Hatless man: “Hey. That’s my stuff. Don’t.” Man in cowboy hat: “That’s yours ?” Hatless man: “Yeah.” Man in cowboy hat: “Well…can I maybe have some, then?” Hatless man: “No. And stop touching it, would you?” Man in cowboy hat: “Fine, whatever… Geez…” Hatless man: Man in cowboy hat: “…So you’re pretty protective of your stuff, huh?” Hatless man: Man in cowboy hat: “…Probably still pissed at me for sleeping

Hatless man: “Hey. That’s my stuff. Don’t.” Man in cowboy hat: “That’s yours ?” Hatless man: “Yeah.” Man in cowboy hat: “Well…can I maybe have some, then?” Hatless man: “No. And stop touching it, would you?” Man in cowboy hat: “Fine, whatever… Geez…” Hatless man: Man in cowboy hat: “…So you’re pretty protective of your stuff, huh?” Hatless man: Man in cowboy hat: “…Probably still pissed at me for sleeping

Personally, I’m not surprised at all. I mean, this is the DNCC, for Chrissakes. It’s not like they haven’t dropped plenty of “we’re a bunch of shifty, powerhungry, backstabbing weasels” hints over the past three years, right? Shit. Read the herbal tea leaves, people.

Personally, I’m not surprised at all. I mean, this is the DNCC, for Chrissakes. It’s not like they haven’t dropped plenty of “we’re a bunch of shifty, powerhungry, backstabbing weasels” hints over the past three years, right? Shit. Read the herbal tea leaves, people.

protein wisdom responds: Sounds good, let’s do it. I’ll bring the coleslaw.

protein wisdom responds: Sounds good, let’s do it. I’ll bring the coleslaw.

Were Ted Kennedy a bowling ball instead of a beefy, patrician, hydrocephalic Massachusetts Senator, Mary Jo Kopechne might very well be alive today. Because it’s difficult to drown in laquered wood flooring. And because bowling balls tend to be very careful drivers. Q.E.D. …is it hot in here?

For those of you interested in such things, here’s an extended prose poem / short short story I wrote several years back. Regular posting will resume soon. Isaac and Rachel: A Love Song Analepsis/Prolepsis This is how his father was. Opportunity for prayer, which the old man couched in the secular “giving thanks,” lay open everywhere, a ubiquitous pressing together of fleshy palms, a collision of large-fingered hams pruning the

*Oooof* Seems herring doesn’t much care for me, though…

What can I say? I like herring.