Rayetta’s Birds - Class Aves, The Return of the GCW

Hmmm. Much remains to be done here at the CB. Yet I find myself tempted by foreign parts. Anon, the GCW shall wing its way north, but not, probably, to visit the CB. I shall have to journey a ways, by circuitous routes, to find the closest GCWs, all the way across Hwy. 290.

Hmmm. Historically a few GCWs have persisted north, behind a great structure, now housing a world class discount liquor store, but formerly housing an Academy store. Those Academy stores were formerly known as Academy Surplus, the most interesting stores in the southwest.

Hmmm. Those GCWs were always easier to hear than espy. They may not pose. Plus, they may not come back this Hope Remains to that location. I should send Crumby to check on those GCWs before I interrupt my busy schedule and go lugging a camera into foreign parts, all the way across Hwy. 290.

Crumby! Calling Crumby Ovate. Come to my office, Crumby Ovate. Yikes! There you are. How did you get here so fast?

I anticipate your every whim, Lovely Druidess.

That is good Crumby. Because I need you to scout across Hwy. 290. Find out, some time in the next three weeks, if those GCWs are back. You may need to make several trips.

OK Rayetta. I shall go.

And?

That is it. I shall go. I need to go anyway.

Well OK.

All righty then.
_____

Yes. Crumby may actually journey off from the relative safety of the CB. Not since Crumby rescued Ray from the clutches of the asshole Culwuch and his ephemeral giant cousin, Kai, has Crumby so set forth.

Why would Crumby need to go anyway? Why now?

Crumby - Turkey Time

A serious major pleasure of my life is that a gallinaceous bird (Class Aves) and a Eurasian country share the same name, Turkey. What a happy circumstance that is! Yet I would be even more pleasured, happy and satisfied if the vulgar shorthand, Turk, was magically deleted from the lexicon and Turkey substituted. Then, all the European histories would read, God defend us from the ferocity of the Turkeys.

These days, the Turkeys are afflicting our miserable Iraqi colony. How goofy is that? We have set up a colony for our own exploitation of the miserable Iraqis plus their resources, yet there the Turkeys are, occupying part of our colony and killing off the potential cheap laborers. Should not the US protect our miserable Iraqi subjects from the ferocity of the Turkeys? Jeez Louise!

Well, sadly, the truth is, our precious Kinglet is probably an honorary Turkey. So that explains why the ferocity of the Turkeys is hunt and peck-ariffic in beautiful Iraqi Kurdistan, the supposedly least miserable part of our miserable colony.

Yes sir. All these events in foreign parts make sense. But only if a person understands all about Turkeys.

Ray’s Thought for the Day - Stuck on 1.59"

This weather is making me really nervous. Outside, yet another dry norther howls. Yesterday, we set another new all time historic high temperature, 86.

Mercy! The upcoming Hope Remains may be too hot for man or beast. The dust shall blow. The teenagers and smokers shall set fire to the weed patches. Goddess help me.

My instincts cry out, flee Ray, flee. You must migrate, before it is too late. Yet I tarry, my flight instinct subdued by civil constraints.

Ray's Thought for the Day - Geum canadense versus Sanicula canadensis

Here they both are. Grown up from seed in the same bed as the birdbath. Yep. I put this seed out last year and here they both are. Besides these, there are a great many more, all in the birdbath bed. Now, neither me, nor my bosom companion, Crumby, shall ever forget which name goes with which plant.

And that’s good, because Mr. Nader has announced for Kinglet. Er. In the case of Mr. Nader, I should probably spell, President. I am now conflicted, having already determined to do the Obama Oh! Rama, Goddess Willing.

Dad gum it! I am surely glad I do not have to choose all the time. Like, I did not have to choose between Geum and Sanicula. I got both.

OK. I need to temporize my feelings. OK. Here is what I feel. I feel that Mr. Nader should get an important post, like head of the EPA or FDA or both. Yeah! Both! Mr Nader could easily be Czar or Tsar or Kaiser or Caeser of both those combined agencies. Plus, combining those agencies under Mr. Nader should reduce the size of the government by at least one person. That should please the Conserv-a-teeves who whine about the size of the government. Ha! More than those Conserv-a-teeves deserve, other than jail time.

