Anything

[Turtle]

one time, at band camp, I....:naughty: :D :note: :xparty::singer::surprise:

[DougF]

Out of a Drinking Game, you had to say this three times fast or chug your Beer.

 

 

Moses supposes his toeses are Roses

But Moses supposes erroneously

For nobodies toeses are poses of roses

As Moses supposes his toeses to be.

[Pyrotex]

one time, at band camp, I....:D :D :note: :xparty::D;)

So, YOU'RE the one!!!!!

 

You're gonna be paying a LOT of back child-support, you beast!!!

:):eek_big::):eek_big:

[DougF]

Turtle Daddy

:hihi: :D :lol: :cup:

 

Come on You look like you could use a cup of java. :hihi:

[Turtle]

Played knuckle-down marbles yesterday in a five foot dirt circle. Not for keeps, but I won anyway. We never called shooters 'taws' neither; we called 'em shooters. :)

[Buffy]

"Well its dark, but its not cold, and that big bright thing and that swoosh of milk ruins the whole darky, creepy mood you're supposed to get at night."

 

Dancin in the moonlight everybody's feelin warm and bright,

Buffy

[Pyrotex]

Scientist in white lab coat, holding microphone, standing on stage in front of small audience, pointing to blackboard full of equations, diagrams and a small sketch of Earth with western continents:

"

So, in the general relativistic sense, we find that the dynamic friction of the tensor light cone is actually negative, creating a local convergence of photons which causes the stars at night to be big and bright, especially here, deep in the heart of Texas

."

-- from Gary Larson

[Turtle]

damn numeric palindromes with nothin' better to do than laze around stinkin' up progress. :hihi: anything more out of them and i'll let loose with a string of discouraging words that would make a herd of buffalo blush. :hyper:

 

:eek_big:

[Buffy]

damn numeric palindromes with nothin' better to do than laze around stinkin' up progress. :hyper:

You're my pal, but why are you in a drome?

 

5005 for a New York Minute, :eek_big:

Buffy

[Queso]

I would have been completely dead had it not been for the shark man.

Shark man? *chuckling*

Judging from his appearance, thats the most appropriate

Name I could come up with for him.

I hate this kid.

This uhh... thing youre talking about.

It had the body of a shark, and the arms and face of a man?

Thats the chap.

Holy jumping jackfish!

 

Intro two: mr. gerbik

 

*moaning, growling*

Yes, you have met the dangerous 208 year-old uncle of dr. octagon.

I myself mr. gerbik. half-shark, half-man, skin like alligator.

Carrying a dead walrus. check it.

 

Verse one: mr. gerbik

 

With my white eyes, gray hair, face is sky-blue yellow

Sideburns react, my skin is colored lilac

My skin turn orange and green in the limousine

People think Im mixed with shark, drinking gasoline

Underwater I breathe and let loose on my sleeve

Walking down hollywood boulevard with a credit card

Three alligators behind me, feel my skin is hard

Transvestites, and people watch space parasites

I left his head in the store, legs in the street

Body in wilcox, with blood dripping off my feet

L.a.p.d. through gray clouds couldnt see me

I first turned rainbow, closed my eyes, watch my brain glow

People got scared and ranned away they think Im weird

I was born this way, halfsharkalligator

Is he weird? ?

 

Chorus: mr. gerbik *singing*

 

Half-shark-alligator-half-man

Half man, half shark!

Half-shark-alligator-half-man

Half man, half shark!

