Y’all Wanna Know The Worst Tactile Sensation Ever?

Shitter.png

Of course you do.

It is when you go to flush the toilet and that handle snarls back at you, rather limp-wrist’d, as if to say,

“Not tonight Asshole. Go back to sleep.”

(Now, in some truth, I could probably improve this post. For example: I should not have referenced ‘limp wrists”. In truth, y’all know how it is when you go to flush that toilet and there just ain’t no resistance. “Limp Wrists’ was just about all I could manage at the time of publishing…. (Isn’t that funny? Like I am a fucking news paper?) Dead-lines!

Some one shoot me!

(Make it quick! Head Shot! Right thru the mouth–or better…the mouse.)

God and some foll’ers will thank  you.

Foretelling  ‘Foreboding’ (See? I tend to edit as as I go… My father once tole me, “Lance! Enuff! Enough! It takes an editor to be smart; that is why we make more monies.”) some deep sea-toilet trolling (trolling?)  diving to fix.

Yeah…

Really?

Don’t think so.

Maybe tomorrow…

(There are three (other) toilets in this ‘Mouse-House’)

“So, fuck off.”

(My toilet did not reply)

Yes,  I talk to my toilet… don’t we all?

“Take your hand off that mouse Mister! Don’t make me come over there.”

“Yessir! Please don’t shoot me; I’m just the piano-player.”

“Sounds like bullshit to me. What do you think, Jim?”

“Yeah. Bullshit. Shoot him.”

“OK.”

Bang! Bang!

“He gone.”

(Sorry, Si Robertson; some of this … this is probably out-of-context)

Then again…

Maybe not.

We will not even begin to speak about your brother.

Damnit! I miss Christopher Hitchens!

 

Even more embarrassing:

You know the toilet is broke dick dog.

Yet…

You still try to ‘visit.’

And it takes three tries to get into the door.

(Yet, it is a really small door–just sayin’– and not so easily navigated, drunk nor sober)

Only to be so disappointed (yet again) over the the whole toilet experience.

OK.

Fine!

Resist?

Naw!

Below, please discover Lenny’s take on toilet-training.

(and of course: entertaining, or reasonable facsimile)

“Take This Toilet And Boil It.”

(Watch/Listen Below. Otherwise it all just falls apart)

Just like my fucking toilet.

“Dirty Word Problem”

: : :

Obscenity Bonus:

“Obscenity is a Human Manifestation”

–Lenny

Pap, Huck, Peanut, Delirium tremens, and Lance

Oh Man!

I have been here/there

Do NOT wanna go back there.

Dealing with the DTs


Cred for Vid: Beeston Media

 

I post a lot of shit. I post a lot of off the wall shit. If you have read my ‘By Way of Introduction’ page you will know this. But, OK,  most of you have not (read that). Therefore, I will be brief here (“More matter and less art,” Yeah yeah yeah…) More matter below:

And here is some ref: Peanut, stuff, more stuff, and even more stuff.

I stole this from Sam Clemens. I hope you like it a lot. (I do)

I don’t know how long I was asleep, but all of a sudden there was an awful scream and I was up. There was pap looking wild, and skipping around every which way and yelling about snakes. He said they was crawling up his legs; and then he would give a jump and scream, and say one had bit him on the cheek–but I couldn’t see no snakes. He started and run round and round the cabin, hollering “Take him off! take him off! he’s biting me on the neck!” I never see a man look so wild in the eyes. Pretty soon he was all fagged out, and fell down panting; then he rolled over and over wonderful fast, kicking things every which way, and striking and grabbing at the air with his hands, and screaming and saying there was devils a-hold of him. He wore out by and by, and laid still a while, moaning. Then he laid stiller, and didn’t make a sound. I could hear the owls and the wolves away off in the woods, and it seemed terrible still. He was laying over by the corner. By and by he raised up part way and listened, with his head to one side. He says, very low:

“Tramp–tramp–tramp; that’s the dead; tramp–tramp–tramp; they’re coming after me; but I won’t go. Oh, they’re here! don’t touch me –don’t! hands off–they’re cold; let go. Oh, let a poor devil alone!”

Then he went down on all fours and crawled off, begging them to let him alone, and he rolled himself up in his blanket and wallowed in under the old pine table, still a-begging; and then he went to crying. I could hear him through the blanket.

By and by he rolled out and jumped up on his feet looking wild, and he see me and went for me. He chased me round and round the place with a clasp-knife, calling me the Angel of Death, and saying he would kill me, and then I couldn’t come for him no more. I begged, and told him I was only Huck; but he laughed SUCH a screechy laugh, and roared and cussed, and kept on chasing me up. Once when I turned short and dodged under his arm he made a grab and got me by the jacket between my shoulders, and I thought I was gone; but I slid out of the jacket quick as lightning, and saved myself. Pretty soon he was all tired out, and dropped down with his back against the door, and said he would rest a minute and then kill me. He put his knife under him, and said he would sleep and get strong, and then he would see who was who.