But Mr. Nader, sadly, is too old for president. Let me see. Mr. Nader is actually barely older than Keating Five McCain, that famous buckaroo of the Savings and Loan Scandal. The Savings & Loan Scandal occurred back when Heck was a young dog. That was when Senator McCain learned all the economics he needed to stay out of jail, unlike several other prominent Arizona Republicans, then and now.

Mr. Nader is even older than Senator McCain. Dang it! I have already publicly stated that Senator McCain is liable to peg out, anon, on account of his advanced years. So I can not very well claim that Mr. Nader is less apt to peg out than Senator McCain. Nope. Due to the elderly factor, this time I shall stick with the Obama Oh! Rama. Besides, Mr. Nader will not make it on to the ballot in these parts.

But, if Senator Obama seriously pisses me off, or if Senator Clinton gets the hemi-nod, I can write in Ralph Nader. That would make three Nader’s, fer me. All righty then.

*Electropictoid credit: Mr. C.H.T. Ovate

Ray's Thought for the Day - The Daffodil

It was my turn to use Rayetta’s camera. Hard pressed to find a subject, I chose a daffodil because the CB has daffodils, and had no electropictoids of those daffodils. On daffodils, the distance from the front of the corolla tube to the sepals or tepals or whatever you want to call them is two centimeters or a little better. So depth of field, getting the front of the corolla tube and the whatevers in focus simultaneously, but still getting yourself a closeup might be hard for a person like me.

Purely by chance I got to use Rayetta’s 70-300mm because that was the lens on the camera and Rayetta will not allow me to change lenses by myself. So desiring a closeup with the entire inflorescence in focus, I backed off a ways. Seizing a 3- gallon bucket I set the camera on that. Then, utilizing Live Mode A, I focused on a likely daffodil, this daffodil. This daffodil is surprisingly, pretty much all in focus.

But now I want a bean bag. If I had a simple bean bag I could sit it on the 3-gallon. Then I could set the camera on the bean bag. That combination, 3-gallon plus bean bag, would surely provide a rock solid platform.

Now I am fretting over what variety of bean to use in the bean bag. I can not bring myself to waste a delicious bean, like the pinto, on a beanbag. No sir. I need a bean variety that I would be unlikely to empty out of my bean bag and consume in a pinch. There are a couple of bean varieties that I would be unlikely to consume even if I was starving, limas for sure and those nasty little white ones. Those nasty little white ones may be called navy beans. Uhg! I bet navy beans are the ideal bean bag bean, nearly inedible, and with a low surface to volume ratio.

OK. I have decided on my bean bag bean variety. Now I need to fret over the bag. But no more fretting for the nonce. It is time for my delicious cinnamon bun. Two weeks to the day have elapsed since I had my last delicious cinnamon bun. Once I eat up my delicious cinnamon bun, I shall resume fretting over the bag.

Ray's Thought for the Day - Chuck (Chubby) Wubby, or Who Said What, First

Do an internet search on Chubby Wubby. You will find Chubby Wubby. But not, I don’t think, Chuck Chubby Wubby. However, I am not sure that there is not another Chuck Chubby Wubby out there somewhere, in addition to my Chuck Chubby Wubby.

Which means, if I quote my Chuck Chubby Wubby, who is, by the way, an imaginary friend, I could be plagiarizing somebody else who also has an imaginary friend named Chuck Chubby Wubby. That Chuck Chubby Wubby might have said the very same thing I heard my Chuck Chubby Wubby say.

Oddly enough, my Chuck Chubby Wubby is in no way chubby. He is stick thin and black. That is what some call irony, especially the Chuck part. But, that being stated, it gives me a way out in case I get into a plagiarism dispute. There may be other Chuck Chubby Wubbys on our little globe, but I bet none of them are thin and black like my Chuck Chubby Wubby.

Does anyone know who first uttered, “Chubby Wubby”? Does anyone know who first cried out, “Friends, Romans, Countrymen, lend me a dollar.”? I bet it was not Mark Antony in either case. But who was it?

Yet plagiarism is bad. Plagiarism is very bad. Plagiarism is a sin distal to lying. But is plagiarism any worse than the Boy Scouts? Let me bring in my bosom companion, Crumby, to answer that question. Crumby, finish up my thought for the day.

Thanks Ray. Long have I fretted over my wicked past which included a stint as a Boy Scout. Not only was I a Boy Scout, before that, I was a Cub Scout. I even had uniforms representative of both those organizations minus the pants. I can not remember why I never got pants.

