Don’t knock the verdict ‘til you’ve read the effervescent love stories of an older gentleman who reminds us all that a lake of justice may only be multiplied by itself as many times as would be appropriate for a spam wrangler embroiled in a cosmic prayer for guidance.

And not that we’d have to succumb to the specious reasoning
subjecting border collie manifestations to undue criticism
simply because of their perforatory nitrous oxidation theories;
as hair-brained as they may sound to the unindoctrinated few
with access to local channel 16.17–WESC: “The Glaring® Sound
of Beatniks All Around”–a smidgen of trust
for our ovine-herding counterparts will doubtless reveal
innumerable quality chicken sandwich sources within
a seven-mile radius, and for that we should stand and applaud.

A Little Twangy Twinge

Tell the Grand Poobah that his sticks have no reason to be mad at me for my words. All I wanted to do was illustrate why they should prefer to be called twigs in the grand scheme of things. We all need a little twangy twinge of sound every now and then, including these sentient tree limbs. Please just relay this message to him and his (the Poobah and his Stickssociates), as I’m looking forward to a lifetime of labeling the uncanny phenomena that are becoming ever more common with each passing moment in this plant-dominated tryptosphere.

My Obsessive Tendencies

Standing here in the rain
is going to be a tough assignment,
especially since it’s a Tuesday.

I don’t know what Tuesday
really has to do with it,
but I know that the sound you make

on a Tuesday morning – over coffee,
not without buttered scones – really
irks me. Typically 8:46am, but

sometimes 9:15. It’s as though
your internal clock were tuned to an
interstellar annoyance-based alarm system,

designed specifically to take advantage
of my obsessive tendencies.

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