bugs that live under other rocks--at least not any more. In fact it’s been so long since the bugs have visited each other their great-grand children are debating whether there are other bugs under other rocks. Some bugs are positive there aren’t and of course some bugs are positive that there are.
It’s really quite ridiculous if you think about it.
One day Willy, a very adventurous little (and I do mean little) bug set off to settle the debate. He never returned because he fell in love with Wanda and Vicki two bugs he met under the very next rock he came to. They both loved him back and because of their wacky culture had no problem sharing Willy (in)between them.
Willy, as you may guess, had not the slightest proclivity for travel after this. He died an old and happy bug with over 43,009 grand children none of whom ever argued about whether or not there was life under other rocks.
If ever you get the chance, climb up Gongga Shan and say hello to the little tiny bugs that live under the rocks up above 12,000 feet. Chances are they’ll be related to Willy because unlike Willy in his later years, most of his grand children did get out from under their particular rocks...
DG
Don Gente, (that’s Don Hentaye to you native English speakers) was a yellow-breasted finch. He lived in Orlando at a mystical place named after two Jewish guys in expensive suits. MGM.
A place quite literally built for the fun of it. Well, all right they wanted to make money too, but this is a happy story--reality has nothing to do with it.
Don Gente hung out under three shady trees on a grassy knoll right near a leaky sprinkler head. Tourists threw him all the popcorn and pieces of soft pretzels he could eat. Water though it tasted bad was in abundance. It was a happy bird life, replete with good-looking chicks.
Fridays, he hung out in front of the beer stand and drank spilt beer `till he couldn’t fly strait anymore. Sometimes he had to walk home. He didn’t care though; there were no stray cats allowed, not even on the music system that came out of little flat boxes too close to the ground.
His significant other, Lolita, joined him every other Friday. (She had computer classes twice a month at OCC). If you stay late in the park you might catch them on a Friday, walking home, singing bird songs, being happy.
A place quite literally built for the fun of it. Well, all right they wanted to make money too, but this is a happy story--reality has nothing to do with it.
Don Gente hung out under three shady trees on a grassy knoll right near a leaky sprinkler head. Tourists threw him all the popcorn and pieces of soft pretzels he could eat. Water though it tasted bad was in abundance. It was a happy bird life, replete with good-looking chicks.
Fridays, he hung out in front of the beer stand and drank spilt beer `till he couldn’t fly strait anymore. Sometimes he had to walk home. He didn’t care though; there were no stray cats allowed, not even on the music system that came out of little flat boxes too close to the ground.
His significant other, Lolita, joined him every other Friday. (She had computer classes twice a month at OCC). If you stay late in the park you might catch them on a Friday, walking home, singing bird songs, being happy.
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