So he dozed off pretty soon. By and by I got the old split-bottom chair and clumb up as easy as I could, not to make any noise, and got down the gun. I slipped the ramrod down it to make sure it was loaded, then I laid it across the turnip barrel, pointing towards pap, and set down behind it to wait for him to stir. And how slow and still the time did drag along.

Shoot at me you son of a bitch!

“Lately I been thinkin’, I just might quit drinkin’…

now I don’t know, all in all…”

***

Jerry Jeff Walker – I Feel Like Hank Williams Tonight/Morning Song To Sally

Vid Cred: Jan Hammer

Yep!

Grace!

Love You!

Henry The “Just A Dog, Dog”–And Now His Watch Has Ended

 

He was just a dog.

But he had a vocabulary!

He was just a dog

He understood… words!

He was just a dog

He could not speak the words, but he heard the words and he knew the words. He responded to the words. He taught me some ‘new’ words. (Sorry; they do not translate well here, but suffice to say…)

He was just a dog

He knew lots of words. More than some people, I’d venture. And his understanding was more than some people I will not venture to mention.

He was just a dog

He did not do so many ‘doggy’ things. He did ‘other’ things. He never got bogged down with mundane dog things. He refused dog boundaries. He knew stuff.

He was just a dog

Actually, he was a benevolent dictator; is what he was  

He was just a dog

Then how did he effortlessly enslave two ‘humans’ for so many years? Can ‘just a dog’ do that?

He was just a dog

No. He was a ‘playah’, always a ‘contender’, always a subtle ‘man’ipulator. He had it goin’ on. 

He was just a dog

He had a ‘King’s’ name…

Yet, he was still just a dog

He was ‘every-man’. Sometimes he was just a cat. Sometimes he was just a clown. Sometimes he was just a possum. Sometimes he was just a spider (waiting for something to drop from the Magic Treat Cupboard…) Sometimes he was just my pet raccoon. Sometimes he was just Freud. Sometimes he was just Dear Abby. Sometimes he was just my ‘sponsor’. And every once in a while, yes he was just a dog.

The best dog ever.

A dog for all seasons–no rhymes, no reasons–minimal lesions .

And now he’s gone.

And my heart is broken.

But Lance! He-was-just-a-dog!

Not to me. A bent wheel cannot be mended.

Kipling said it best:

THERE is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.
Buy a pup and your money will buy
Love unflinching that cannot lie
Perfect passion and worship fed
By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.
Nevertheless it is hardly fair
To risk your heart for a dog to tear.

When the fourteen years which Nature permits
Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,
And the vet’s unspoken prescription runs
To lethal chambers or loaded guns,
Then you will find – it’s your own affair, –
But … you’ve given your heart to a dog to tear.

When the body that lived at your single will,
With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!),
When the spirit that answered your every mood
Is gone – wherever it goes – for good,
You will discover how much you care,
And will give your heart to a dog to tear!

We’ve sorrow enough in the natural way,
When it comes to burying Christian clay.
Our loves are not given, but only lent,
At compound interest of cent per cent,
Though it is not always the case, I believe,
That the longer we’ve kept ’em, the more do we grieve;
For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,
A short-time loan is as bad as a long –
So why in – Heaven (before we are there)
Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?

 

“He spoke in tears of fifteen years
How his dog and him
They travelled about
His dog up and died
He up and died
After twenty years he still grieves”

—JJ Walker & Mister Bojangles

I still grieve.

 

For A Moment

I love red

I love RED

Better RED than ded!

Y’all know I have a Fatal Character Flaw:
“Weakness For Redheads.”

Well,

“Better Read Than Dead.”

(See whut I did there?)

I am still laughing at my own jokes!

First sign of insanity.

He said.

Oh! Cinnamon Girl!

Vid Cred: Redhead Express


Vid Cred: Europa Scythia

*Sequel to ‘Lady Projection’*

*****

For A Moment

She spoke through my window
Smile and hair still aglow
“Your poem made me cry”
Didn’t even ask her ‘why’

Maybe she’d been moved
Some little pain removed
Someone’s caring care
Had taken it to bear

For a moment

Or merely felt encouraged
Not to be discouraged
Or maybe just persuaded
To feel cautiously elated

Or maybe just contented
By thoughts I had presented
Or words that I had written
Had left her slightly smitten

For a moment

But suddenly I knew
None of it were true
Never could it be
She and me, me and she…

Red gave way to green
Had to leave the scene
The traffic left behind
Some sadness for my mind

Hard truth in the knowing
That simp-ally bestowing
A poem wrapped in money
Makes me anybody’s Honey

For a moment

******

I wrote the poem.

