Yeknodathon

Oh, I don't know... Contusion Color floods to the spot, dull purple. The rest of the body is all washed-out, The color of pearl. In a pit of a rock The sea sucks obsessively, One hollow thw whole sea's pivot. The size of a fly, The doom mark Crawls down the wall. The heart shuts, The sea slides back, The mirrors are sheeted. ... one can still at least hope?

A sheep!

Boo staring at a weasel and sticking on a second tail?

*surveying the paddock for the nearest Shetland pony*

[nesting on the little fella's head]... One just can't get enough

[ferocious digging to discover a carefully buried rubber gnome frayed and worn from many primitive and energetic rituals]

What was the question.... Cheeseburger

I think we might have to go beyond 240 hotdogs to compensate for Abbott?

*vocal chords straining for the remorseless grind of an overworked woodchipper processing 240 hotdogs and an overfed Abbott*

[Carefully arranges a twig and two sprouts on the ground...] *snort* tea-time! [... and eats them]

uhhh...waaaaa.... ugughhhhhhhh

[and in the sullen morning light something grey and heavy is found beneath the Paddock tree, limbs pointing to the sky at various angles, tongue extended, ears carefully pressed to the dew just as a water buffalo might be if it had fallen from a great height... and with a little, deathly wheeze the tongue curls to issue...] Come Abbott I am yours.... *wheeze* take me now... *wheeze* [ June 11, 2007, 11:37 PM: Message edited by: Yeknodathon ]

[peering whimsically up at the acid rain-blighted tree to see whether fate might deliver a 1.5 ton amenable dead water buffalo...] Yer might need a head start?

... of course, I was rather hoping yer might fit into a squirrel. Not one of the more lithe, Euro red squirrels but one of the those bulky Merkin grey ones with their fine bone structure, defined musculature and therefore more compliant orifices. But one must consider that even with enough creaking rigor mortis to force yer grey to plummet from its high bough, its little claws stiffening towards the sky in a squirrel death grip, it would be too quick for you. So, a waterlogged vole will just have to do.

Oh, deary me... better scribble that out... ... bloated, stiff vole.

Oh... I suppose, contemplating this certainty, that the little Gnome might climb into the sporran much as a little Roo might climb into its Antipodean pouch (warm and welcoming) or Abbott's dwindling acumen stuffed (luke warm and damp) into a bloated, stiff rat.

Quite likely not a Gnome in a kilt?

I suppose if Noba did exist, it would be necessary to disinvent him.

*snort* one of Voltaire's more relevant observations...

... as monologues go..

[something hard repeatedly thudding against the rough wooden wall of the Paddock shed to a slow, forlorn rhythm of a rather large sledge hammer pounding on a wasp]

... I suppose it explains the truck.. can't be too much room for 6 limbs and two heads.

*straining ever so slightly at thought of oneness with Boo*

[... and forcing wind between two particularly hard brussel sprouts to give a distinctly brassica, reed-like intonation] Glaciers melting in the dead of night And the superstars sucked into the supermassive Booooooooo