June 6, 2008
The raid on São Paulo Charlie’s Drive-thru Sanatorium®
was a bit of a disaster. Father almost lost a frontal lobe
in a duel with an orderly, and Edna flat-out refused
to eat any of the vegetables.
Gone, but not forgotten: It’s true: I haven’t visited your sites in ages, I haven’t written, I haven’t called, I haven’t thanked you for your lovely write-ups… I’ve even missed a couple of birthdays. And dangitalltoHades if I don’t feel a wee bit guilty about it all.
I’ll get back to Teh Internet eventually. I swear. I’ve only got 3 gargantuan epics left to midwife, and 8914… 8913 heads to pickle.
Update: The incomparable Ms. Vita ages disgracefully on Sunday – do join me in a rousing chorus of Happy Birthday.
Quick, while she’s still got that hangover…
Updated Update: Aaaand… let’s belt out another verse (I know it’s Monday, but with feeling, okay?) for Dolce’s Evil Twin and Trailer Park Temptress: daisyfaaaae!
Happy Birthday(s), dears – long may the liquor flow, and the cakes continue to… crumble.
May 30, 2008
“Three Ds and a C”, Edgar mumbled, reluctantly
surrendering the Report Card. “Three Disinterments and a Cremation!”
exclaimed Father, dabbing his cheeks with a blindfold,
“Son, we may just get you that new bicycle after all!”.
May 23, 2008
“There’s a snekke blocking the driveway again,”
said Virgil, peeved, “Great Aunt Freygerd?”
“Third cousin Yngvar,” Edna grimaced, tossing him a helmet
and a hammer, “what – for the love of Stan – have you
done with my drinking skull?”
May 16, 2008
“The Carnival’s back in town”, said Mother, casually,
“you aren’t still upset about the thing with the bear, are you?”.
“Of course not” snapped father, “but I do hope your sister’s
brought her own beard trimmer this time”.
May 9, 2008
Edgar asked to be buried between Augie Podgórny
and the Feuerbachs. “You’ve got your snorkel and
a peppermint”, said Virgil, swatting a clod with his shovel,
“we’ll be back for you on Thursday”.
May 2, 2008
“Ain’tcha getting a little warm in that coat, Ma’am?”,
stammered the cowhand, pompadour glistening in the moonlight.
“I’m not going to bite, dear”, I whispered, flashing an incisor,
then drowned out his moans with a howl.
April 25, 2008
“Someone’s moved my sewing casket”, grumbled
Mother, descending into the parlour with a hisss.
“Mmmmph… mmmphmmm…mmmph” suggested Edgar
from behind the ornamental rhododendron.