Save $2.00, no Limit!

Look at their eyes
the funny ways they move,
wouldn't you care
to have a few
tickets you can share
with a friend or two
to see chameleons with
their shifting hues?

Come into the house,
the best funhouse, my dear;
here you can be scared
yeah, but have no fear
of the big mouth on the wall
or of the eyeball mirror;
maybe they might drool a bit,
mostly they just leer.

Here the lizards lounge
in various shades of green
and twitching eyes will see you by,
like something from a dream.
Don't worry they don't bite
besides they're pretty clean
and only menace vermin
if you know just what I mean.

Go through the next door
and see the clowny feet,
it is the only part
that the scalies leave.
Dog boy howls alone
and the bearded ladies weep
so it's safe to go in now,
while the culprits are asleep.

Yeah, the funhouse is a hoot
we're sure you will concur
all you scoundrels seeking thrills
or virgins white and pure.
While lines out front are long
our patrons who once were
walking on two feet
now are folks du jour!

the good fight

Real-estate in the combat zone
could be bought for french fries,
now that the diminutive pixie-niks
trimmed their flamboyant locks
subsequently sprouting inversely.

One inch of flowing mane proved the
worth of twelve delving root buggers
—in width—
and the pixie-niks blossomed into
ten foot monstrosities, banging
on tin lids with the shin bones
of disinterred mastodons.

Spending time betwixt 425 Rhododendron Dr.
and the permafrost,
these shaved behemoths
scavenged and picked at their leisure.
The neighborhood watch hung up
its spurs and cowered in cellars,
polished off caches of dusty wine
and stale crackers.
Hardening cheese had long since been offered
as tribute: why not?, as the
noses of pixie-niks could
discern one part cheese
from a million parts unwashed manflesh
and once detected would not
be unsmelled.

A rapid cheese sniffing-nik
could dig out a cellar in moments,
as was discovered at
425 Rhododendron Dr,
now a sinkhole and icebox bone-yard
filled with white beige stainless coffins;
empty of all but the mold
they grow of their own volition.

Little could they know,
those cringers,
that retro-kin of Flingon,
bastard-spawn of a Batwing Zephyr
thrown into reverse,
would save Rhododendron Dr.
spilling pletheri of home-brewed Rogaine,
and too revealing his splendorous visage,
unwrapping mummified appendages
and golden glowing he says
'pull my finger'
and the rubber pixie-niks
like sopping Chia-pets ®
bloom in tinctured neon's,
plucked like suckers
by children and named;
names like WeeWillyWinkie,
SallyPinkPony and Petard,
hoist on the shoulders of
boisterous boys and girls
and spent like pennies
discarded for the
pleasures of a new day.

btw, Merrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrry Christmas !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Nonsense, nothing else.

Notice to Whosoever feels inclined to Attend.

Festivities for Just Because
begin at the adjustable moment of Translucence,
for the duration.

Bring a hat to share.

Services for the Secularites bounce between
this now that and then
and segue to the Alibi Club
for the bored again Christians.

In the Red Tent a revival intended
for the betterment of the existentially perforated
includes bouncing
plus a dram of quafuel
followed by cinnamon cookies
supplied by the ladies spongebath auxiliary,
bring your own folding chair.

An adjectable piss-off contest
between two opposing community colleges
will be held inside the red lines
near the Scalding Lake of Pain.
Losers take a bath.

See disclaimer form for complete description
of fees, prizes, and a complimentary pass
for one eternity of your choice.

Accordion music by
the gargling Dastardly Brothers,
or if you prefer
the bingo tent is on fire—
cook at your leisure and win
fun, fleeting gifts.

Drops of water catered
by Lazarus
for a mere liver flaying.

Enjoy your stay!

historical Hysteria ...theme thursday, of course!

Great Moments in History

The Big Bang. (stop laughing, Michael).
Apparently there was something very small, smaller than a flea, and it got so small that it couldn't get any smaller, so it blew up. This all happened in the middle of nothing, a void so filled with nothingness that it was without merit completely. It was The Great Void, named by nobody, because there was nothing.

God Creates the Earth. He did this on the first day, then messed about with light and water and the firmament and stuff. Then on the fifth day He started on the fish and birds, then the next day started in on animals and Man. Kind of like a kid playing with modeling clay, and after a bit He got tired of it all and made cable TV. The end.

