Again . . .  too long.


I'll offer no excuses.

Today was a virtual menagerie of wrecks, although ,

I was mercifully absent most of the day.


The natives were restless and found their way back to our village time and time again.

One particular group of little bastards came back five times today.
(and didn't buy a damn thing)

When I returned from my errands I saw the same familiar group of bikes in a

hodge-podge pile immediately in front of the door.


Stepping over them I entered the fishbowl (our tattered vestebule) and was assaulted

by the din of guitars screaming for mercy as 24 open strings were pummeled

by a quartet of dirty fists.  (makes me think of the goatse doughnut)






For those of you not familar with the term:

Consider yourself lucky and turn back now.


Or Not  . . .

























Sorry I got off track -  where was I? 


Oh yes - the bikes.  I breifly contemplated, as I passed the bulletin board,

grabbing a thumb tack and playing a little ditty in the key of Ab (you know 4 flats ;)

Instead I suggested to bryan that he hide their bikes somewhere.

Why does that make me think of the GOATSE again?

(as this involved him leaving the salesfloor, he quickly obliged)



What seems like an eternity later the first of the little fucks wandered out

and then immediately came running back.


"The bikes are gone!  The bikes are gone!" he wailed and gathered his droogs to him.

They rushed out and left me to enjoy a much needed if not well deserved break.

A night off?

Damn, I'm writing and there is still some natural light outside my high & tiny window.

I feel good. Na-na-Na-na -Na-na Nuh!

I needed a recharge - a day or two off, maybe 5 minutes of silence.

I think the campfire ilicits a certain comradery.  TRUE FACT.

Its orgins can be traced to the lynchings and burnings fo the salem witch trials.

The witch cake

At some point in February 1692, likely between the time when the afflictions began but before specific names were mentioned, a neighbor of Rev. Parris, Mary Sibly (aunt of the afflicted Mary Walcott), instructed John Indian, one of the minister's slaves, to make a "witch cake", using traditional English white magic to discover the identity of the witch who was afflicting the girls. The cake, made from rye meal and urine from the afflicted girls, was fed to a dog.

According to English folk understanding of how witches accomplished affliction, when the dog ate the cake, the witch herself would be hurt because invisible particles she had sent to afflict the girls remained in the girls' urine, and her cries of pain when the dog ate the cake would identify her as the witch. This superstition was based on the Cartesian "Doctrine of Effluvia", which posited that witches afflicted by the use of "venomous and malignant particles, that were ejected from the eye", according to the October 8, 1692 letter of Thomas Brattle, a contemporary critic of the trials.

TRUE FACT.


I enjoyed properly built S'mores for the first time and was pleasantly surprised.

Chocolate yes. . . but marshmallow?

Combine this with some lucid conversation and gnashing of teeth.

The secret I came to understand was a combination of passive heating of the

Cracker/Chocolate combination while full attention is paid to the preparation of the mello

The deeper secret I learned was to delay gratification and not dive in right away.

"Just tongue it a little",

& I did.

It was good.

How could it not be? It's Chocolate and Fire.








Some mega wrecks lately - I'll try to compose my thoughts and flay them soon.

That last 5% is always the hardest.

Contrary to populare belief I have not quit, died, or been beaten into submission.

I'm almost through a great trial - things are burning all around me.

I'm in agony . . . and I'm loving it.

I ask no sympathy.  Many things have changed in the recent past.

I'll tell the tale in good time - and there are many lashings long overdue.


I've sacrificed, so have you.

I've heard your wails of impatience & as impatience gives way to anger,

I'll lead you down the garden path and reassure you-

We'll be back on the journey shortly.

As promised, tonight I'll begin to spin a yarn so unbelievable that you'll know it's the truth.


That's the ting about truth - it smacks of wet leather and smells, well, honest.

I'll add just a little colour so as to insulate myself from the homicidal thoughts

it produces to recollect it.


Let me start back a few years when I was still living in OZ.

I've since relocated the fortress and my minions to Kansas and it suits me.

Number one thing about Kansas?  No neighbours.


This story only involves me at arms length.  It's really about my wife Dorothy and a

whirlwind of deciept, attempted theft and death, along with the lessons learned

by all parties involved.


The park near the emerald city was warm and eviting. 

Dorothy was wandering through the trails and amongst the singing flowers that fateful day.

Things had been going well for a few weeks and that should have been a warning.

Accompanying Dorothy was her favorite beast of the pride - a not so cowardly lion called Savage.

Savage was a bit of a misnomer as his growl served to keep stangers back far better

than his dull rounded teeth and sagging jowls.

At the park Savage met new people played with a ball and gorged on lion biscuits

shaped like zebras and fat pregnant nurses.

A fine walk concluded they exited the park and wandered to meat Doro's sister just across the way.

Everyone crouched and crowded around Savage and he was soaking up love as the sun set.

Without warning a shabbily dressed and grotesque fish beast and two crows

approached from the darkness.  A sweeping fin found its way into the lions mouth

and managed to hook her rags on a retained cub tooth left pointing back from his youth.


What happened next was a blur - the crows grabbed the fish beast by two fins

and proceeded to drag her backward ripping the rags further.  The older crow managed to grip the

fish's watch and pull it up her companions arm leaving a scratch similar to that left by a staple

protruding from a box of bulk chocolate (see my lunch for examples).


The whole situation seemed convienient if not preplanned. 

After the fact we came to know these people as the Plaintiffs.

The fishbeast was identified as Asstuna Palumbo - a local healthcare provider.

The Old Crow responsible for her injury was her mother.

The Second Crow was oddly absent in the continued campaign against Doro and Savage.


"Wah are we going to do about this?"  The fishbeast inquired.

Doro had a sneaking suspicion that the name of the game was PayOff, "Do you mean money?"

"But, of course" sayeth the Old crow "Don't you know who she is?"

"Should I?"  inquired Doro.

Crow 2 starts to say " her brother is. . . " and is promptly cut off by a stern look from Crow 1.

Doro wants to just go home and forget this whole siotuation so she throws out a small number
in the hopes that they'll just take the cash and go - no harm no foul,  "how about $100"

Crow 1 snorts in disapproval and looks both ways down the darkened street.
"Pitbull, Pitbull!" she cries knowing full well Savage's pedigree is more pure than her own.

When this summons nobody she pulls out her cell phone threateningly - "last chance"

Doro can clearly see a con in the making and does not budge in her offer.

Crow 1 dials 911 and turns up the mellodrama to 11.
"Help, my daughter has been attacked by a pitbull, she's bleeding everywhere!"
Continuing to play it up for sympathy she keep repeating that there's blood and her daughter
is injured, that she needs police sent immediatly.

You can imaging the officers suprise when they arrive on the scene and do not find a child mauled
by a violent pitbull, only a raggedy fish with a scratch and a young well mannered king of beasts.


It's not over yet . . . 

I've not told you about her brother "the lawyer" and the $300,000 they sued for.


Patience - it's a virtue - just ask the trap door spider.