Leeo

I find remote mind-control to be spiffy as well. Wait one: Incoming message-Begin Signal; Subject: Early-Eastern-Oregonian Action: Sic and Destroy Response: Couldn't care less Outcome: Enjoyment of personal Coventry Implementation Bardinacious Reaction: Stamping of Tiny Feet End Signal.

I wanna be Dark Lord of the barstool and hookah. Please?

What armor girds my killer knee? Why, subterfuge and levity. What plating layers o'er me? Why, joking and hilarity. What laser guides my barbs at thee? Why, mocking jocularity. What smoke descends so you can't see? Why, proud cool stench, absurdity.

Yeah, well I'll see your "like the small Emma stories" and raise you a "demand the small Emma stories."

Oops, double-post. While I'm here, did I tell you how much I hate Graham Bell? Because he is the reason telemarketers hound me to the depths of the morass. He is why I am interrupted from various nefarious things, and why I'm forever barred from phoning home. He is the Deb-il!

You, sirrah, are nothing better than a text-fondling rearranger of words!

My mind may be small and stupid, but your mind is positively vacuous. Infinite in it's emptiness, embroiled in entropic splutterings, it falls, like detritus, to the subfloor of oceanic conciousness. Or sumfink like that.

Send me a beer, Stuka my liege! Served in a giant mug by a Bavarian barmaid with one of those deliciouly low-cut peasant blouses. Oh, and a yodler too.

My kitty ran away. Boo doesn't play nice.

At last a level within which some folks can excel!

Repitition has a value all unto itself, what?

I'm tired of Radley over-running my left side, and Nidan1 shooting the crap out of my "boys-of-wonder approaching the breasticle of domination." Other than that, it's all the barking of (stupid) dogs.

Yep, I'm all about stories. I got stories about working moving irrigation pipe on several different farms. I've got stories about my '94 F-350 crew cab that's getting tired and remains at pasture behind the barn for most of the year. I've got stories about the red devil working it's way up my arm during a year of chemotherapy. I've got stories of my mom wasting away and dying in front of me while I put on the "brave, responsible" face. I've got stories of how I got really drunk in Galveston one night and awoke to find myself driving down train-tracks and actually hit a train to jump the "Y" I was driving down. I have stories of being damn sure my slacking obnoxious older half brother got every cent coming to him when my grandma died, even though he said things to her, her daughter, and her granddaughter-in-law that should never be said to anyone, let alone someone related to you. I've got stories of the time I did watch while a friend of mine took a dump in the front seat of a Volkswagen owned by a high-school teacher who treated us like crap. I've got stories about flipping and rolling several times in a Ford Capri when the driver was drunk, yet I was drunker, and trusted him to take me home. What I ain't got is a story whereby I can give any respect to a person who calls themselves Ah-butt and finds pleasure in trying to bury the knife of his "intellect" in a way he hopes causes pain. AhButt has now entered Coventry for me.

No, that's what my testicles tell me.

You know, now it just feels wrong. The bull is bleeding, confused and disoriented. I think I'll leave the hemorrhaging and Picadore's to finish the job, with one last Espada: Indeed, I was born hetero (and comfortable with it).

The music from my wedding was "the bliss of companionship." Hmm. I thought redneck musick was the sound of shotgun shells and bud cans poppin'!

How come whenever a redneck speaks, I hear circus music?

Ah yes, feigning good intentions. Damn, caught out again! Curses and drats! My nefarious plan of behaving neighborly was foiled by paranoia and transference. My plan for world domination is over. OVER, I say! Ah,but perhaps my cunning plan was to feign feigning good intentions?!? Maybe, mayhap, I was going to give the impression that I was going to be nice, but nice in a fake way, when in fact I had planned good intentions all along? Oh, the compexity! The nerve, the GENIUS behind such a plan... I'm certainly glad I was found out before I could'a hurt myself.

Oooo, look at the rabid chest-thumper!! All slavering and gnashing at the teeth. Once, a long while ago when I realized Abbott lived in my general neck of the woods, and before he proved himself to be the "lovely" "human" "being" he is, I suggested that if he was ever over the mountain, we could perhaps meet for a beer. You know, all pleasant and friendly like. I'm willing to meet new folks from all walks and stripes; that's how you can "learn" things about "others" that you haven't already made your mind up about. Never heard back. Now he's been having to put up with "emails" (one, perhaps two sent ages ago) about how "cool" he is. If everyone I've had a beer with was "cool", we'd be in another ice age. Well, don't get too riled up, Abbott. With wit, you are a one-legged long jumper. With panache, you are a car with no spark; with jocularity, the blanket of wetness, and with kindness you are a bull in life's infinite maze of china. However, don't despair! With meanness, you are a tiger! With brashness, you are a leopard! With wild thrashing, flailing, and chest-thumping, you are positively a paragon among "men"! Be glad with your blazing masculinity that hides the candle of your mind! Rejoice, for thou art the blazing heart at the center of yourself!

One of my limitations is that I fail to see limitations.

We're all bozos on this bus!

...and the blood and the beer.

I wouldn't take that if I were you, Uncle Stukey!

'round the bend, me liege.

I sense a redneck who's insecure about his own masculinity and finds it comforting to cast aspersions upon the masculinity of others. How predictable! In other news, turns are out to Boo and Nidan. I'm likely losing in both of those death-dances, but it's good to hear 'splodey things again.