Santa Fe

Okay, so tomorrow is the end of the world, and I was thinking about that, and a feeling hit me all sudden-like. It was a bit like a curve ball, only not so much a ball as a tree, at least in so much as the tree grows and it has leaves and sometimes an apple, or a pear, and maybe a Porsche. But seriously, I know that cars don’t grow on trees, unless maybe if it was in Pennsylvania, or at least three towns over from Anchorage, but let’s not dwell on that because the point is that honey-based BBQ does NOT go well with jalapenos. You need a more savory base for spice like that.

Any pickle knows a puppy doesn’t mug a mitten!

So, why in the Hell would anyone feed a lemon-flavored snow-cone to a kitten on a Thursday? I keep asking that and the pipes never do feed me an answer, or even a decent burger, at least not for under 15 pana. It just doesn’t make sense that far into the week, because little Muffin would only want to chase a ball up a smile and row on down the river, because that’s where uncle Ruben lives, or at least he did, back before his name was Laura.

You can only fit just so much love in a banana clip, or so I’m told.

But Uncle Laura tells me on a clear day you can see clear to the south mountains, or at least a good sonata, which is not to suggest that anyone really does love Raymond or hate Chris or even laugh at late night monologs unless they are full of jello. Because it really doesn’t pay to jiggle your belly when the fleet is in the Gulf and it’s got your whistle with it, blowin’ away at the hog-farmers from back home when they coulda just stuck a thumb out and got them some ham.

I mean seriously!

Some folks just don’t agree. They say things like; “you can’t” or “Tod-Swallow” or “that’ll be ten dollars,” which is okay really. To each his own, I say, or at least to each his neighbor’s, because that’s a lot more fun, so long as the wife ain’t involved on accounta big bossy books and seventh-day hollers. Only my neighbor’s wife is, well I’m not sure she has a wife really, and if she did I think I would just ask for a cup of sugar, because it’s well past time that I charged that battery. That, and it’s the polite thing to do.

Some people don’t understand these kinda things.

That’s why folks are just too bottle-browed. You come up and you say ‘hi’ and they just look at you all purple and such. So, you ask them for directions to Fresno or Winslow, and they make you stand in a corner. Which is really when the trouble starts if you stop to think about it.

All because of Julie!

She says you can’t pay a dime to a tulip, but I think she’s wrong really, because them things are always looking for an extra piece of the pie, even if that damned Julie doesn’t think so. She didn’t get past her first semester anyway. But there just ain’t much to be done about it really, because the river gets all fluffy in the morning and the fog sets in under your feet, so you can’t even have a doughnut with or without sprinkles. It’s just not allowed. The frizzle-master takes the order and he just gives you a pepper and shouts; “get the Hell out of here you, you damned Bug-gardener.”

Well pig my dog if I give a goat!

That man is rude.

I mean I ran, but a moment like that sticks with you, you know. Can’t really help but ruminate on it from time to time. Ruminate, Fumigate, either way your in for twenty bucks and the bad-hat doesn’t keep records. You just gotta give it to him on faith. Most times it works anyway, or at least it does for a guy out East of Houston. He eats daisies for breakfast every day on account of that fortune.

Now that’s a thought that goes boom!

It’s only because of that one time I was out with an apple and Fred and a good while and we couldn’t get any beer on account of damned clocks. And Barefoot Barbie comes out an dings the top of his car because he doesn’t even remember the shiny barrel, and we all just look at him sideways. Strangest damned thing I ever did see.

Makes me feel all somehow.