But to answer your question Ray, bosom companion, plagiarism is worse on the one hand because plagiarism may be construed as part and parcel of a criminal offense. Also, a plagiarist may get kicked out of college. But on the other hand, Boy Scouts is worse because Boy Scouts are not scouts. Not once during my stint as a Boy Scout did I ever get to scout anything. Not once! No. Somebody else did all the scouting and I had to go along after the fact with the rest of the troop. None of the rest of the troop got to do any scouting either. We were all just trooping along following some path that had already been scouted, possibly by the scout master.

On and on I journeyed, eating the dust of the real scout up ahead, out of sight, not knowing whither I was being led. Nobody else in my troop, or before that, my pack, knew where they were headed either. On and on I journeyed.

Then one day I achieved the rank of First Class Boy Scout. If memory serves, I had to tie a square knot with witnesses present before I got that particular rank. Then there was something about semaphore. Nobody in my troop actually knew how to perform semaphore, much less read it. So we agreed that semaphore was a personal interpretive skill, an art, like interpretive dance or finger painting. Yep. Energetic flag waving is really easy to publicly witness when the waver and the receiver do not know any semaphore and neither do any of the public witnesses.

What’s Dennis waving?

S-U-C-K —M-Y

Whoa! I have always regretted not actually learning semaphore. Many a time, out on the lone prairie, I have longed for the long distance companionship only the semaphore could provide. I waved and waved, yet no one understood me.

But getting back to your actual question Ray, which is worse, plagiarism or Boy Scouts. Based on my experience, they tie. For example, in sixth grade I plagiarized a World Book Encyclopedia article. If I remember correctly, the article was about either the Pilgrims or corn. The document I produced for sixth grade closely reflected that World Book Encyclopedia article on the Pilgrims or corn. I have felt guilty about that ever since. But I have felt equally guilty about semaphore. So they tie.

Hold it! No they don’t tie. The Boy Scouts are worse, because Boy Scouts are not scouts.

Hold it! Yes, they do tie. In the Boys Scouts you get to learn how to tie knots on the plumbing fixtures and water pipes in the church basement. So that is a mitigating circumstance for the Boy Scouts that gets them back into a tie with plagiarism.

Rayetta's Birds - The Yellow-bellied Sapsucker (Sphyrapicus varius), Class Aves

Here is depicted the CB’s y-b sapsucker, winter visitor, in the surviving cypress. The surviving cypress may not survive much longer unless it gets some irrigation. Crumby needs to irrigate that survivor lest it die like the other one died.

As everyone knows, Ray and me are orphans. Eventually we were rescued from our wandering orphan state and transformed into child laborers. Rarely, during our time as child laborers, we were allowed TV breaks. Those TV breaks were a special treat not only because TV was a fairly new media, but because Dr. Swineherd always picked out the best educational programs for us to watch.

Watching TV is how I first learned about ornithologists and the y-b sapsucker. The show was a comedy, featuring a professional photographer and his ornithologist assistant. Naturally, the ornithologist assistant was a tall, skinny lady with glasses, oddly dressed. But she was, when off from wage slavery at the photo studio, generally on the hunt for the elusive y-b sapsucker.

After we watched the show, Dr. Swineherd required Ray and me to explain what we learned. Ray went first. Ray explained that skinny old lady ornithologists seeking
y-b sapsuckers are a goofy hoot. That was the wrong explanation. That explanation cost Ray a month of popsickles.

I explained that I would like to go to the library and learn about the y-b sapsuckers and lady ornithologists. That was the correct explanation. I got Ray’s popsickles plus time off from child labor to go to the library. There is nothing quite like a good Druid education.

Ray's Thought for the Day - Obama Oh! Rama

Correct. Obama rhymes with Oh! Rama, a sufficent qualification to get my vote. I shall vote for Obama in the hemi-Kinglet upcoming, fer sure, unless something happens between now and the hemi-upcoming to change my mind, incapacitate me, or kill me. The same goes for the general Kinglet upcoming.

Many might surmise that a name rhyme should not determine a vote. But it shall, Goddess Willing. So there is no need for me to go to the debate. I have already decided. All the dang debate might do is confuse me or cause me to go into a Hamlet like state. Can not have that this late in the game.

Maybe, there shall be a new dance craze. That dance craze would naturally be characterized as the Obama Oh! Rama. All righty. Do the Obama Oh! Rama.

