Against his grasshopper plague The Saint prayed for seagull angels This morning, only blackbirds.
Spike’s was the kind of place where a rounder felt comfortable telling lies. It huddled in the southeast quadrant of where Old Placer Creek Road crossed Montana Highway 333 and became Last Lost Mountain Road which bridged the river and dodged into the mountains beyond. Beside the rickety one lane, wooden decked bridge, There was … Continue reading Fishing for Buffalo
“Omaha is a place I visited for a wedding once,” Vern said, “It was spring, and the air was sumptuous heavy with moisture and there were trees growing everywhere, and. . . .” “Wait. Wait,” Dean put up his hand, “Hold it right there. Vernie old boy. You said “sumptuous.” “Yes, I did,” the old … Continue reading Vernie Valenine Defines a Word for the Prof
I am not gonna plump shame Sherrie, so let us just say she was a well rounded girl with a penchant for raspberry and apple pies, strawberry ice cream, beef steak, beer, deep fried anything, and etc. etc. There is nothing wrong with having penchants. I have a few myself, but I usually go for … Continue reading Here’s the Thing, Lorie, My Name’s not Pauncho
They ogled young Godiva of Beruit who was known to be beautifully hirsute, but, alas, not lewd for she covered when nude by weaving hirsute for her suit.
Writelee is two birding today, and referring to a post made this morning on Quora.com. Writelee believes he can do this because he thinks any question regarding how the English Language is spelled is quaint. This is not a bad thing. But it is fun for peeps like Writelee who like twiddling conventions. Please see: … Continue reading Two Birding on a Monday Morning!
Princess Jean made chili with raspberry pie and ice cream for desert, then laughed all day at our borborygami. Until around midnight, when the rumbles in that yurt preluded our mad unison flight, lead by the good Princess Jean, for the small, one holer latrine.
Vardis Huntre was settling on the plot for his new historic romance. The setting would be a mining camp in the Tobacco Root Mountains of Montana in the nineteen twenties. The idea came to him as he was downing a beer in Darcy’s, a dive at the intersection of U.S 287 and Meadow Creek Road. … Continue reading Truth is Not a Good Plot
Arrant noise, gnaty lancer, gory glut, dodgy dancer, swatted not. Another from the archives.
The first thing Phill Uperdone noticed that early November morning was that yellow was everywhere. The next thing he noticed is that there was no purple. The studio was a vast wash of yellow ocher and cadmium yellow (deep, medium, and pale); there were lemon, Indian, golden and gamboge yellows, and these were smeared, sprayed, … Continue reading Phil Paints Tighty-Whiteys (Unfortunately)