Everyone knew that Riley Holdcamp would eat anything except liver. It was not a secret. Since high school he had announced to every date and future potential spouse that if they ever served him liver and onions, he would extract revenge. He could not even tolerate to be in a dining room where liver was … Continue reading The Liver and Onions Eating Champion
O that rascal with his tassels, his garnishery and frilly finery O, curse the flouncery of his filigree, O, that rascal and his tassels. He wooed dear Gladys with his foppery; with sly coxcomb pompery he flirted his ruffling tassels; with brazen foofaraw doodaddery he pawned on my Gladys castles. With eyelash tassel moonery that … Continue reading O That Rascal with his Tassels
The old man asked “feed me please” “All I have is Cottage Cheese,” I said. “Large curd,” But he heard the rhyming word— And would not eat my Cottage Cheese.
“It’s the Win’er’s Solice today,” Bert Osburned said. “I think. Isn’t it?” He pulled his heavy brows down over his little eyes, a serious frown, which is about the way he made all his proclamations. He wore a wide brim hat and scuffed boots and had been a history teacher at the high school. Since … Continue reading A December Twenty-First Argument
In the spring OC arrived to see how “the fool’d wintered.” He found an empty cabin with the diary open on the rough log bench to a page dated February 12. The entry was, “The onliest hunt that matters is a man hunt. Going hunting.”
His flute was capable of other wonderful sounds, even whole orchestras of lovely sound. But whatever the sheet music told him and wand-waver orchestrated, Ole Clive always managed to make sure C6-very-sharp was one of the sounds his flute managed to tweet.
On Monday the wind blew from the North On Friday the wind blows from the South. Both are cold winds. I feel the chill taint of October or perhaps November.
Billy Onnisdale started talking, and of course, because I was in need of entertainment and not being sober enough to stop him, I let him go at it. “I don't know if you remember old Dick Oslinfar. Quite a guy until he gave up lying. Which is why you probably don't remember him. Only thing … Continue reading A Fabulist Dies for Lent
The cows do not know Fridays without the fine chew of cudding, and Wednesdays are good as Fridays, as are Thursdays, for cudding; Tuesdays are for cudding too. Wednesdays and Saturdays are to chew; Thursdays are to chew too. Like every Friday, Monday is just like last Sunday, which just like, Tuesday is a great … Continue reading A Cattle Week and Weekend
Vin Smitt had been toking on the dictionary again. This is not a pleasant thing for those of us who are victim to the sequela of his toke. When Vinny dipped into his Webster’s International you could pretty much depend on a whole new species of malapropist propaganda. And winter is not a good time. … Continue reading Vinny Wins a Zymurgy.