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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.

Tom & Dinosaur Hand

Howdy all...here's another great Tom & Dinosaur Hand movie review!

Tom: Dinosaur Hand, did you have a nice Thanksgiving?
Dinosaur Hand: I remember something about a wine glass...?
Tom: Ah...yes. And the turkey and stuffing?
DH: Hiccup.
Tom: This week we watched The Island on DVD.
DH: Yes! OMG! Did you, can you, and the...Holy s***! ...oh gosh, aspirin please.
Tom: I think what you're trying to say is, a lot of action, car chases with
DH: death and destruction, bone crunching, buildings collapsing, flying jet skis, murder, punching, judo kicks, future stuff and more future stuff, Steve Buscemi, Scarlet Johansson—ooh--gunfire and tasers and lasers and outrage and intrigue and cover-up and...
Tom: Do you still need that aspirin?
DH: breath in, breath out.
Tom: My first reaction was..'oh no, another Micheal Bay film.' You know, all action action action. Blah. He directs a lot like John Wu. Not a whole lot of substance, just explosions and flying kicks and punches.
DH: Woo woo!
Tom: Other than a few incredibly impossible sequences I thought this was a pretty good film. I liked the future views—set about 50 years into the future-- and there was a car chase scene that was pretty awesome.
DH: Can you say train wheels?
Toby: woof. Woof woof woof. DH: No, train wheels, like this: tah ray na...
Tom: Dino, he can't pronounce 'train wheels', he's a dog.
DH: You didn't say we were gonna have a guest reviewer!
Tom: He just wandered in; don't worry, you aren't being replaced.
DH: *sigh of relief*
Toby: woof (can I have a froot loop?)

empty amphibious threats of the mushmeat kind

I do recall the
carbon dated frog
with a Greek lisp,
a prehensile velvet tongue
enveloped in a sweet
gravy fog of smarm.

In those days
of reverse sneezing--
systematic in lung
re-inflation to overcapacity--
we'd choose between
the lesser of
two reptiles,
the greater being elevated
to an obnoxious height
and often unobtainable;
this being the frog
with the forked tongue,
'it speaketh ill of thee
in closet quarters.'

In the blue corner then
the red cormorant
with repercussions
dressed in polypropylene
gave thanks and waived
all right to divine intervention,
instead serving up a hail Mary,
countered by an all enveloping
plague of minionites--
a horde of tiny,tailed tadpoles.

Humming scales the scarlet
seabird formulated a
punting committee coalescing
in a stalemate...
...and a reeking fury,
a scandalous
slurry of foul candorisms.
Retirement covered the
seditious frog's tracks
and to the back-end
of the future myth and rumor
unite,
giving way to feral fraud
and fellowship.

Thus we
break fast and consume
massive quantities.
Gather all and
say you tales of woe
and joice anew,
for the carbon dated frog
is away this day
unto you and say
'Hey! Let sleeping frogs lie.'

unapproachable

my pixels embellished for free

with Peruvian ornamentation

in hindsight gives me the willies.

Not because of the steaming coffee cup

or the llama or the menacing toothy

grin or piranha swarming.

It's not the stone wall terracing,

not the blood soaked steps

of looming temples.

Jaguars, verdant canyon rapids,

the ponchos, cushma

and petticoats.

Perhaps the endless chain

of mountains or the volcanoes

that whisper to the clouds,

but no, it is the color

of the countryside,

of the flora and the fauna

and the people and their dress.

It is faces,

in the smiles.

It is mine to see, to touch

to behold, but to have it

is to walk on the moon

and is chilling and

not advised for any

beyond those dwelling

in the areas between--a

subcutanian mist driven

abode inneroutside the realm

of fear or elation.

Beware the graft and

Machu Picchu receptor

plug downloads, cilia

enhancements, as the

rampant dendrite

despoiler shall

encumber

and will

shut

you

up

.

Theme Thursday, A Late Cinquain ending?

Coming
Into my wits
The pieces start to click
The knife wound in my side was mute,
Pain quit.

Nowhere

Was Jack to be,

He'd meshed inside you see

It's plain to know he always was

Part me.

This house

I stumbled on

I'd lost my way within

A Dante's home where I would pay

My sin.

Now my
Guarded secret
My other half interred
Was working to break free of me
Alert.

Fireflies
Buzz around me
They led me to a hole
A passageway to who knows where,
My soul?

Before /I scramble out/
I reach up to my right/
From there I take a jar contains/
One eye.