Ray's Thought for the Day - The Rising Cost of Beer

The cost of beer in these parts is going up. I don’t know why. Anon, the cost shall rise again. I don’t know why. But something needs to be done. Somebody needs to take some action.

The dang government, or the free market or the dang beer capitalists, or whoever is in charge, needs to reverse this dangerous situation. That is because in times of misery, people need downers more than ever. Beer is a historically and usually legal, cheap downer. Beer is the people’s downer. Yet, if the price keeps on skyrocketing, the people won’t be able to afford their beer.

The fact is, with misery fixing to increase, the people need plenty of cheap beer. That’s why, though I don’t know why the beer price is rising, I feel like the dang government needs to cease the beer tax overnight. Then the dang government needs to subsidize the beer capitalists. Those two actions should bring down the price of beer a lot. I bet those two actions would get the price of beer down to a nickel a pint. A nickel a pint is about the right affordable price for counterbalancing the upcoming misery or miserable conditions the average Americano is fixing to endure. But with the price of beer at a nickel a pint that misery shall be endurable.

Many don’t like beer or require some other downer because they are allergic or whatever. Yet those poor souls are just as liable to be afflicted by the upcoming misery as the beer drinkers. So to be fair, something needs to be done for the non-beer drinking miserable minority. They need cheap downer alternatives to beer. Otherwise, the upcoming situation could get dangerous despite nickel a pint beer.

That’s right. The dang government needs to subsidize the downer industry in general, cease taxing the bejesus out of that industry, legalize parts of it, and maybe provide a potential responsible entrepreneur like me with a start up grant. With a little help from the government, a relatively tiny infusion of capital, I could go into the downer business and maybe save many from the upcoming misery. Now that would be a great expenditure of your tax dollars. All righty then.

Crumby - Am I the Proudest I have ever been of America?

Yeah. Maybe. But my pride in America level pretty much stays the same all the time anyway. It may be up a tiny notch this morning, yet, that is hard to determine, quantitatively.

Interestingly, Mrs. Obama has suggested that pride in America may vary from time to time, place to place, person to person. This odd notion shall undoubtedly rile many who feel that pride in America is a constant, much like common sense. You either have it, or you don’t.

Did you know that pride is a sin? Well, pride, according to many, is a sin. I am not sure. Self pride of the overweening variety may be the worst of the pride sins. General America pride may be less of a sin, since the general America, qualification, spreads the sin around.

Oh my Goddess! Let me list all the items I am proud of America for. Merciful heavens, there are too many. But one of them is, unlike Mrs. Obama, I pass for white. So that gives me a big advantage with all those Americanos who believe that pride is a constant. If I chose to do so, I could easily pass as one of those incredible emotive intellects possessed of common sense. No doubt, in the past tense, I have done so frequently, maybe.

Yes. I am proud that in America, I pass for white. If I was taller and fairer, I would be even more white. But I pass. Passing has gotten me places I could not have gone, otherwise. Like for example, I bet I could never have gotten hardly any of the various lousy jobs I have labored at, if I had not passed for white. That is mostly because, other than passing for white, I was unqualified for, uninterested in, and had no aptitude for, those lousy jobs. Yet passing for white, saved me. I guess, my supervisors thought I was just joking around on those jobs.

Well, he’s white, aint he?

Good Goddess! Anyway, Mrs. Obama is right on, all righty then. I can easily espy, that from her present perspective, that she is the proudest she has ever been of America. Hope that lasts.

Rayetta Likes to Skip Ahead

Crumby, I have to ask, is Magnus fixing to stay at the WG Bar and Grill, forever?

Course not Rayetta.

Well, when is he finally fixing to get out of there? You know Crumby, Magnus is supposed to be off having adventures with Twrch Trwyth by now. Yet he is still a busboy. The fact is, he is an incapacitated busboy. You need to spell that Magnus is off having adventures with his super pig. But now, the pig has gone off on an adventure without Magnus. Jeez Louise!

Busboy is honorable work Rayetta. I think Magnus is doing honorable work. Also, he is hanging around in the hope that someday soon he shall spark the interest of the beautiful Blodeuwedd. Magnus is enraptured.

Hmmm. Crumby, as you know yourself, a busboy has no hope in that regard.

Course I know that, Rayetta.

Then why is Magnus still hanging around?