Dinosaurs supposedly ruled the Earth. Dinosaurs are a myth. Nothing as big as a dinosaur could ever exist. With their large stomping feet they would cause earthquakes and mess up gardens. Their tremendous excrement would have filled the lakes and oceans and suffocated every other living thing...they would have caused the first black plague and all succumbed to dinosaur-typhoid.
Also, it is said they ruled the Earth for 150 million years. And in all that time they never discovered the internet!? It has taken humans less than a couple million years to do that, plus we put a man on the moon—a natural evolutionary jump, because why else would the moon be there?
My arguments are sound, next... Vintage Roadside @Flickr

The Wheel. Cartoons depict the discovery this way: Ancient man—a weirdo from the tribe Beardo—chips away at a roundish looking rock and makes a circular disc in the shape of a wheel. Later cartoons depict this Troglodyte in a leopard skin frock riding in a stone wheeled vehicle; but brakes and shoes for feet were not yet invented, creating a flourishing market for skilled podiatrists.

Food. Until this time everybody (meaning ancient people and other animals) ate each other or mud. The earlier invention of fire (which wasn't really an invention because what happened was, Sven was out behind the hut playing with rocks and sticks and accidentally lit a goat on fire. As long as he had the goat going, he lit up a cigarette. Whereupon dad came out and whooped him with a stick, thus inventing the club) made the cooking of meat possible and then some French cavemen came along with truffles and that's the rest of the story...

Cannon balls. These are a natural extension to the wheel. Only rounder. Used at first as very large and heavy marbles, it was discovered in a heated match that the cannon balls could be lifted and dropped on unsuspecting marble rivals. Soon this was looked out for and the cannon-marbles had to be flung for surprise, but this involved the use of several brawny men, so it wasn't a useful tactic for long. Eventually other systems were employed until the final culmination of the cannon came about. Of course the cannon led to bigger and better inventions like cruise missiles and Star Wars. Whoever has the biggest and best cannon wins all the marbles!

Martians and Hell. Inventions to keep the people under control. Thus began the age(s) of domination, wherein everybody alive is subject to someone else, and nobody is free. This works best when applied to mandatory dress codes.

what the...?

All other inventions are secondary to the above major Historical discoveries. There is one last major innovation yet to be conceived, and scientists all around the world are striving to correct this:

A cure for the Hiccups.

ends with epsilon

Hearsay; following implosion of our first moon,
Pylon Guardians patrolled the dubious 3rd Quarter
and at Aurora Intersect issued
a triplicate Agitation-certificate to one
dislodged B-movie monster.

...likewise Comchex the botanic
super sleuth had embezzled twelve
pristine gardenias in a sting attempt,
and in accordance with parole perimeters
set up camp in
Pylon acquisitions District Oh (!)

As a result
a superimposed Pylon—inlaid and buffed—
took proffered bait & fell
bassackwards into a manhole opening
becoming an inverted
Teflon-wasp trap and remained there
in perpetuity (with)
scheduled release for
2192 and time served.
A backlog of waspy relocation invocationals
were wiped clean
and Comchex faced the Endowment Tribunal
for to receive the prestigious
superseded Medal of Anthropomorphic Relations
thus being released for good behavior
and in lieu of financial gain thus
having been placed in productive custody
to wear squirtful petunias
for the random watering of organ
grinder monkeys and silly
bureaucratic waffle mongers.

A Pylon barricade built to withstand
flotsam and jetsam with spare parts
unhinged and sprung loose, spilling
defunct Pylon pieces onto the
Aurora Intersect, and Comchex,
renamed Herb III the Wheel Baron,
released aforementioned
citated movie monster
onto the Quarter who wherein thus did
defile and #2 on its Agitation certificate
and gobsmacketh the Pylon pile
into another low-earth orbit.

Space Station orphans with microfibers
reconnected various parts into
conglomerates, thus forging
a new territory named for Herb III
but secretly called Moon Unit
to re-inflate Tidal pride,
saving this earth
from a wobbly existence.