I'm Jack/
I say to I /
And now this house I know;/
It's where I've brought my souvenirs/
For show.

Somewhere
A stranger stands
Not knowing what her fate
Or that her Jack is lurking near--
I'm late!

....is this the horrible ending, or just a mistake? For past episodes look under 'cinquain' over to the right on the sometin' sometin' sidebar. Or >click<

Tom & Dinosaur Hand Review 3 Movies!

Reviews on: Mama Mia, Milk, and Meet the Robinson's.

Dinosaur Hand: Is it an all M's Movie Matinee?
Tom: Clever, but no; just a coincidence.
DH: There are no coincidences...huh, huh?
Tom: Anyway, stopped at the library and picked up these three movies--I remember seeing them all advertised, and their trailers looked pretty good. Also, Milk was highly praised by critics and by fellow bloggers, well one that I remember.
DH: Chocolate.
Tom: Huh?
DH: I highly praise chocolate milk.
Tom: The movie Milk is about the gay struggle during the 70's.
DH: Sure, with all the really bad music is was hard to be happy, fer sure.
Tom: You know, Dino, i was just a kid during the 70's, and i never zoned in on all the civil rights stuff; gays, blacks, women's rights, Vietnam, even anti-semitism. I was eating saltines and was blissfully unaware.
DH: Cookies are better. With milk.
Tom: So this type of movie is a great boon for my generation. I liked one line Milk used in a debate, something like this: 'if it were true that children emulated their teachers, then there'd be a hell of a lot more nuns running around.' Revealing and thought provoking...movies like this help people see beyond their own sheltered lives and invite us to walk in other's shoes.
DH: eh, that leaves me out. I don't even get to turn doorknobs. Fooie.

Tom: Did you like Meet the Robinson's?
DH: It was very colorful. There was a dinosaur, briefly.
Tom: Our copy skipped at the last chapter. We watched the whole thing and missed the ending.
DH: eh, whatever.

Tom: What about Mama Mia?
DH: Singing and dancing, jive turkey, do the hustle, woo woo woo. Moving and a groovin', show me some skin, bro. Woo ha ha!
Tom: This movie musical was upbeat and set around Abba songs, which are for the most part very recognisable and infectious.
DH: So is a rash.
Tom: You've never seen Meryl Streep like this, people. I consider her maybe the best actress of our time, and in this she was way over the top...but it's a musical, so I guess that's good!
DH: Which one was she?
Tom: Dino, she was the lead female!
DH: Mama Mia! No one told me!
Tom: There was no Mama Mia; that was just one of the songs, dufus.
DH: She married Chef Boy R Dee.

Tom: Out of the three I would definitely recommend Milk...
DH: ...just skip the kissing parts.

photo credit: therumour1988's photostream/flickr

um...Theme Thursday, sorry.

DandyLynn's photostream, flickr

*ring ring*
'hello'
'hi, this is FRFC, Bob speaking! Are you having a good day?!!!'
'Hello, yeah; it's OK. Thanks.'
'Well hi, then! Just wanted to drop in and give you a heads up on our new Fund Raising campaign....I knew you'd want to get in on this right away!'
'Uhh...'
'Sure, it's Bob. Have you got your checkbook out?'
'...I smell dinner...'
'FRFC is a great charity...it's on Billy Bob's top ten list. Oprah too!'
'So, uh, what's this FR, uhm, etcetera stand for, again?'
'Yes, sure; it's Fund raising for chicks...you know? It's a great cause.'
'For chicks? What the hell! I'm not giving my money to some chick I don't know anything about! Next thing you'll be soliciting for dudes! Outragious!'
'No, no! Hey, not chicks. I mean not girl chicks, babes, you know--not chicks like that!'
'What?'
'No, Bob wouldn't try to scam you for hot babes, chicks, you know!'
'Oh. Sorry.'
'FRFC is for chicks..you know baby chickens. Homeless little yellow fluffy baby chickens.'
'Oh.'
'Yeah'
'Oh; man, that is sad. Those poor baby chickens!'
'I'll send you some literature, man. Some pictures of your potential chick adoptee.'
'oh, yeah. I need a picture (sob) And i'm writing you a check for twelve thousand dollars! (sob).
'This chick will thank you forever. You are a true American hero!'
'OK, thank you for bringing this to my attention. (ding) Oop, kitchen timer, gotta go.'
'Thanks, man...enjoy your meal tonight.'
'Thank you, Bob; baked chicken with mashed potatoes. Goodnight!'

