A house has a front and a back.
On one of the other hands, there’s this:
The affront took the loon aback.
Both sentences have 8 syllables. Therefore, we now know beyond a shadow of a doubt what really became of either John Wilkes Booth or Booth Tarkington.
Antelope Nares in Tomato Aspic
For this recipe you will need:
one medium herd of antelope
One phalanx of flesh-eating camels
one dried tomato
aspic
Slay one medium herd of antelope. Using a razor-sharp melonballer, slice nares from carcasses and set aside in hamper. Release phalanx of flesh-eating camels to dispose of antelope leftovers. Return to fort, dragging hamper. Beat dried tomato with a bludgeon. Prepare aspic in the usual Tibetan manner, mixing in bludgeoned tomato and unrinsed nares. Chill overnight while the aspic cools in the fridge. Slide unmolded aspic onto platter and garnish with the beak of a macaw. Serves six people or one grizzly bear. (Trust me on this. I learned the hard way.)
The Goat and the Goatherd
The goat flew to the top of the tallest tree and perched there.
“Here now, come down this instant! You can’t fly!” shouted the goatherd, flinging his hat to the ground.
“I can’t?” said the goat.
“Of course not. You have no wings!” screamed the goatherd, dancing about in a frenzy.
“I don’t?” said the goat.
“And you can’t talk either!” shrieked the goatherd, tearing at his hair.
“Wow, looks like I’m a big fat 0 for 3 then, don’t it?” said the goat. “Thanks for the heads up.”
So saying, the goat sailed off into the sky, leaving behind one seriously agitated goatherd.
Moral: Before you count your chickens, make sure they aren’t flying goats.
Mrs. Duck enjoys a frigid early morning dip in the lake. Mr. Duck, who generally sleeps in until noon, reluctantly accompanies her. Hey, they’re on vacation, and whatever the missus says, goes.
With the reader’s consent we will endeavor to imagine the impression he would have received with us in crossing the threshold of that great hall amidst that mob in surcoats, cassocks, and coats of mail.
In 1831, the year The Hunchback of Notre Dame was published, it was not against the law for an author to formally and with great respect address a reader.
The correct answer to yesterday’s bed kwiz was inadvertently left off the list of possibilities. Any sir or madam guessing it anyway is a genius. For the rest of us, the loon informs me that the correct answer is ‘space, time, and peanut butter’.
The finest beds are:
a. constructed using springform baking pans.
b. hidden under the barn until the in-laws go home.
c. handcrafted by Swiss albino chimney sweeps.
d. the worst gossips.
e. often seen marketing.
When upon a time once a crone gave to a young peddler an enchanted wolf nose cloak in thanks for removing a thorn from her paw, she explained its power of invisibility, but not the hen allergy curse it cast on its wearer. Therefore, when the peddler sneezed while strolling by a chicken coop, his location was pinpointed and the subsequent bludgeoning he suffered proved fatal. He was still invisible, though. So there’s that.
At the turn of the 20th century, a rogue bandit roamed the streets, alleys, canyons, and beaches of Los Angeles and its surrounding environs. His name was ‘Streetcar’ Livermore. Now, to be sure, ‘Streetcar’ was merely a nickname earned through Livermore’s habit of pointing out passing streetcars to victims as he robbed them. “Hand me … oh, look, a streetcar … your valuables,” he often said. His drunken father had suggested the name Roger when ‘Streetcar’ was born in a Nebraskan hovel in 1880. His saintly mother, a wee lass from the smoothest part of Galway, overruled her mate, however, and her baffled husband was seen to stagger outside and mutter, “Streetboat? Is that even a name?”
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Doc's Lunacy
5 of 5 stars to The Great Train Robbery by Michael Crichton goodreads.com/review/show/55…