So the Pylons, while a temporary
scourge in history,
evolved as a wonder of the skies
and a home for displaced
galactic children,
and Comchex aka Herb III
was memorialized forever
in iron and rust
on space-comflaberation Moon Unit,
a bright spot in the firmament.

End of report dot dot dot

Happy Holidays...don't drink & drive

this is brutal...it had me cringing and sweating. TYWKIWDBI

Snow More! Starring Toby the Designer Wonder Mutt!

Dear Santa, i have been a good dog and no it wasn't me who ate the tree ornaments and it's not me who chews on socks. Oh yeah, it is just a vicious rumour that i eat holes through bath towels and jump up on the garbage can and mooch dinners off the coffee table. You see, i am a sweet and lovable and playful little pup who could never ever do a naughty thing.

Can i have a bone?

snow what? coming tommorrow...Toby snow footage.

yobosayo@flickr

Ah the snow; it is a funny thing...and many a historical moment was affected by said fluffy white stuff, such as:

Snow skiing dates back more than 6000 years...in Russia where the oldest set of skis were found. Written references come from Northern China, around 200 B.C.
Clumsy Carp and the Skinny Chick used skis to escape from rampant dinosaurs before the wheel was invented.
'In the early 1900s, skiers created their own terminology to describe types of snow, including the terms "fluffy snow," "powder snow," and "sticky snow." Later, the terminology expanded to include descriptive terms such as "champagne powder," "corduroy," and "mashed potatoes."'--from nsidc.org

George Washington crossed the Delaware River on 12-25-1776, mostly because of the blinding snow. Not far away the Delaware Memorial Bridge was open to foot traffic, but in retrieving mittens from coat the general spilled his change purse, so in any case wouldn't have been able to pay the toll.

Here is some Wild History on the snowman. Seems he started out innocently enough but eventually turned to drinking and smoking and eventually becoming “a tipsy snowman chasing a girl with a stick”...Oh, and then Calvin of Calvin and Hobbes began torturing them.

pic by veganbilly@flickr


Don't forget the Bumble. He's abominable!

The snow leopard picks up his dry cleaning in early October, lest the snows come early and he is caught out in the bright orange spotted suit.

A snow angel is described by Wikipedia as “a simple depression in snow in the shape of an angel.” That's about it. No history, no instructions, nothing. No picture, no links, no scantily clad snow angels holding bottles of beer, nothing. Scandalous!

Valdez, Alaska averages 326 inches of snow, annually. That's a lot o' snow!

It has snowed an inch in Phoenix, AZ twice, in the 1930's. And once, when I visited there, it snowed over spring break. The rooftops were white. It was a miserable week.

Snow is edible! But in urban areas it may be infected by SMOG (yuck)!! Sometimes snow may contain algae and will be red, and is said to taste sweet!

Snow flakes are commonly under a half inch in diameter, but can be as big as 2 inches. Does size matter?

Flingon's Wild Ride

The morning of Luminescent Glory
Perry Flingon flew his Spleener
into the mouth of a
falsetto Batwing Zephyr.
The trick he said was to
avoid rotationary cogs,
filed snarling teeth
that gnash indiscriminately.
A week ere the lovely event
he, P, kissed goodbye
his wife and twelve imminent children,
opting for obscurity in
a dust storm, maneuvering
haphazardly, employing a
hi-tech randomizer bought
with sponsor ducats.

Forcasted easily by forwarded
invert-vorti, the
hologramic Earl Finkel concluded
impending and disagreeable contact
with the Zephyr early in
the Luminescent Glory.
Families would surely
hold their warm peas for
a satisfying conclusion,
praying the Batwing would
conduct itself in a
tasteful manner—no Zephyr
had yet, and hopes of
a peaceful
peaflinging lay under a
thick gloom of sour
Nimbostratus.

This thing was
a done deal,
as donkey caped P. Flingon knew,
and no quantity of
trickery would save his giblets.
Still the Spleener performed
as designed and
with the flip engaged,
it engorged on carbon slick
then sprang to attention and flew.
Ahead the Zephyr bleated
out a loathsome challenge
that outraced the wind.

