If the evil insect rushing about overhead divebombs my glass of Oban things will get ugly. Oh, wait, it'll presumably be dead and drownt. So things must get ugly now. (Imagine clapping of hands, as if Yours Truly hears a distant and gleeful folk melody which inspires such maneuvering.) (sidenote: it is with minor sadness that I report Justin believes/knows that I have within my body a voice not so VH1-ready. This evidently evident post-drunk Chinese midget night of songs for a dollar.) And I am not, repeat, not, speaking of the insouciant and diabolical evangels next door fond of marathon praising the high powers to the beat of a drummer I'd like to send off to remedial drumming camp.
Implorement du jour.
O, high power, if there is indeed one, please let there be a remedial drumming camp and let it not only be far far away but require the inept and tireless drummer of next door to be enrolled and away for aeons.
Invited straycat Extra in for a dose of petting and conversation until he got carried away with night-addled claws beseeching spaces in my skin. And the nouveau primitif thing is as off the mark as Mr. Inept searching for a beat.
Hanging - in the proverbial time passing sense - is unfamiliar to me right now in the realm of the Middling City. More familiar with how to make & do in the Shiny Apple, it is a challenge here and now.
Despite the Republicans heading there soon soon soon.
Watched a moment of Kerry in '71, in uniform, in C-Span schedule, and glad to have done so to witness the historical doc in its state, not spun upon by spinners far and wide.
Fleet boat veracity or not, this choice is the better choice.
And, as my favoured wife beater states:
The only bush I trust is my own.

Bushels of Love.