He is enraptured. Plus, he is stupid on account of his enraptured condition. Look Rayetta, this is the kind of artistic information that only a real he man can understand. Magnus is the ultimate tragic figure, both hopeless and stupid. But I promise you, anon, Maguns shall get over both the hopelessness and stupidity of his present condition. I know he will.

Well, hurry up.

Magnus the Busboy, Part 12

The WG, ensconced in her boudoire, sensed that something was amiss. I better go check the Lady’s Comfort Station. So She did. Mercy! The WG had never seen such a mess, not only Magnus, but a besotted elderly Druid occupied the Lady’s. The place was a mess. It was indescribable.

Can’t an old lady, burdened with all the cares of the globe, rest up for a minute?, thought the WG. Land Sakes Alive! Here is a crime against nature, right under my nose. Twrch Trwyth, She hollered, let none depart. Evil has been done right under my nose. We shall have to root it out.

The mighty pig sauntered toward the crack.

The WG herself toted Magnus to his own little bed in the indoor sty that Magnus shared with Twrch Trwyth. Cerridwen doctored Magnus up. There now, Magnus, you shall be almost your old self in no time.

What happened?

Never mind that now Magnus. Rest your weary noggin. Go to sleep.

Magnus went to sleep.

Meantime, Twrch Trwyth, had ensconced himself before the crack facing indoors. Nothing, once Twrch Trwyth was ensconced on that spot, in the posture he assumed, could get past him. Not even King Arthur, escorted by three fifties of his braver knights, could get past Twrch Trwyth, even if they had been present at the WG Bar and Grill that night.

Near panic ensued among the paying customers. All the paying customers plus the elderly Druids sensed that somewhat was amiss, but none knew whatever of that somewhat. Even the besotted elderly Druid, first on the crime scene, knew not whatever.

Cerridwen, once She got Magnus doctored up and tucked into his own little bed, wearily made Her way to the Dining and Gaming Area. The place was a mess. All the tables needed busing. The elderly Druids sat besotted at their table, four heads lolling. The regular paying customers eyed Twrch Trwyth nervously. What’s coming down?, they all wondered. Are we fixing to get busted?

Cerridwen allowed Herself to grow quite a bit bigger. Then, assuming Her spelling voice, She spelled: The bar is closed. Twrch Trwyth shall see that no one sneaks out the front crack until I get all this sorted out. While I am sorting all this out, everyone shall enjoy a nice big bowl of creamed corn. Daughter, Grand Daughter, fetch everyone a nice big bowl of creamed corn. Oh! And since we are short handed, minus Magnus, I shall bus tables, myself. Won’t that be nice. I shall have the opportunity to visit with each of My paying customers, and potential paying customers, individually. By the way, the delicious creamed corn is on the house. I the WG, expect that every one of you, paying and potential paying customers alike, shall clean your bowl of creamed corn. Waste not, want not.

Now, where is the wheelbarrow?

It’s behind the feed trough, Granny.

Yes. So it is. I shall have this joint spiffy in a jiffy. Plus, the truth shall come out. Oh yes. The truth, shall come out.

There are some food items that a normal person might normally eschew. One of those food items might be creamed corn. Magnus, for example, avoided partaking of the creamed corn whenever possible or practical. So in a way, Magnus was already lucky. Getting assaulted saved him from the creamed corn.

But everyone else present, with the exception of the Triplet Goddess and Twrch Trwyth, had to face down a larruping big bowl of creamed corn. Many have speculated, Is creamed corn, better, if I am drunk? Or, is creamed corn better, if I am sober? Or, maybe I should enjoy a joint appetizer, first. Many have also speculated, What condiments might I add to this creamed corn, for the sake of toothsomeness, gum-ly-ness, or general edibility. There is salt. There is vinegar. There is pepper. There are the various Solanaceous extracts, including ketchup. There is, more, sugar. Or, for the serious sweet tooth, there is, molasses. Good Goddess! I must be careful what I do to my larruping big bowl of creamed corn, considering I must eat it all.

On the other hand, a normal person may be generally normal, but short a toofer or two. Creamed corn is friendly to the toofer short. Also, a normal person, perhaps wearied by life’s travails, or starving, and not fretful over the consistency of the repast, might spoon up a bowl of creamed corn with much satisfied smacking. Yes. Taking a cross section of the generally normal populace, one discovers a gamut of reactions to creamed corn.

The WG wheeled Her barrow from this table to that table. Hold up your bowls of creamed corn, on high!