In pursuing years they remember
even holding their tongues
and pinching knees,
recalling the sacrifice of
P. Flingon and his reckless
decay in the mouth of
a penultimate Batwing Zephyr.
They will rejoice and chuck
their peas, they fling
fruit to the wind and
entwining fingers they sing out
to Flingon descendants,
the sacrificial family
to the encroaching Zephyrs,
the Batwings ever starving
for more in the season of
the Luminescent Glory.

Fat Rabbit

Here is a goofy little story that was written a few years ago...I used to think that nobody wanted to take the time to read more than a couple paragraphs at a time, but Otin changed my mind about that...if you have a few minutes, then enjoy:

BTW, i dedicate this to a Friend of mine, Peg,
who loved my stories and passed away earlier this year...i miss her and our Sunday morning canasta games.


Fat Rabbit bounced into the room like an old man deprived of his grouch hole, and demanded to be shown the King. Somehow, someone in the kingdom had stolen his hutch, and he had nowhere to retire to after eating lettuce and courting lady rabbits. "I'm sorry, Fat Rabbit, the king is busy, he's on the pot. Would you like to make an appointment?"

This announcement really steamed Fat Rabbit; he was one of those beasts of the kingdom with a very low tolerance for waiting around. Everything was hurry up quick, or just screw it, plop, flip, damn. And that's just about how he retorted to the news about the King standing him up for the pot! Fat Rabbit wasn't going to make any damned appointment, he was here now, and if that wasn't good enough for his highness, the bloody stupid King, than crap all over that, go ahead.

"Don't get all fat and rabbitty, you horny furball; after the pot there's just you and your cock-a-maimy grumping about what I don't know who cares, so do you want to wait two poopy seconds for a sit-down-and-wipe, or just bounce away all mipe and gripe about nothing and what will that solve nothing I guess who cares, not me. Stow it, rodent." With that the King's receptionist lit up a fat stogey and turned back to her typing, with her chubby fat webbed toady fingers. Fat Rabbit stared at her shapely neck, but not for long--it was all warty and swamp stained. Plus she smelled a bit like stale standing gloop-covered bog. All this rabbity thought process slowed Fat Rabbit's anger cells to ameba pudding swimming speed, and he hunched down in a corner of the waiting room and chewed moronically on a Welcome pamphlet.

Now, at the advanced age of the King (and he was a shell surrounded amphibian type--so he was unfast to start with) this small wait became advanced and was in fact longer than anticipated. A lot. The receptionist spurned Fat Rabbits hopeless advances, opting for her typewriter, and he orneryly turned his attention to chewing up many more leaflets and constructed quite a nice burrow for himself and perhaps some cozy liaison in the corner. If the squinchy toad couldn't be bothered, then perhaps some fine furry woodland creature might purposely or by some freak accident become lost in the woodland realm and perchance find herself wandering frantically into the King's foyer and become enamored with first fuzzy face met.

Sometime later the toady secretary jumped up from her mushseat and left unnoticed by Fat Rabbit, because he was laying backwards and upside down, drooling slightly like an oozing strawberry soaked shortcake and lazily pawing the air with his left back foot. The King, fresh off the pot, sauntered slowly in, like an overstuffed pastry chef on Superbowl Sunday--or like a turtle, which is more to the fact and true, too. The toady wart factory had clocked out and left no messages, so the King ambled on to his throne away from throne, and promptly retracted limbs, and retired for the rest of his life, this evening.

Fat Rabbit woke up, surrounded by his self made fluff, discovered it was dark, and made small rabbity noises. Whereupon the realization and self-awareness of his whereabouts, of which he was not sure, Fat Rabbit bolted from his nest, through the front gate and out into the yard, thus becoming a small, frightened bunny, out after dark in parts unknown. Up above the hare heard a hungry screeching shriek and the wind ruffled the fur on his back. With lightening rabbit reflexes, for he had come back to his senses finally, improving from his stupurous state, Fat Rabbit hopped and skipped with the fury of a furry cyclone back into the King’s palatial estate, and slammed the door behind his fluffy white tail.

With the commotion and thundering whoosh of a fast moving critter and slamming doors, the hard shelled King awoke with a start, his scaly green appendages popping out like cat eyeballs in a kennel full of frothing dogs. “Guards,” the King mumbled slurredly in his post-sleepy condition. When he came to his doddering senses and eyed Fat Rabbit backed up against the door holding out the horrors of the dark, he just said, “Oh poop, it’s just another of my royal subjects, no doubt here to air some dum-bass grievance. Take your sorry grouchy tail home, you hairy shmuck.” The King commenced with his imperial decree, and began to gently retract.

