schplog

If there was one thing Freddy’s pony Cy couldn’t understand, it was how the pig could maintain such a high level of interest for such a range of things and yet still neglect his riding practice. Once the cowboy obsession ebbed and faded, and the Bean farm animals no longer armed themselves with false pistols and accosted travelers with a menacing “put ‘em up, stranger”, riding was somehow no longer as enthralling as it had been before.

It seemed to Cy that Freddy was always finding one excuse or another. The truth is that it wasn’t excuses at all, Freddy was just in one of his poetic periods where he felt more like writing poetry than he did solving crimes with Mrs Wiggins the cow or having dinner with Mr. Weezer in Centerboro or riding with Cy or catching grasshoppers while all the other animals laughed at him.

But Cy couldn’t know that. And ponies, being somewhat sensitive creatures, can be jealous. It seemed to Cy that there was only one way to get Freddy’s attention. As he remarked one afternoon to Peter the bear, “there’s nothing to get the notice of a pig like good old-fashioned guilt, wrapped in bad verse”. “I don’t know about that, but why don’t we try it out?” Peter suggested. So they put their heads together and had a go at it.

Cy said with a sigh
Oh come out of your sty
You’ve better fish to fry
Come play with old Cy

It’s a sign of the times
Which are surely a’changin’
That you’d rather read books
Than return to your rangin’

It’s a sign of the times
It’s the time of the sigh
Time to sigh when old Freddy
walks instead of riding with Cy

Oh he is a stubborn one
and it’s a conundrum
how he lets the time fly
without flying with Cy

Golly, said Cy with a sigh (with a sigh)
How he passes me by, oh my (oh my)
He may have lots of fish to fry (to fry)
But what about me, old Cy (old Cy)

Which is silly, Freddy pointed out later to Jinx the cat, though he applauded quite politely after the recital. “I wouldn’t eat a fish if you paid me. Why some of my friends are fish, and I wouldn’t even know how to go about catching one even if I did have a hankering to stop befriending them and start eating them.”

What kind of tea is especially dangerous for cats?

Curiosi-tea

Which knight of the round table was invariably so late leading the battle cry that he was regularly asked to pay an extra fee to the collective pot?

Sir Charge

My cousin Roberta made a holiday to the castle in the hopes of seeing the king and bringing him an offering of some eggs from the farm house. She had great anxiety that the king would not deign to receive such a lowly gift from a humble farm girl. She needn’t have worried. The king was so afraid of commoners bearing gifts that he had attempted to flee despite warnings from his advisors to stay — and actually turned into a pillar of salt, so she didn’t have to curtsy or converse with him at all.

Though she did deposit the eggs at the door, bow in his general direction and remark humbly that he seemed most egg-salted.

Which persimmon-based tea does one drink with the intention of attaining a slightly more lucid state of consciousness without necessarily liberating oneself too completely?

Perspicaci-tea

(just slightly more caffeinated than spirituali-tea)

If one were to more closely examine the blithe yet not unpleasing discussion of the increasingly pivotal role of the Egg within the postcolonial hegemony offered by Friedman et al, the infrastructural convivialities of which cannot be divulged at present but which shed something resembling luminescence, if you will, on the formerly predominant historiographical discourse on the topic at hand, it would gradually become clear that a great need and desire have emerged that justify the taking of a highly critical look at these original texts, which in and of itself has led to the promising proposal by lesser authors than this, and indeed the writer of this piece concurs that they are indeed lesser, that what is needed is nothing less than and nothing more than a close reading and interpretation of the textual nuances that have yet to be uncovered and unpacked.

What is in order is nothing short of an Eggs-egesis.

What a scandal it was when it turned out that the new all-vegan hair products for forest animals weren’t made in America, as advertised but actually in north Africa using local grains and foodstuffs.

There was succulent squirrel surprise scrub made mostly of nuts, which was okay. And hare hair gel jelly.

But what about moose mousse cous-cous??

My friends Jim and Nate are huge Drew Barrymore fans. Either one would do just about anything for her, including carry her over puddles, hold her shopping bags, stand in front of her so she could balance a novel on a sturdy shoulder, and so on. They would offer themselves up in a second to be her collectible collapsible ashtray if they only could.

Jim would hoist her bike on his shoulder and help her move houses. Nate dreams of being her personal assistant, just so he could lug around her books and scripts and hold her pen and offer it to her whenever she needed to sign something.

Jim imagines what it would be like to lift huge logs for her, gather her firewood, and hold onto the beams of a collapsing ceiling so that she could escape. Nate is more inclined to bring her clipboard and purse along to meetings and maybe bring in a tray of lattes.

It sounds crazy but one day they heard through a friend that Drew Barrymore was actually looking for a personal assistant. And get this — not one, but two personal assistants! Jim and Nate were jumping for joy although they were a little put out by all of her specifications. It seemed she was looking for people with theater background (not a mime) or at least someone who could do impressions and wouldn’t mind heavy lifting.

Both Nate and Jim are decent mimics, but Nate still realized that he wasn’t going to get the job.

Nate conceded. “Jim is just so much stronger than I am, even in his fantasies. It’s kind of ridiculous, but when it all comes down to it, I think he’s the one for the job. I mean, all that lifting. It would probably be too hard for me. Even if I get the job too, the best thing to do would just be to let JIM CARREY MORE!

p.s. if this post isn’t funny, please read the original one

What a pleasingly polite young lady she was.  Lived across from the country inn, she did. Always demurely casting her eyes down and she had the most pleasant — if shy — manner to her. I can’t think why she was always getting arrested.

That Miss Demeanor . . .

a high cuckoo clock

what was zen is zen, they say

but what about now?