The patrons at that table obliged. Then, once the creamed corn bowls were held on high, the WG, employing her big left arm, swiped the major and unfixed detritus off that table into the wheel barrow. Then, employing her big right arm, She swiped up the rest of the detritus, the fixed detritus, with Her magical dish cloth.

That particular dish cloth is, like many of the WG’s personal items, noteworthy for interesting characteristics. It never wears out. It releases any sticky detritus it picks up, on command from the WG, into the wheelbarrow. Consequently, it is never dirty for long. It is only intermittently, dirty. It may be employed, on a great many nasty surfaces, not just tables. For example, the WG had only recently used it to wipe Magnus down. Yet, by the time She wiped up the first table, Her dishcloth was perfectly sanitary. Not one molecule of Magnus juice was on that dishcloth when the WG wiped up that first table. Then also, it dries itself up, on the WG’s command. So, She does not have to carry around a wet dish cloth in Her apron pocket.

Her apron, by the way, is also noteworthy for interesting characteristics. That apron pocket, for example, is marvelously capacious. When Twrch Trwyth was a piglet, or more properly speaking, a shoat, the WG sometimes toted him around in that pocket, even outside. So basically, any size object there is, fits in that pocket.

Once Cerridwen, the senior most of the WG had the first table wiped up, She commanded, Keep seated paying customers, enjoy your creamed corn. Once I get all the tables bused and wiped, I shall return. Then we shall enjoy a nice interrogation. All righty then. If any of you require a trip to the comfort station, you may go once nature calls. But police yourself. All righty then.

None of those paying customers were innocent. They were all guilty of something or other. Consequently, everyone of those paying customers had a guilty conscience. Yes. They were all evil doers, one way or another. So even the evil doers that actually liked the creamed corn, had a hard time enjoying themselves.

Ray’s Actual Rainfall Update - Day 58, DY 2 - Pick and Shovel

The new total is: 0.99" + 0.60" = 1.59".

Yesterday, after I stopped thinking and started doing, or fixed to start doing, lots happened. I was directly included in much of the happenings and not merely a thinking spectator. But before I spell about all those happenings I need to mention that my cinnamon bun vendor went AWOL yesterday leaving me with no choice but to do without. However, the excellence of the mustard greens may eventually off balance that woe.

The rain that fell yesterday, fell intermittently. In between the downpours, I dug another hole. Lately, I have dug a tousand or maybe two tousand holes. Most of those holes were dug for the purpose of getting something out of the hole, but this one was dug to put something in the hole. Can’t get it in, can’t get it out. Got to get it in, but you can’t get it out.

Er. Come to think of it, lately, I have also filled a tousand or maybe two tousand holes, if pots count as holes, which they do.

No matter how much a person like me operates a shovel, not to mention a pick, a part of me never gets use to the work. That part is my lower back. My lower back never gets entirely comfortable with pick and shovel work. The fact is, my lower back wants to quit on the shovel or pick way before the rest of me. If my lower back was entirely in charge of me, few holes would ever get dug or filled.

Yet, holes are generally interesting. No two holes are exactly the same. Consequently, I enjoy investigating a good hole. That hole yesterday, for example, had clay, rocks and a few tree roots in it. But it was an easy hole to dig, anyway, thanks to the intermittent downpours. My methodology was, dig down a ways until the going got too hard, or my back gave out, then excavate all that material out of the hole, go through the excavated material looking for arrowheads, grubs and such, then wait for the next downpour to soften up the next most lower bunch of the clay dirt and rocks.

Lucky for me, I had plenty of time to dig that particular hole. Plus, those intermittent downpours helped a lot. Probably the Blessed WG arranged the timing of those downpours Herself, just to help me.

These days, I deserve help with the holes. Old Math ap Mathonwy has dug no more than me.

Ray’s Rainfall Update - Day 57, DY 2 - The Ogham of Dillus

Hold it! Dang!

Later

I am OK. Just had my T-shirt on backwards. Now it is fixed. But that particular T-shirt scared the bejesus out of me. I thought I was choking.

A little rain has set in. So far, the gauge has collected 0.23". But I am not fixing to calculate the update just yet. No. I shall wait a while, in case some more rain winds up in the gauge. Anyway, for sure, the CB now has received over an inch of rain during the course of DY 2, a milestone.