Fat Rabbit, breathing hard from his life threatening fast retreat and intrusions, spoke with no hesitation in his crazed patienceless hare-brained disconnected from his hare-necked in the presence of royalty sort of way. “If your all high and mighty Kingly butt hadn’t been plopped on the pooper all bloody day, my furry tail wouldn’t be stuck in your high brow brick house like this at the wee hours of the night, and all these screeching and swooping rabbit eating feather brain-eating beakers looking to eat me for lunch….Oh, moose nuggets!”

“I see,” replied the King, as he squinted hard down his wrinkly reptile nose at the carrot eater. “And if my toady secretary of state were here I’d have you thrown to the ‘beakers’ and watch the show with a cup of brandy and a cigar. But since her wartiness is away to her stinky mud hole like most woodland creatures should be at this frightening hour, your royal lordship will delight you with fine on-the-pot inspired poetry…for your listening pleasure. Now sit!” The King glared with menace at the hare, and Fat Rabbit, longing for home, lettuce and a harem of honeys, hunkered down into his shredded mess grudgingly resigned to his fate.

The ancient King sat, shell straight, in his ornate seat, and stretched his right arm flipper thingy as far as it would reach from its opening. Then he craned his long stringy neck down until his nose touched his arm and began to read the words he had scribbled there hours before as he sat pooping on the pot. “Poetry is so relaxing,” explained the King, “I find that the use of it smoothes the wrinkles and clears the mind. Right now there is nothing pressing, and if the walls of this house were falling down around us, all would be good and well and just fine. Such is the grand power of verse!” Fat Rabbit watched, as the King seemed to grow taller on his thrown, the old monarch’s eyes neatly glowing as the skies clear after a storm. And he was enthralled with the King’s words of tranquility; then the King began his recital.

“The rule of the king is herein told
For purposes, it all depends
Upon the need to whom it’s doled:
His kingly staff and citizens.

Beetles, worms and flitting things
Will turn the dirt and pollinate
And decorate my wall with wings;
Art and fertility their fate.

Birds will fly and drop the seeds
From nuts and berries they snack on
Which soon will flourish into trees
They’ll eat and poop some more upon.

Sluggish critters like the newt
And toads that merely take up space
Keep the fly and gnat more mute
And welcomed by the populace.

The turtle is the rightful king
Chose to rule the furred and fish,
Deciding on most everything
With his crown and scaly fist!

At last, the hare in droves abound
And census keepers toil and trek
Through the wood and all around
To help the wolves keep them in check.

“Hmmm. That’s all I’ve got for now. Do you think I ought to put in a line for the hawks? But no, they’re quite the rogues, such an unruly bunch….”

The King’s final words seemed awesomely to echo, to Fat Rabbits sensitive big floppy ears. Which was remarkable, until one realized that the King had begun to fall asleep with the anticipation of his ending lines, and his unbalanced crown-encircled nog seeped back into its resting place leaving just the points of his crown poking up like baby crocus on the early spring’s dewy lawn.

Fat Rabbit thought, “Bull spit!” Then he bounded from his corner nest, scattering chewed leaflets across the floor. He was just about to take his chances out of doors with the wolves and circling hooting beakers, as opposed to being subjected to more insufferable and telling kingly jewels, but his paw stayed upon the brass door handle…

After a healthy breakfast of crisp greens and sweet spring water, the King settled back into his seat, nicely padded now with fresh leaflet bedding. At the front door there was a snap of the bolt as the toady secretary let herself in and plodded wetly to her mushseat, resigned, but not eager, to while away another day of her short life in service to her king. Then the toad’s warty lips fell apart, and the gloppy tongue puddled out as her pop-eyes fell upon the King on his thrown.

“Hey there, sweets, fetch me another lap of this crick juice and fluff up this shredded mattress. And while you’re at it, roll that empty chewed out shell from the yard down to curb for recycling.” Then Fat Rabbit stretched his legs out and wondered what royal thoughts he might have later while vacationing on the pot.