Sunday shtuff

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aLiEnAnTiCs!!!

running out of these things,

so just the three this week.

Happy weekend. Yesterday was a pretty good day...

slightly warmer day, high 20's and low(er) wind.

So got the Tobes out for a walk...too bad no one in this town shovels

their walks; while Toby had a grand time dissapearing in snow banks,

we had to walk through all the grubby road slush that was thrown up

from passing cars along the main road.

On a brighter note, we stopped in at the vets to

pick up a new collar, get weighed

and make a groomer's appt.

He's up to 24 pounds, but I'm thinking

a lot of that was hair and wet feet.

upon the splendific rise

He will build a hill in his yard
like a testament to his desire;
it will rise above eaves
and a rift will divide the mound
to tempt his eye in a mortal way.

Buried at its heart is a concrete maze
harboring ess curves and ladders
with egress between scrambled boulders
and briar warnings --
a cave of wonder, of mirth,
cold repast and chance meetings.

Like sticks from a distance
the trees grow and comfort mantled dust;
all around gravel paths and terraced lawns,
the clutching shrubs
and look-at-me blooms
blanket his hill, piled high
by a thousand shovels and one,

his own.

Morning he will climb
just to meet warmth at dawn,
claim a solitary rock
pulled against gravity
rolled for an eon from the frozen North
and now resting here
alee,
he bathes in light.

Alone on a hill,
he sees for miles;
amid the whole
a part of all
or nothing.

indeed

Did you tread the dirt hard, on stilts; did you walk above the filth? Would you trespass on the insignificant; do they serve a purpose with their one handed responses, with their leaden attributes? Nothing they have is beyond your reach, every tiny morsel, a treasure, but a trifle. If it's not worth having, is it refuse, will you burn it? Now we move beyond the detritus, feeling nothing like awe, handy relief; merely a subtle passing between voids. Rushing, swirling lights. A man flies by, and two blocks anon he flies apart. Mirthful rue, where is the knowledge? Who knows if the moment exists; did it ever? On a virtual mountaintop colorful icons cavort to your prompts. Relegated spineless names, their lives as empty as a discarded cereal box, now you shed a tear as one slips into an avalanche and disrupts a moment of perfect monotony. Outside the box, hovering in a queue, they wait. Time is precious, but in a universe designed over the flux of countless millennium, does one second count beans above the next, or the aforementioned? Galaxies do in fact revolve around your greatness – it is all you know. In the neighboring cube another rotates in perfect discord to your own. Together they would mingle and cause heaven to form in concentric circles. A symphony would evolve, but today the stars will not align. Only chance can spark chaos. These pure moments fuel the universe – do not be fooled by frailties when some vaguery considered by the next fellow spurs a splitting atom, the contagion, to blink and cause a mighty stir.

woo hoo!

aLiEnAnTiCs!!!

Monster Stuff....

Sunday Comics came early this week

to cause extraspectacularbigness, click on pic
aLiEnAnTiCs

a load of...

The three sisters lived in an ordinary box at the end of a cul de sac and of all the things they enjoyed, prevarication was their favorite. Living in a box lends itself to lies, does it not? The littlest sister, Imogene, scratched her knee on a bent metal plate, and from then on she told anyone who'd listen that she had been attacked by the mother of all chipmunks. She told it so often, she even came to believe it, and at that point she needed to make up another story. It involved salties, a billabong, and prosthetics.

Supposedly in the year 1997 a very large and unruly octogenarian named Arthur came down from the upper reaches of Hamster to live with the sisters. He was loud and hairy and quite unnecessary. The way they told it, he never appeared on no census, so we cooked and ate him after a bath. Most folks believed it, seeing as they lived in a box. After a few weeks of unwelcome visits to the local grocer, the manager took up delivering cartons of overstock to their box step. The sisters were unsavory, indeed.

The foodstuffs were wanted, even if old and dented, but the cartons were a godsend so with staples and twine the sisters built several additions onto their box. Imogene was a nimble little sprite and despite her fake leg and motorized finger joints she was deft at installing the upper levels. The mailman heard that she programmed her finger circuitry to play the baby grand in the upstairs sitting room. The one with the chandelier. Some kids running by thought they heard Beethoven, or Mozart. They wouldn't know the difference anyway.

Marmalade was the grand poo bah of Box Estates and named by her mama for the family cat, who died of a ruptured spleen. The cat was loved too much and had the life squeezed right out of him. Rumor has it a cat spleen will come right up the gullet with an unnaturally large hairball and looks just like a living creature from some far off planet. The sisters subsequently learned not to squeeze so passionately, for fear of hairy spleens, and so they remained spinsters. A lesson in love – that's what they said about that.

Mama, of course, lived to the ripe old age of a hunert an' oh eight. At the time of her death the sisters lived in a bright penny mansion. It glittered in the sun and the neighbors all complained about the polish on the house. They had to install tinted windows to keep out the glare. And land's almighty, they complained. It was the complaints that killed mama off, because the neighbors finally aimed their tinted windows at the bright penny mansion and the heat set the house afire. The resulting blaze was so hot it set out feelers and burned the whole street down to ash. The sisters were all out tickling pollywogs at the creek when they heard the crackling and smelled the smoke. When they got back home there wasn't even a stick standing, only a package from the mailman filled with pies. They ate the pies with their fingers and lived in the box.