 

Verse two: mr. gerbik

 

My vomit fluctuates, covers your skull like protoplasm

Lightning bugs turn pink, on my tongue catches spasms

Green elephants, I battle streets with a zebra

My mechanism is more than dionnes psychic voodoo

African beads, snakeskins, cold script through you my medical passes

You cant see, with greedy glasses

Carbon dioxide, pour right through em with gases

My description dinosaur

I was made half-shark-half-man, my skin is like razor blades

Seven-oh-seven, mr. gerbik

Verbally no one change my thoughts, animals fly from philly

My appetites more big its time for wildabeasts

Adjust my skulls, seven eyes switch hydraulic scribbles

And shrimps, mack gorillas like a pimp

Half-shark-alligator-man

 

Chorus 2x

 

Verse three: mr. gerbik

 

In my real world, orangutangs dance for thanksgiving

With skeleton bones and skunk tails, is my mission

Holding backward raps to all my power packs

Babboons clap, and girl horses wanna hit the sack

Were too bold for ocean water, monkeys sniffin ice

Contact jupiter pools martians bring my rice

Im out flyin with purple capes in the twilight

Oooh ooh ooh, tonights the night

My oxygen regions, new york to california

Half shark alligator half man!

 

Outro: pbs nature

 

It takes a supreme feat of strength to swim through

The water plows while dragging two hundred and

Fifty pounds on your back... the crocodiles teeth

Are designed to seize and hold, not to cut through

Skin. during all the hours the somber lay in the water,

But are unable to penetrate the deers tough hide.

The crocodiles make a few token objections; but in the

End, give up the struggle.

[Turtle]

Holy jumping jackfish!

...

 

Verse two: mr. gerbik

...

 

My mechanism is more than dionnes psychic voodoo

African beads, snakeskins, cold script through you my medical passes

You cant see, with greedy glasses...

 

holy catfish jackman! the flux eye am flux eyeam godometer with radial magnedistribidanglecupran has registered the flux in sharkman's field. to the fish cave!

 

YouTube - flux eyeam godometer with radial magnedistribidanglecupran

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mRhq6qHEwOo

[Turtle]

“How do you hold it?” I said.

 

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything about it.” . . . :phones:

[Pyrotex]

I read a book by Richard Brautigan once. It was called, "Trout Fishing in America", and every story in it, although often unrelated to all the others, contained somewhere within its syntactical depths the phrase, "trout fishing in America", as if that was an intense kernel of truth (or the profoundest of lies) that explained, extolled, exhumed, exasperated, elucidated, expounded, explicated, interpreted, or construed the topic at hand, whatever it was, or purported to be.

 

I remember reading the book while sitting on the chaise lounge on the back screened porch of my parents' house in my home town. The porch had originally been just a six-by-six, brick rostrum from which a flight of steep concrete steps descended, but over the years had been enlarged into a proper porch with roof, screens and storm windows. It had three doors: one into the kitchen, one opening onto the long ramp that went down the back side of the house, and one opening onto the steps that led to the driveway, and to Dad's barbeque pit.

 

That barbeque pit was huge, a cube seven feet on each side, with an iron door on iron hinges lubricated by the condensed fats and oils from several hundred pounds of slow-cooked pork and chickens. You might ask, what about beef? But you see, in rural Alabama, back in the 19th and 20th Centuries, barbeque was defined principally as pork. The idea of cooking perfectly good beef in this manner was considered wasteful.

 

My Dad cooked upwards of one ton of barbeque per week (that was 7 or 8 loads) and sold about half of it to restaurants over a six county area, and the rest over the counter in his small country grocery store. There were just three aisles in that store, and one cash register, and I remember pushing my little toy cars and tractors around on the heavily worn and stained wooden floors when I was four years old. The customers would cheerfully scruff my hair and walk around me as I went, "vroom, vroom", paying them little heed. Of course, after I had polio, and had to get around in a wheelchair, there was no room for me to play in the narrow aisles of the store.

 

That first wheelchair was an Everest and Jennings. I remember because of the large letters, "E&J" embossed on the foot pedals. It was made of tubular steel, all chromed and shiny, and weighed about forty pounds. My Mom got really good at folding it up, and swinging it into the trunk of our car. Men would come up to her on the streets of my home town and offer most graciously to help her, but she declined. If they really insisted, she would stand aside and watch as they struggled in vain to pick the chair up without it unfolding, spinning around and whacking them in the shins.