Johnny Boy Cobalt photostream, flcikr

Bring it on, old cold Winter!

My heart is turning grey with memories of winters past.

......a leaf, flush red, holding its last breath, straining for one last go...
...while the miscreants frolic in a silver maple cast-offs.

...can we learn from nature that death is just passage to another life?
While it can be harsh and unforgiving, sometimes brutally raw...There is a strange beauty in the circle of life.






....der.

ancient Chinese secrets

...so now i can't get
to Omegaworld,
Coffee Messiah, or
the Ancient Sword...
so i'm really hoping to get
this old Compaq switched
out for a newer model later
this week:
until then here's a
silly new bit
and some old doodles. Happy Sunday!

fix up your fixer-upper,

tend to that dromedary's drip,

imbibe daily in dastardly devices,

count your blessing heartily--

but don't drop dainty donuts.

These tidbits gathered from a wee birdy,

a bifurcating biennially binging

blue-footed booby.

Becoming indoctrinated to a self sacrificing

salad of sea bass

one must profess prolifically in spades,

sans sporks, regrettably forgoing prophylactics

for latex-free, syntax-free,

expletive-free condiments.

Actually, a blue balloon ballad becomes you,

so sing out loud, singularly, and

sock standerbys who stoically stare

at your pants--

with a pathetic pink poodle,

as well as peeled whole canned leeches.

Let lazy lactating larches lose leaves

while yellowing llamas yodel

meaningful Mendelian melodies to me:

Xow Chow Xi,

ex Xeroxing exchanger,

Keeper of Ancient Chinese Secret!

coming up roses

The Torpedo Revolution is upon us;

Coming up the lane is a box truck

Filled to the brimming lip

With a pancake contraption's

Excess...

Moronites--a faction, a sliver,

a falling out from the Brotherhood

of Ill Conceived Notions--

are dishing out ladelfuls

with an unearthly zeal

reserved usually for lambasted pirates

and golly girls in polka dot pajamas.

The Moronite porcelain sleeves hamper agility

while decorated in fleur de lis heavy

with cross to bearing decals.

They pack a pretty punch--

cherry flavored actually,

encased in finned canisters

dynamically polished for speedy airflow,

all the better to

percussionate the fringe-yakkers into

a pre-ordained funk.

The rationale of Moronites deem the tactic

worthy, thus forcing normality

into groggy inaction and reinforcing

tattooed porcelain sleeves into

retroactive positions:

Springy, podunctive and beyond.

Beware, then, and best of luck

fitting into your mortar jumpsuits,

engineered in the sixties

when the national robustness

measured under the radius of

Dirk Masterful's hat size.

Better to cower amongst

clover and broker peace with the rabbits

then face the Moronites,

and their mothers,

and the babies with incisors that rotate on bicycle chains built for two.

matt coats' photostream/flickr

Bummer and more Questions ?

...can't get into my documents, can't operate my printer/scanner, can't run a virus scan, can't figure this out; what's even scarier is that the Grooliog refegees from Ursa Minor are on their way and killer whales are secretly developing weapons of mass destruction--disguised as herrings. So do i take a chance and fix this 8 year old clunker or go out and get new? I mean, we're all doomed anyway...what to do, what to do!!!!

...driving fast will get you there quicker--good luck with that.

Quixotically

As Festive sat coherent

at the bloodstained booth,

her waitress mopping up

Johnny Depp's unfortunate extra,

Festive created a scenario

in which a nosey black dog

asked multiple questions about

her love life, while licking

dried salt from her post

workout calves.

Do you like tattoos? Are

sideburns a turn-on? From

whence do you come?

Woof? And others

mixed into broken metaphors,

obtusing her head into a pretzel.

Her ideal counterpart

contained no dog parts, but for a

dense tangle of poodle chest fur,

and was unachievable, though

on her treadmill of despair Festive

pursued her sweaty, darkly matted

obsession doggedly,
horsed dually on hie sneakers.

The dog daydreamed

at her feet

and lapped a puddle of

psuedo Depp,

thought himself out of existence;

Today she'd trade windmills for condiments.

Festive leaned on hands

and gleaned a smile

from a columnar flask of pureed tomato/stuff.

whazat?

Before:

...After:

what have i done!!?

future posts may be sporadic, as the machine has been compromised somewhat...may need a professional cleaning, or perhaps a new machine altogether...working on it.