The prettiest girl of the box bunch is Penny. She's the middle girl and has an inferiority complex. Not too long ago a photographer came around to take pictures. He had heard from an explorer that there lived in a box the most beautiful girl to ever walk the planet. When he knocked on the door, it was Penny who answered, just come back from a mud bath. The mud was the only thing that saved this poor fellows life. Penny is so bright and perky and pretty, that only a coating of mud or slime or any old filth will save the common man from laying down in a pool of his own froth, thus succumbing to dehydration from lust. The sisters took him in and nursed him back to health, but he had to view Penny from behind a cardboard pinhole, like a solar eclipse. His camera never worked again and he became so poor that even now he lives off of crawdads; he sees Penny's face in the shimmering creek, and the flowing distortion of her visage keeps him forever insane.

The only regular visits the sisters ever get, in their box, is from the reigning President of the United States. The visits are so clandestine that not even the secret service officers are privy to the meetings. Marmalade is so smart that presidents often ask her advice in return for White House silverware. The sisters have never earned a cent, and they have never paid the first dollar in taxes. Only once did they ever vote in an election and it was a write-in for Penny. Had the vote been made public she would have won in a landslide. It's the biggest cover-up ever in presidential elections. Penny could have stopped wars all over the world and fed the starving in every impoverished nation just by saying 'boo'. She can even wipe her bottom all by herself, which is more than most politicians ever learned.

Together the sisters sit in the multi-box box and play games from dusk to dawn, like canasta, and then at night they put on funny animal hats and walk the neighborhood streets. Imogene likes to sneak into bedrooms and act immature. And limp. She says the limp is incoherent, but Marmalade knows the real truth. Penny on the other hand is in-between here and there. Some nights she just wants to stay at home to make shadow puppets do lewd and unnatural things on the cardboard walls, and other nights she prefers to drive men mad with her supple ways. As of now they're all sunning on the back porch, with ice tea; just knock and the maid will take you around for a chat. Go 'head, you'll learn a lot.

it's not toooo cold for some Sunday funnies ?

how about some aLiEnAnTiCs!!! ?

oh no...Monsters!

a wish or two, or three

“Ouch; I don't understand. Why do you keep poking me?”

“I am Webster, the Dictionary Gnome, and until you ask for a wish or three in the form of a question, I will continue with the poking, you see.”

The gnome was standing under a toadstool making fencing thrusts with a fallen stem. “Wish,wish, wish if you must even wish for a fish! But, wish!”

“Alright, but if you poke me again I think you'll end up in a heap of horse apples with a Bodark thorn in your butt.”

“Aii – never threaten a dictionary gnome; you'll get crooked grantings, you will. Now wish, wish...”

“Yeah, yea; wish for a fish. I don't think so. Let me think a bit.”

The Dictionary Gnome squinted mightily and dee-dilly-deed a little ditty.

“May I have for my first wish a golden tortoise?”

The gnome harumphed and drew up to his full height of 5 inches and one quarter then popped his eye balls and hollered, “A wish for thee the first of three – tra la.”

Then the gnome ran around his mushroom in several circles and sat to chew his pipe stem.

“Well. Where is it?”

“What's it be, you're askin' me?”

“The golden turtle, imp. My first wish. I asked in a question, so where's my wish?”

“Oh, that. My oh my, look to the sky. Your wish will loom, up in the gloom – high in the sky, tonight the sight, a terrapin hanging high and shining bright with golden star, afar so far. A constellation, my friend, a wish to send.”

Webster danced a jig.

“Why, you.... Okay, ah. Didn't I wish for a golden turtle? I want it closer, here, not a billion light years away. What good will a turtle constellation do me?”

“A query I hear, oh dear. That will do for wish of two, and here it be, a sextant for thee.”

A shiny sea captain's sextant appeared in the man's hand. “No, wait. Gol darn. What did you just do?”

“Hold it up unto yee eye and from the sea you'll see, the golden turtle stars will guide. It'll do, that's true.”

The man yelled at the sky and stuck his hands into his pockets. “How could I have made such worthless requests?”

“Tweedly dee, that's three.”

“What, no, I didn't wish!”

“A question, the third, and it was a turd. More worthless than one, and two that was fun, here is the third and it too comes from the sea and it has legs of more than one two or three, this wish you will hate, many times eight. 'Scuse me, gotta go!”

Webster the gnome ducked into his toadstool, safe inside his mush room, when up from the bubbling loam rose a cascade of frothing mud balls which turned evilly into a cavalcade of writhing arms amid the slashing beak of a tremendous octopus. It folded the man, agog, into its slippery embrace and sunk back into the foaming earth.

Webster inside his little home reached to his shelf and pulled down a tiny copy of the dictionary he had penned himself. “Aye, what is this Bodark thorn he menaced upon my bottom? Oh, wee dee, I see; on page 983, from the Osage Orange...ah um. Damn it.”

Nothing rhymes with orange.

Sunday's Sillies

click on pics for supercalifragalisticness...

more aLiEnAnTiCs:::

Monster comics, oh NO!

oops-i'd forgotten that i doodled a Christmas comic. Well, here it is, just in time for the new year.