“Wild West”

Slammin’ the fit-o-deena–ground lengthwise across a bawdy expanse of thneeds
(which everybody needs)–we took our serenades elsewhere, confident in our knowledge of the occult (i.e. the back-stabbery and latent overall treachery that sorts itself out over the course of dozens of generations) and its ability to stall disbelief as one would when faced with a Mel Brooks-esque (or, to a lesser extent, Mel Blanc-ish) dilemma involving the safety of an entire town, where the hapless protagonist even agonizes over the insignificant-yet-unique blood splotch patterns on each and every last hitching post (with the hopes of creating a permanent photographical installment at the Getty and cementing his status as one of the pioneers of pre-modernized main street massacre legacy documentation that would span the seldom-understood and often-demonized “Wild West” (that is, if he has anything to say about it)).

Pheasants – 03:41GMT

Road woes continue for a small band of pheasants. They’ve lost three members already, a mother and two adolescent sons. We’re not sure whether they took a break at an inviting watering hole, or if they got shot by a wayward doorknob hunter. We’ll inform you as soon as we get confirmation of their whereabouts.

Turns out, a peasant got the pheasants. It doesn’t seem pleasant, and it isn’t, but even those of our species subjected to squalid conditions are entitled to the spoils of ingenuity when they come across it. The world’s pheasant population will recover in two weeks’ time, wish we could say the same for the countless massacred peasants, bless their hides.

I really wish I could use my arms—I have a crazy itch between my shoulder blades.