Zombieland review

More Tom & Dinosaur Hand Movie Reviews!


Tom: Hey, y’all. Me and Dino Hand with another great review…
Dinosaur Hand: Grrrrr. Fffft, eat eat eat, kill kill KILLLLLL!
Tom: As you can tell, Dinosaur Hand is really excited about this movie; it was right up his alley.

DH: (slobbering, crunching noises).
Tom: Here’s the skinny, we caught a matinee of Zombieland, starring Woody Harrelson and …
DH: Woody was great, he was like, freakin’ croakin’ zombies…he owned them and their little dogs…he made a wall of zombies, he juiced ‘em and rolled them into zombie sausages…Woody taught their babies how to do the zombie mamba; he juggled their heads,…yea Woody ate zombie guts and he
Tom: eesh; knock it off. I guess Dino liked it…a lot.
DH: Woody didn’t even need a gun, he just looked right into their oozing zombie eyes and their heads shriveled and fell off. He bottled zombie mucus and brain for a slushy drink and sold it to filthy zombie-eating cretins!
Tom: yuck. Listen, this was a pretty good movie; lots of action, lots of guts. The acting was good and I liked the commentary by Jessie Eisenberg. Good music, funny cameos. The climax was decent, and like a good comedy/action/horror flick should, it ended happily…oh except for the part where most of human civilization are either dead or zombies.
DH: (lip smacking).
Tom: Dinosaur Hand, you really are decrepit. What's your expert rating?
DH: hee! 4 woo-woos!


Tom: oh, and here’s a head’s up on some fantastic zombie poetry for those who are into a more civilized zombie experience: http://dbqp.blogspot.com/2009/10/zombie-apocalypse.html; Geof has a series of these--read them all!

Save the Planet, save the People, save the Whales, save me a slice of that pie!

For your Theme Thursday pleasure ( a wee bit early this week, sorrry ) Inventions that will save the Planet :

Part I
*All major highways and main arteries will be equipped with electricity producing surfaces. As tires pass over the surface the friction caused will be collected and flow into the grid. Individual car chips will credit the drivers and they will receive an electric credit.
*Offices will be retrofitted with oval or figure eight tracks, and personnel will be encouraged to walk about on special friction shoes. This will accomplish two tasks: producing adequate energy to run the office, and keeping employees healthy.
*Puppies will be fitted with friction suits because they release much energy into the ether which when harnessed can power major cities.

Part II
*Automobiles will be produced that run totally on human waste product. Special systems installed in garages will convert the waste into fuel, giving every homeowner a special ‘outhouse’ filling station. This will not only decrease our dependency on foreign oil, it will make the job of water treatment easier on cities--giving us a cleaner environment.
*Cows will be fitted with hoses to collect methane gasses. The gasses will be collected in balloons attached to bovine harnesses, reducing the weight of the animals to such a degree that they will skim the ground.

Result: decreasing green house gasses, and making meatier larger cows that we can eat with less guilt.

Part III
*In the northern regions, ice melt is causing concern for the polar bear population. Special animal trainers will be dispatched into the arctic wild to teach symbiosis classes in which bears, whales, and seals can co-exist, using team work to reach goals, aided by anti-personnel seal machine guns developed by the military.
*In the same vein, Redwood trees can be injected with a malevolent sentience, making them unapproachable by anyone wishing them ill will. Fitted with heat-seeking pinecones, they will be invulnerable.
Drawbacks: The redwood forests might turn on human civilizations in the northwest, driving us from the coastal regions.

Part IV
*Instead of exploiting children in third world countries to produce tennis shoes, these children will be locked into a special ozone-producing environment. By frenetic actions they will combine the necessary ozone molecules and blow the O3 back into the stratosphere with special colorful straws. For incentive they will receive cookies and free llama rides.

Part V
*The moon is leaving the earth’s orbit at 3.8 centimeters per year, but some radicals have announced in an effort to confuse, enrage and deplete humanity’s soul, that the moon hates us and will for now on leave at a quicker rate, perhaps using the energy of meteorite strikes and comet tails to take a sabbatical from our planet, in effort to join its sisters around Uranus. (Boo!)
Solution: By gathering all of our unrecyclables and injecting them into an earthly orbit, enough mass can be produced to create a second moon.
Projected result: This new moon will be ready for use when the first moon leaves, or the first moon will be content to have a companion and stay.
Happy side effects: We can also deposit our undesirables onto the new moon, where they will experience virtually zero gravity, thus their offspring will have elongated limbs which will be funny to look at.