 

I spent many years in that wheelchair, or newer models of E&J chairs, until the day came when I had my own car and learned to fold my wheelchair by myself, and pull it behind the front seat. My first car was a 1965 Pontiac Catalina, fire engine red, and previously owned by the Chief of Police in Colbert County, just one county to the north of my home town. Colbert County was renowned in the northwest corner of Alabama for just two things: their moonshine, and the political corruption that enabled, protected, and was paid for by, their moonshine.

 

The only time I ever had any moonshine whiskey was when I was in graduate school at Mississippi State University, and some friends of mine took a ride out in the country to the farm of a retired veterinarian, and he asked us if we would like to "listen to the radio". By then, television had supplanted radio as the main form of mindless entertainment and so we were intrigued. He showed us an antique radio in a huge floor cabinet in his living room--RCA, if I remember correctly. He pulled it from the wall, reached behind it, and brought out a mason jar half full of a clear, colorless liquid.

 

We each got two sips of his moonshine, and it went down smooth as silk, and tasting of long, hot, slow summers filled with sunshine, black star-filled skies, softly waving fields of corn tassels, and not much else. Alongside the antique radio was a huge bookshelf filled with books, most older than the radio. The titles spoke of such things as ungulate diseases, chicken breeding, the feeding of goats, how to birth cows in the field, and so forth.

 

However, there was one book that was prominent because its binding was new, and it was about fishing. My Dad loved to fish, especially fly fishing, and some of my fondest memories are going out with him in a small boat, just him and me, and spending lazy afternoons listening to cicadas scream the sky away as our hooks bobbed in the water. But the book, entitled, "Trout Fishing in America", wasn't about fishing, and wasn't even about trout. The old veterinarian loaned it to me for the summer.

[Turtle]

i haven't read anything so original and beautifully written as the above in too long a time. :P

[Pyrotex]

i haven't read anything so original and beautifully written as the above in too long a time.

Turtle, my friend, I thank you most sincerely. [low bow]

 

:(:doh:

 

I call that style of writing "Circular Trout" writing. I've attempted a few pieces in my life, but THAT was by far my best ever. And the easiest--took me all of 35 minutes. Go figger.

 

It is based on three things: the surrealist disorganization of Richard Brautigan's "Trout Fishing in America", the random-walk, "something-in-each-sentence-becomes-the-subject-of-the-next-sentence" trick that I picked up from a humor piece in National Lampoon decades ago, and of course, having the whole thing end exactly where it started.

 

Is anybody interested in starting a "Circular Trout" thread? We can all try our hands at it and maybe work together on a few big pieces? Yes? :D

[Turtle]

Turtle, my friend, I thank you most sincerely. [low bow]

 

:bow_flowers:

 

I call that style of writing "Circular Trout" writing. I've attempted a few pieces in my life, but THAT was by far my best ever. And the easiest--took me all of 35 minutes. Go figger.

 

It is based on three things: the surrealist disorganization of Richard Brautigan's "Trout Fishing in America", the random-walk, "something-in-each-sentence-becomes-the-subject-of-the-next-sentence" trick that I picked up from a humor piece in National Lampoon decades ago, and of course, having the whole thing end exactly where it started.

 

Is anybody interested in starting a "Circular Trout" thread? We can all try our hands at it and maybe work together on a few big pieces? Yes? :D

 

These - :bow_flowers: - belong to Buffy. I only got onto this guy Brautigan by tracking down this new OR (Obscure Refernce) in Buffy's signature:

"In watermelon sugar the deeds were done and done again as my life is done in watermelon sugar."

 

Make a new thread if you care, or even carry it on as you will here where anything goes. I'll do my best to keep up with you hares. Tip o' my hat to you both on encouragin a turtle to a whim.

[DougF]

National Talk like a pirate day! ARRGH! (USA)

 

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