Smoking the piece porridge pipe at treaty number seven we joust bout got blown outa da water. It happen last winter. Not enough antifreeze in the gladiator. A glad hand, and up you and yours.

Sorry for the hard on


Just trying to poke a hole in your impeccable logic. Hooded ounces, said Buffon, cling to the driven hind during the the turn of the last screw. The carpenter nailed his brick of mormolite duing these trying times. A jobber’s douzen of bases balked from here to eternity.

This has been a panty raid. Jeepers creepers, pardon my french, my friend of freedom. And pass the twig of prosperity to Saint Eskimo. Exximo. Let me get this strait, you get the next.

Jesus had no nest, he had no nid to reside. He had all of the fertile crescent on the upside of his head and looked down on the rest of the world.

If I could just make one child smile, I would dig a hole to middle earth and bury a squad of hobbits. If I could just spring yon mouse out of his trap which I set, I would sing hossanahs to the appropriate authorities. If I could save the life of one riscotted mosquito, I would make a pilgrimage to the peaks of Ecuador. If I ever receive the medal of honor, I will give thanks to the president and all his bankers. Backers. Back benchers. Back to the landers. Lantern bearers. Mummblers of the omlet in search of the horninest man. Our own Genghis Kahn. Check your genes at the gate. Gain root.

Ignore the preceding transpositions. We have fired our spell checker. A witch in cheep clothing. From the sally ann.

Mister President


The aboriginies claim to have captured lady gaga and will trade her to the pygmies if we don’t — hold on a second this just in — the assassins have completed their mission in the Hindu Cushion. Blanket casualties on all sides.

Let sleeping dogs lie, and kill the messengers.

Hard Times


Times are getting hard, but there’s been hard times before. We had the rump parliament, followed by the diet of worms and the Babylonian captivity. And if that wasn’t bad enough, you always had the black death. A plague upon your people if they turn their back to the wind. And a dose of smallpox to the big man on campus.

The salt of the earth

One for all and the devil take the hindmost
Two wrongs don’t make a right.
Three men in a tub, and who do you think they were?
The four fathers of the church and the relics of their foreskins
Five maids a-milking in their silk stockings
Six ways to skin a cat, as the loggers used to say.
Seven brides for seven brothers all too big for their britches
One dreamt she was possessed of the devil.
The day finally came that the hypothesis proved out.

Any man

Any man would be tickled pink to have a double birdsbath of hands in the bush when he was two bits shy of a full deck in the dark of the moon. The salt of the earth.

Whittled down

I was whittled down to one four-character domain, following all the princes of history.

Here was the woman who drove them mad as hatters while tightening the band. She had ten galleons of fortitude and a honeycomb smile worth its wait in sixpacks.

Tickling the domains

The restraining apparatus was tested against the death-defying acts of the apostles in the wind tunnels at General Dynamics.

Man cannist nicht who kennist breast. As they used to say in the Canaries, in the time of Camille Lepopardus, born with two left feet and the eye of a needle.