A Friend to the End

Alien Aardvark and Tim in
The defragging UFO,
Furthermore sans credible
polarity, said UFO assimilates
incoming refractory bombardments
Thus creating without the aid of
backlight its own shadow,
Choosing to treat shade as a vassal.
Meanwhile Tim instructs
a minor kit UFO rudimentaries,
And Alien Aardvark demonstrates
A tango, having recently inhaled
Froot Loops, a vast improvement
over freeze dried Martian mush.
At the first, thought bubbles
translate complexly, then cease:
Equivalent to mongrel growling
the meaning becomes inconsequential;
Chasing sticks is much the same
everywhere in the universe.
Apparently Alien Aardvark doubles
as a horse, as is evidenced
by abdominal handles;
Hilarity ensues,
oblivious to repercussions
that the anti-gravity micro-germs
will instigate in trees, organically
raised chickens and locomotion.

Thursday...already?

Madness, say thy name!

And the cinquain continues…for those who not know or remember, the structure of a cinquain is 2 syllables, 4, 6, 8 and then 2 again. The verse does not need to rhyme, but why not! This is part 4 or 5...the last installment is here.

I dreamed
I’m in a room
and all the things I kept,
with my collection of keepsakes
I slept.

Awake…
Open my eyes
And there behind my back
His arms raised high above his head
Was Jack.

Away
He did not see
That I had come about
And while he wove about a knife
I shout.

Attack
And so I did,
As he was unaware
Even before I had my wits
The scare!

Whirling
Jack spun about
Ethereal he glowed
And into my hurling body
He flowed.

The blade
That Jack once held
Protruded from my side
And as he was nowhere to see
I’d hide.

This ache
Was quite intense
Fell back upon the floor
Retracted knife out from my rib
And roared.

It’s strange
Then how I felt,
The soreness quickly passed
The lightening bugs flew back to me
At last.

I gazed
About the room
The shelves nailed on the wall,
And everywhere were bottles, jars,
All full.

Touching
My collection,
The odors in my place
The memories I had of her,
Her face….

From the Book of Dante

To summon the necessary Allegory Zebras,
Pasta Imbroglio swallowed the bruised
Globe module
And cracked a frosted ampoule.
When the first futile Gulump
Knelt and felt the vibrations
Within the divining funnel of mortitude,
His life became forfeit and the cone
Was passed to the second.
Another five days and Pasto
Forgave the second with a
Positive sighting and so he flung
The funnel wide out over a
Canyon until it flattened out
And caucused the wind
Then zeroed on the lead
Zebra, a portentous mare, a
Rippled and foamy masthead
Breaking through to the beach
After harrowing the Gap
Of Turpitude.
The funnel spent, Captain Imbroglio
Unfurled his cord of flags and
Transferred power to
The Mouth of Allegory,
Became vice colonel Imbroglio and
Landed his fleet into the
Cove of Pasto, hauled
Over the beach on felled
Trees by the power of
A dozen hundred Galumps
Through a
Wide swath of cut woods,
Done so by the
Serrated bone-arms of a
Dozen hundred more industrious
Galumps, all forfeit to
The excursion, whim of the
Mouth of Allegory,
His random verbal diagrams, his
Horizontal clues and vertical definitions by
Intention instructive, but interpreted as
Cross words;
They toil for the expansion of Allegory,
Sacrificing health to the
Glory of the Mouth,
Throwing themselves on the sword and collected
As souls wailing in the Wood of the Suicides.

take back the roost! and Woolly Worm Report...

The cuckold finch
An urban myth
Snarks with a word,
A subliminal wink.
Messaged in youth
It was Gauguined
When most susceptible
And intra-wired
With glue and feathers.
Indoctrinating its young
The cuckold finch
Makes friends
Out of enemies
Then socially bombards
The SOB’s, turning
Pillow cases into
tainted glycerin,
A blast into statement.
Its web feet
Stem the tide
Fulfilling hornet dreams
Thrumming in V’s
Led by
The cuckold finch
Triumphant in disguise,
Pointedly puncturing
A rapid stinger reset.

one note: last week I avoided squishing a woolly worm on the Greenway, noticing his orange band stretched nearly from head to tail...

prediction?

From a couple searches I have ascertained this means we will have a mild winter.

Well, we'll see--as the temps here have fallen pretty rapidly...it is almost as if October was passed over entirely for November!

picture by Shitao on Flickr.