Thursday, December 08, 2005
non-pit day
Well, at least not down here in the swamp. Pretty pit-i-ful on the LSM about that Rigoberto fella. Center of mass troops, when presented with a clear and present danger, center of mass. Save the fancy shooting for the range.
Best night's sleep for a week. Pulled the bedside rug from underneath with a scowling furry thing on it as the sound of it gnawing on the box springs probably would have been distracting, curled up with smooth jazz down low so as not to compete with the rain, coma-level in moments. Wakeup call was a large, cold, wet nose in the ear. FAR superior to the thylacine treatment! Got both feet planted on the floor and lo and behold, a no-stick morning. So far so good. The hair supply was standing by the door patiently waiting. The sleep bleary eyes peered through the ***clean*** glass, told the rest of the creaky assemblage to open the portal. Yep, still raining. Hairpile was re-thinking the wisdom of "outside" so I went out and stood under the eve. She made a couple of tentative over the threshold excursions before committing herself and at that point I slipped back in and quickly closed the door! ...if looks could kill I'd have been dead meat in 2 seconds! That's OK, at least I've mostly managed the art of the flush toilet!
Did you catch Record Low Temps Seen in Parts of U.S. off Drudge this morning? Awful early. Must have something to do with that global warming thingamabob. It ain't no day fit to go skinny-dipping in the pond but I'll take my typical December grunge anytime.
* * * * * *
Don't go read Steve H. today unless you really need a serious stitch in your ribs! Best stuff he's written since, ummm, yesterday.
* * * * * *
I'd intended to include a photo to go with the panties-on-the-head comment. Couldn't find it then. Found it. Sorry, lost the source.
I donno. Staged? But then again,
From him, I'd expect such!
* * * * * *
"Wash her up and have her brought to my tent".
Hoo boy, it's time to turn off the internet radio! Somewhere way back when dirt was being invented, someone said something like "in the Spring a young man's thoughts turn to thoughts of love". Something like that. Well, in the normal drearyness of slopped-up December, a old swampfart's thoughts tend to veer toward those of a misspent youth! When looking for the grabsomeabu photo above, found another one. From 1973. Writing up the needful story to go along with it would use up 2 of my last 3 neurons. ..which means I'll probably do it and fail to post the product!
Sheesh.
..a little update: the proper quote is from Alfred Lord Tennyson and should read "In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love."
* * * * * *
Three items have become such that boots are mandatory. No way around 2, the 3rd might as well be done. It's all warm and cozy here in the middle of the compost pile. I like here, doan wanna. Can't get out of it. It would be eversomuch better to continue "slaving" over a hot soldering iron completing a really neat little piece of a redesigned 1950's project, nope. Boots. One task involves an automobile. Good folk on the end of that one. The other 2 bring back a big chunk of my father's wisdom poured into ignorant ears. Build the mold, pour the bronze into it, live with the results. Ageless. Painfully true.
Best night's sleep for a week. Pulled the bedside rug from underneath with a scowling furry thing on it as the sound of it gnawing on the box springs probably would have been distracting, curled up with smooth jazz down low so as not to compete with the rain, coma-level in moments. Wakeup call was a large, cold, wet nose in the ear. FAR superior to the thylacine treatment! Got both feet planted on the floor and lo and behold, a no-stick morning. So far so good. The hair supply was standing by the door patiently waiting. The sleep bleary eyes peered through the ***clean*** glass, told the rest of the creaky assemblage to open the portal. Yep, still raining. Hairpile was re-thinking the wisdom of "outside" so I went out and stood under the eve. She made a couple of tentative over the threshold excursions before committing herself and at that point I slipped back in and quickly closed the door! ...if looks could kill I'd have been dead meat in 2 seconds! That's OK, at least I've mostly managed the art of the flush toilet!
Did you catch Record Low Temps Seen in Parts of U.S. off Drudge this morning? Awful early. Must have something to do with that global warming thingamabob. It ain't no day fit to go skinny-dipping in the pond but I'll take my typical December grunge anytime.
* * * * * *
Don't go read Steve H. today unless you really need a serious stitch in your ribs! Best stuff he's written since, ummm, yesterday.
* * * * * *
I'd intended to include a photo to go with the panties-on-the-head comment. Couldn't find it then. Found it. Sorry, lost the source.
I donno. Staged? But then again,
From him, I'd expect such!
* * * * * *
"Wash her up and have her brought to my tent".
Hoo boy, it's time to turn off the internet radio! Somewhere way back when dirt was being invented, someone said something like "in the Spring a young man's thoughts turn to thoughts of love". Something like that. Well, in the normal drearyness of slopped-up December, a old swampfart's thoughts tend to veer toward those of a misspent youth! When looking for the grabsomeabu photo above, found another one. From 1973. Writing up the needful story to go along with it would use up 2 of my last 3 neurons. ..which means I'll probably do it and fail to post the product!
Sheesh.
..a little update: the proper quote is from Alfred Lord Tennyson and should read "In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love."
* * * * * *
Three items have become such that boots are mandatory. No way around 2, the 3rd might as well be done. It's all warm and cozy here in the middle of the compost pile. I like here, doan wanna. Can't get out of it. It would be eversomuch better to continue "slaving" over a hot soldering iron completing a really neat little piece of a redesigned 1950's project, nope. Boots. One task involves an automobile. Good folk on the end of that one. The other 2 bring back a big chunk of my father's wisdom poured into ignorant ears. Build the mold, pour the bronze into it, live with the results. Ageless. Painfully true.