I take responsibility.

Cinnamon Girl!

Oh Hell Yeah!

Old, geriatric rockers… Better than the shit we suffer thru today!

This MY Fantasy (Although True)

Do NOT trample on it!

Added value:

Ain’t life unkind????

Lose yer mind.

For A Moment

I love RED

Better RED than ded!

Y’all know I have a Fatal Character Flaw:
“Weakness For Redheads.”

Well,

“Better Read Than Dead.”

(See whut I did there?)

I am still laughing at my own jokes!

First sign of insanity.

He said.

Oh! Cinnamon Girl!

Vid Cred: Redhead Express


Vid Cred: Europa Scythia

*Sequel to ‘Lady Projection’*

*****

For A Moment

She spoke through my window
Smile and hair still aglow
“Your poem made me cry”
Didn’t even ask her ‘why’

Maybe she’d been moved
Some little pain removed
Someone’s caring care
Had taken it to bear

For a moment

Or merely felt encouraged
Not to be discouraged
Or maybe just persuaded
To feel cautiously elated

Or maybe just contented
By thoughts I had presented
Or words that I had written
Had left her slightly smitten

For a moment

But suddenly I knew
None of it were true
Never could it be
She and me, me and she…

Red gave way to green
Had to leave the scene
The traffic left behind
Some sadness for my mind

Hard truth in the knowing
That simp-ally bestowing
A poem wrapped in money
Makes me anybody’s Honey

For a moment

******

I wrote the poem.

I take responsibility.

Cinnamon Girl!

Oh Hell Yeah!

Old, geriatric rockers… Better than the shit we suffer thru today!

This MY Fantasy (Although True)

Do NOT trample on it!

Added value:

Ain’t life unkind????

Lose yer mind.

Henry The “Just A Dog, Dog”–And Now His Watch Has Ended

 

He was just a dog.

But he had a vocabulary!

He was just a dog

He understood… words!

He was just a dog

He could not speak the words, but he heard the words and he knew the words. He responded to the words. He taught me some ‘new’ words. (Sorry; they do not translate well here, but suffice to say…)

He was just a dog

He knew lots of words. More than some people, I’d venture. And his understanding was more than some people I will not venture to mention.

He was just a dog

He did not do so many ‘doggy’ things. He did ‘other’ things. He never got bogged down with mundane dog things. He refused dog boundaries. He knew stuff.

He was just a dog

Actually, he was a benevolent dictator; is what he was  

He was just a dog

Then how did he effortlessly enslave two ‘humans’ for so many years? Can ‘just a dog’ do that?

He was just a dog

No. He was a ‘playah’, always a ‘contender’, always a subtle ‘man’ipulator. He had it goin’ on. 

He was just a dog

He had a ‘King’s’ name…

Yet, he was still just a dog

He was ‘every-man’. Sometimes he was just a cat. Sometimes he was just a clown. Sometimes he was just a possum. Sometimes he was just a spider (waiting for something to drop from the Magic Treat Cupboard…) Sometimes he was just my pet raccoon. Sometimes he was just Freud. Sometimes he was just Dear Abby. Sometimes he was just my ‘sponsor’. And every once in a while, yes he was just a dog.

The best dog ever.

A dog for all seasons–no rhymes, no reasons–minimal lesions .

And now he’s gone.

And my heart is broken.

But Lance! He-was-just-a-dog!

Not to me. A bent wheel cannot be mended.

Kipling said it best:

THERE is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.
Buy a pup and your money will buy
Love unflinching that cannot lie
Perfect passion and worship fed
By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.
Nevertheless it is hardly fair
To risk your heart for a dog to tear.

When the fourteen years which Nature permits
Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,
And the vet’s unspoken prescription runs
To lethal chambers or loaded guns,
Then you will find – it’s your own affair, –
But … you’ve given your heart to a dog to tear.

When the body that lived at your single will,
With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!),
When the spirit that answered your every mood
Is gone – wherever it goes – for good,
You will discover how much you care,
And will give your heart to a dog to tear!

We’ve sorrow enough in the natural way,
When it comes to burying Christian clay.
Our loves are not given, but only lent,
At compound interest of cent per cent,
Though it is not always the case, I believe,
That the longer we’ve kept ’em, the more do we grieve;
For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,
A short-time loan is as bad as a long –
So why in – Heaven (before we are there)
Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?

 

“He spoke in tears of fifteen years
How his dog and him
They travelled about
His dog up and died
He up and died
After twenty years he still grieves”

—JJ Walker & Mister Bojangles