The little man came. He brought the stones. He brought the hot stones. He brought one hot stone and one cold stone. He said they bring you peace. He put them by the door and told the snakes they are not welcome. If they come they will not…they will not come. They know. Big catastrophe. No parachute. One stone hot. Never hold long. This man. He fool. I can hold the stone, I can hold the stone. He doesn't hold. Too weak. Broken man. No one visits him. Waste. Next stone….you say….cold. Cool. Like room. Not frozen. There is no one who buy ice cream from you. No more. Stone is cold but…it's enough. Not hot. Cold. Place on neck, grow many talents. Show the people….they want to see. This is the big show. 14,000 he owe. I say, get out. No one sleep in my bed...
The ghost of Christmas Yet To Come broke the bad news to me: the Lower Peninsula's getting sausage loaf from the discount table. The Upper Peninsula's getting the plague.
And down in Ohio, he's forcing everyone to make a new friend.
He's had it with this country.
Robert the Dancing Man has begun his annual visit to the streets of our fine town. His specialty is interpreting lovers' quarrels through dance. A quick scan of local church bulletins and Robert has enough material to carry him through Friday. He'll spend all week leaping across the car hoods, acting out the sobbing, the passion, the accusations, and the betrayal of popular power couples throughout the inland neighborhoods. Come next weekend, a chartered row boat will sail him past the lake front properties so that even the mighty may be shamed. It is hoped that such focus and exposure will stir up business for the therapy and steak house district which typically sees a lull this time of year. If you're in town, ask to see Robert's face tattoo. But don't give him any...
Big ol' troughs of cauliflower juice. Laid out on the floor. Bring em up with a gentle heat, right up to the edge of boil. Then cut it off. Nothing. Let it go cold. Now start snapping pictures. Landscape orientation, maybe portrait. These memories last a lifetime. Keep em safe from the flood by sleeping with them clutched to your chest. Not just the trough photos, though we both know their special value, but whole albums full of pictures of all kinds of juices. Cactus juice. Lemon juice. Mercedes Benz juice. All these juices poured out into troughs and let sit for years on the carpet floor. Take a guess which ones form a thick skin on top. Make a game out of it. Bring the family together. This is what you told the judge you wanted. Said it would be enough. All else is forgiven. Just...
The end of November is the time of year when one opens their mailbox to find its bottom filled with four inches of thick sour cream or marsh-mallow or just plain hot lather. The city has a boy come around with a ladle and lay it in during work hours. The result is at least a week of ruined mail. Unreadable, soggy, disintegrating letters, flyers and important papers. All unrecoverable and highly inconvenient. But we citizens voted for this policy. We supported it through two referendums. You can't say we didn't know what we were getting. Most people's thinking went something along the lines of, “I could really use some sour cream to finish this report but I don't want to go to the store in house slippers again, it makes my feet green.” Or, “These flyers...