CARTOON FRIDAY 20
October 16, 2009
THE BALLAD OF THE RED SPATS
October 15, 2009
Oh, gather round, ye maids and men
A story for to hear
Of bumbling pride and rampant lust
And shavings in the beer, my love,
And shavings in the beer
A midnight shaft of moon did swath
All through the darkled wood
And stepping from the shadows black
Was the lass with the mantled hood
The lass with the mantled hood, my own,
The lass with the mantled hood
Swift, oh swift, she fled to the cliff
And the wind did tear at her cloak
She clutched in her hands a pair of spats
Red as a crimson oak
Red as a crimson oak, my heart,
Red as a crimson oak
A strangled cry was heard, they say,
In the village leagues away
On the morning tide the spats did ride
To mark a sad new day
To mark a sad new day, my soul,
To mark a sad new day
And ever anon do I sing to ye
Of a tragedy haunting the past
Red spats on the tide do once more glide
To mourn the lassie who wast
To mourn the lassie who wast, my eyes,
To mourn the lassie who wast
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THE WAND OF LIFE
October 13, 2009
The Wand of Life
The Wand of Life removed the tamale pie in its ruddy earthenware casserole from the oven, placed it on the trivet in the center of the dark mahogany dining room table, and admired the heat-glazed golden amber color of the cornmeal topping.
“Kids! Dinner!” she called.
“I don’t want any! I ate four boxes of Milk Duds today, so I can’t eat again until Thursday! Leave me alone!” came from off in one direction.
“I smell tamale pie! I hate tamale pie! You know I only eat candy corn and honey!” came from off in another direction.
“Good. All for me then,” muttered the Wand of Life, and she tapped the table, sending sparkle spangles whooshing around in a whirl.
The casserole gleamed dull empty, licked clean.
#
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FROM DOC’S LOON FABLES 14
October 11, 2009
The Path and the Fog
The path and the fog concocted a plan, a practical joke, to be more precise. It was the path’s idea to mess with the minds of the backpackers camping in the grove. Instead of the usual route to the lake, 4.3 miles as indicated on the signpost at the path’s head, the path, under cover of the fog, would skitter east to end in a chasm of broken slabs. The packers would be left to clamber over rubble to nowhere for hours. The fog, having no use for humans, thought the idea brilliant. The trees, on the other hand, sighed in disgust at the juvenile behavior.
“I can see that one guy, the know-it-all, taking out his compass and shaking it or something. Can’t you?” grinned the path.
The fog nodded its wisps and chuckled, “Yeah. ‘What? Me lost? The great me? How can that be?'”
“Yeah,” said the path.
Dawn repaired, after breaking, and the trees tried to ignore the fog thickening and the path skittering east to end in the chasm. The backpackers emerged from their warm mummy sleeping bags. The fog held thick until all packs were packed and on backpacker backs. Then it lifted to reveal the path and its signpost, which said: MIRROR LAKE 4.3 Mi. Off went the packers, single file, one, two, three, four, and singing, “My hat, it has three corners, three corners has my hat, if it didn’t have three corners, it wouldn’t be my hat.”
The path, almost beside itself with glee, could barely maintain its composure. The fog seeped to the lake and told it what the path had done. The lake thought it was pretty funny.
Moral: The wilderness has way too much time on its hands.
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FROM MY AUTHOR’S NOVEL ABOUT MY FAMILY
October 10, 2009
metempsychosis [fr. meta- + empsychos, animate, fr. en + psyche, soul, fr. met him pike hoses, Marion Tweedy Bloom, Dublin, 1904] the passing of the soul at death into another body either human or animal
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CARTOON FRIDAY 19
October 9, 2009
“When you told me your wife had good taste, you weren’t kidding. She was delicious.”
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FROM DOC’S LOON FABLES 13
October 8, 2009
Doors
When the people had finally gone to wherever it was that they went every day, the door to the bedroom and the door to the hall closet picked up their discussion where they had left it, not missing a beat after the sixteen hours of rigid mandatory silence.
“Here’s where you’re wrong,” said the bedroom door. “You’ve failed to weigh the metempsychotic variables.”
“I weighed ’em,” protested the hall closet door, albeit in truth somewhat timidly. “Least I think I did. What are they?”
With a creak of superiority and condescension, the bedroom door explained. The door in the hall listened with all due respect because of course the bedroom door was natural, expensive and maple, whereas the closet door was painted white to hide its piny cheapness.
“And so there you have it,” concluded the bedroom door.
“Wow. I never knew,” said the hall closet door in awe.
“Live and learn. Now what do you say we go make some milkshakes?” said the bedroom door with easy magnanimity.
The doors detached themselves from their hinges and trekked to the kitchen where they sat around the table with the refrigerator door quaffing shakes and in general having a merry old time.
Moral: The strangest things go on when you’re not at home.
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OBSCURE REFERENCE HAIKU
October 7, 2009
stalk the reverie
laurel and hardy out west
dancing at the gate
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5 of 5 stars to The Great Train Robbery by Michael Crichton goodreads.com/review/show/55…
