I be not a ze, nor am I a zir.
My dad took a look and said I ain't her.
So "him" I am stuck with for all of my alls,
a captive of both those imperious balls.
It's pleasant enough for this hillbilly, hence
I harbor no envy for androgenous prince.
Or princess mayhap, depending, you see,
on the position ze chooses when needing to pee.
---
For crying out loud.
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 20, 2013
Note from a displaced hilbilly (teaser)
It's called "Big Wood Jack Pine Savage."
You, errrr, drink it.
Stay tuned.
You, errrr, drink it.
Stay tuned.
Jul 17, 2013
More fun with headlines
A guy shouldn't josh about a death, but, but, but...
Please don't hate me; blame the potato-headed Des Moines Register for:
"Missing Tuber's Body Found in Cedar River."
I apologize again, but I can't help it that I yam what I yam
Holy Shorts
For once in my life I'm ahead of the prep curve for a little trip later next week.
--The camper is open and airing out nicely.
--The forgotten stuff in the camper refrigerator is in the trash. It, too, is open to the summer breeze so that I need not wear breathing equipment as I perform the straight-bleach procedure.
-- House-sitter Carrie and her Magic Alsatian are firmly engaged. (Yes, magic. He makes undesirable people disappear.)
-- A seldom used camper locker incubates .22 rimfire ammunition, about 220 rounds in those nice old Winchester plastic boxes. Or maybe I forgot it. Anyway, it picked up a skim of that nasty white oxidation. All is tumbling in corn-cob kibbles as we speak. When shiny it will be repackaged against the possibility that I am ambushed on a lonely road by a reinforced company of the 82nd Airborne. Note to self: Clean and oil the Ruger Standard before departure. (The TMR Legal Review Section advises me to warn you against tumbling live rounds. Freeken lawyers.)
--Most important, I have deployed resources from the almost-rag bag. Tees and other of my delicate underthings which, with luck, have exactly one wearing left despite rents and tears and long-retired elastic. Not meaning to preach, but this is perhaps the most vital travel advice you'll ever receive. Throw them away dirty. You'll be traveling lighter on the trip home...
-- ... Unless of course you stop at out-of-the-way flea markets and swap meets and thrift stores, picking up miscellaneous interesting stuff as you continue your eternal quest for that $12 Artillery Luger. (I, of course, would never indulge in that sort of nonsense.)
--The camper is open and airing out nicely.
--The forgotten stuff in the camper refrigerator is in the trash. It, too, is open to the summer breeze so that I need not wear breathing equipment as I perform the straight-bleach procedure.
-- House-sitter Carrie and her Magic Alsatian are firmly engaged. (Yes, magic. He makes undesirable people disappear.)
-- A seldom used camper locker incubates .22 rimfire ammunition, about 220 rounds in those nice old Winchester plastic boxes. Or maybe I forgot it. Anyway, it picked up a skim of that nasty white oxidation. All is tumbling in corn-cob kibbles as we speak. When shiny it will be repackaged against the possibility that I am ambushed on a lonely road by a reinforced company of the 82nd Airborne. Note to self: Clean and oil the Ruger Standard before departure. (The TMR Legal Review Section advises me to warn you against tumbling live rounds. Freeken lawyers.)
--Most important, I have deployed resources from the almost-rag bag. Tees and other of my delicate underthings which, with luck, have exactly one wearing left despite rents and tears and long-retired elastic. Not meaning to preach, but this is perhaps the most vital travel advice you'll ever receive. Throw them away dirty. You'll be traveling lighter on the trip home...
-- ... Unless of course you stop at out-of-the-way flea markets and swap meets and thrift stores, picking up miscellaneous interesting stuff as you continue your eternal quest for that $12 Artillery Luger. (I, of course, would never indulge in that sort of nonsense.)
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