Taking what life throws at me one pitch at a time
While foraging around he saw zip, zilch, nada. This gerbil in wonderland found nothing but scarcity. Living his life with a fork in a world of soup, His one find; a bottled aftershave labeled “Banshee”. Though intrigued, the furry little critter needed no pheromone smothering tincture. It would only prolong his amorous dry spell.
Reconciling my checkbook was an unpleasant sudoku puzzle back in the day. I would load up the hookah with organic caterpillar and smoke cipher woes away.
When I signed up for the Gladiator Pilates class I should have been more suspicious. From the teapot poised on a plank resting on cinder blocks in the middle of the classroom, to the velvet gloves issued to each participant; the question arose. Was this a union instructor or just a Visigoth scab. The dove on the teacher’s shirt was a dead give away. I asked for a refund immediately.
Our knowledge of space is pure speculation.
On the fringe stands The Eavesdrop Inn.
Best burger for light years.
Ingredients unknown
But their motto is:
To Serve Man
Little Debbie was a very fussy Scorpio, though she had some ways about her that weren’t quite right. Still the very thought of a public thriller of any sort made her gag. But the fact that the Tarantella Tombola was for a good cause made her climb on board for what became the ride of her life.
“haiku pebbles fall
like rain causing ripples
on upside down void”
Wonky, the orator goat
Stomped cloven hoof
Took a thespian bow
Went “Poof” ☁️
In the shabby hotel meeting room the marathon Chicken Poo Bingo Game ground into the next morning. A classic orange cult, head in the sand pastime. The prize being a bucket of Kentucky Fried. Leggs Eleven, the frantic mob boss, grabbed the Bingo number squatter by the ears shouting, “Said needed Two Fat Ladies!” he spat “Not Two Little Ducks!”
Ski Instructor: “You need to keep that Dodo wearing the lampshade at the bar and off of the slopes.”
Note to self: “No more ski trips with extinct flightless birds.”
The priesthood of the red robed Lobster cult in charge of the Inquisition said, “It wasn’t cruel to break someone on the wheel.” With a labyrinth of pious accusations and rationalizations they would soak the ground with the blood of the yellow robed Crab cult. This ushered in the rocking age of Blue Oyster cult.
Caught in a web of vendetta;
The fly knew more struggle.
More enwrapped.
This sort of spider wanted one recourse.
His narcissistic reflexology squeezed this way.
More dough for him and his.
Less for you and yours.
“Stay cool.”
Said the spider with a wheeze.
“It’s for your own good.”
A Scroll Threw Life 