An update on Sulky, for those who actually care.

 

I heard.  Not from the for-pay people, but other people, that Sulky shit in his boot, pandhandling at the Tropicana.

There was a neanderthal frieze on the walls of the cave, and there were baubles, kind of Faberge's of the unknown type deposited in the cave, said in the old recorded texts of shaman and priests, that a winged serpent had laid the eggs in the cave, and the winged serpent, had done that, come down from the sky.  Interstellar origin, and all.

And the Moon deity obscured various formations across the night sky, I mean, same mythos, but real moonglow.

 

these the words of Marcus Tullius Cicero.

 

They had preached and prodded "woe to the republic!", such as they chant and march and prod us towards the edge of the bridge decking, "republic, republic, republic!" and they say the heart of the republic is the colliseum sands and so on.

Bantha fodder, I says.

 

*I saw Aunt Sue at that wedding.

*ever been peppersprayed by a cousin?

Brutalized by the Boyz In Blue? Oooh.

As they said in Godfather 3.  "Everytime I think I'm out,..."

He had to have a cookie.  His blood glucose, and his repressed emotions.

Joey Zsa Zsa.

It wasn't like the death of Fanucci, but it was something.

 

I'll have a morsel of the Baked Algonquin.

 

Adventures in automechanics notwithstanding, I did do a bit of "serious writing", not roasting popular figures and all that, but getting down to some universal truths of life in general.

To speak to that broad plurality is the thing, I wot.

I had a hyped-up moment, caffeine coursing through me, a kind of inspiration, like God just spit on me or something from high above, and I began to jot.  Something of the "human experience."

Those well-worn paths.

Flambae. Hecho in Simi Valley.

 

I was donkeying around with the air filter, being a jackass and so forth, trying to get the right amount of air and fuel into the infernal 4.0.  Changing jets and forking with the needle and all.

I said that new Apple Busch sounded kinda good.

Might have me a mouthful after this infernal blog post.

A mixture reading was what was need, fuel-to-air and all, and the atomization, and a spray of the good-good, and then I thought maybe the old Mopar distributor was cracked, and their might be other options for a 4.0 AMC Jeep powerplant.

Ann Heche?  Fireball, you say?

Flambae?

 

Movie: Boned in 60 seconds.

Perhaps, when one talks up a "culture of winning", one places the onus on the outcome, and is danger of losing the pursuit; however, the true danger lies in pushing the personality to its breaking point.  Case in point, a politician obligated by his own branding strategy to never accept a losing result, cast aside, and facing dejection, not accepting rejection, living in kind of a fantasy world of ruling the world from the confines of a golf course.

 

Too strange for the imagination and too bright for the real world.....

Did you know from whence

I came, on what ashen dromedary,

and it what discordant spray?

They say, "who made thee?!,

who made thee?!"

Perhaps some things come to pass

all of their own volition,

too strange to exist in the imagination,

too bright for the real world.

The Inner Guard at pains for their supper,

and slipping to the Daily Mirror;

the a large three ring binder for the comms,

and memorizing capitals.

The good outside force recovered three maidens

from the somewhere, somewhere between here and there,

thought to be spoil from the outer rim.

Concubines and fodder,

going through their bags,

tin foil, glitter, bubble gum.

 

Let the dog golf: a letter from prison for the abomination of kissing a slave.

 

Golf the dooglet.

Love is higher than a mountain; gratitude is expensive.  SSN is cheap to come by.  Such was that way that the morning cheese was quite something to enjoy in a precious moment, and then to hide away, as it were, in the doldrum of the office, an emotional vacuum.

Four wheels good.

Two wheels okay.