In the good old days, when Heck was a pup, milestones were erected on all the busy byways. Alert travelers who could cipher, kept track of all the milestones they espied as they traveled along. Many of those ancient travelers pulled handcarts laden with all their worldly possessions. Like maybe those ancient travelers had a chest-o-drawers, or chest-er drawers, loaded on the cart containing clean underwear. If the weather was hot, pulling a handcart along would obviously indicate frequent undear changes as a precaution against inner thing chafing events.

I have reached milestone four. Time to change my undears. Yes. My own ancestor, Dillus the Bearded, uttered that very comment on one of his famous journeys. How do I know that? Well, Dillus, left an Ogham stick at the four milestone. My sister, Rayetta, does archaeology as a hobby, and Rayetta actually recovered Dillus’ Ogham stick on a dig in those parts. Now we have that stick in the CB museum. The stick, translated into English, reads, Dillus switched undears here, plus the date. Unfortunately, the date is not entirely legible. Rayetta thinks maybe a beaver gnawed on the date Oghams.

Yet, despite that beaver, we know from a contemporaneous account; Dillus was in those parts at around that time. That contemporaneous account comes from Kai. The very same Kai that my bosom companion, Crumby, slew outright over in the detention basin back in early Polar Bear of DY 1. Recall that Kai’s head talked. Kai’s head told Crumby and me that he saw Dillus stick an Ogham stick in the ground at four milestone. That very night, while Dillus was sleeping off his supper, Kai sneaked up on Dillus and slew Dillus outright. So we know that Ogham stick we have in the museum is the genuine article.

Crumby waited to tell Rayetta about the contemporaneous account until she got home from shopping. That was pretty smart because otherwise, Rayetta would have been really aggravated with Crumby for auctioning off a talking head in the backyard. As it turned out though, Rayetta was so happy with the contemporaneous account, confirming her archaeological evidence, that she completely forgave Crumby.

Get Me to a Quick Lube!!!!

Here I am, perched upon the bench in front of the Quick Lube. See, the Quick Lube flags are flying. Interestingly, those flags are designed to be read from one direction only, the direction facing Manchaca. But a smart boy like me can read in reverse. So I know those flags spell, Quick Lube.

Quick Lube is quick, but still, Quick Lube provides comfortable seating for paying customers awaiting quick lubes or other services. A paying customer like me may not want to stand up while being serviced, especially while awaiting completion of the Oddessga amdda inspection sticker. So there is the option to sit. This electropictoid captures the outdoor seating, except of course, the bench I am on. The bench I am on is outside the view, west, of this electropictoid.

Inside, there is another seating area. On the door is a sign spelled Waiting Room. Inside the Waiting Room, there is free coffee, free water, today’s paper, and some magazines. Right next to the Waiting Room is a comfort station. Today, I had both the inside and outside seating areas to myself. Though I drank up a cup of free coffee, I did not go to the comfort station. I did not need to go. That is how quick the service was.

Actually, Get Me to a Quick Lube, used to be the official slogan of Quick Lube. But not anymore. I don’t know what the new slogan is, but it is not, Get Me to a Quick Lube.

I really love that old slogan. Back when that slogan first hit the airwaves, I thought to myself, that slogan has all sorts of potential applications. In fact, every time I was fixing to take a metaphorical uttba uckingfa, I used to always implore myself, Get Me to a Quick Lube.

Sometimes, in those bygone situations, I would sing the little tune that goes along with the slogan, out loud. So Mr. Mammon, you want me to rewrite a few sections of the report, deleting any factual references. Tra-la. Get Me to a Quick Lube.

Magnus the Busboy, Part 11

Part 11

Magnus opened the Lady’s portal just a tad. Is the Lady’s occupied?

Yes.

Uh. Do you require any tp. Rumor has it you may be out of tp. If you are out I can roll you some over.

I have my own. Go away.

Dern it! Magnus knew policing the comfort stations would turn complicated.

Uh. Ms. Blodeuwedd told me I need to stock some tp in here and make sure the seats are all dry. I need to do all that as efficiently as possible. You see, I am putting this sign out front of the Lady’s here which signifies no admittance while I am policing it up. Then I need to get back to my wheelbarrow. Are you making good progress, Maam. Do you need anything?

Magnus! Is that you Magnus?

Yes Maam.

Magnus, I am taking a dump. I have my own tp. If you know what’s good for you, you shall leave me be.

Yeah but maybe I could just roll these tps over to you and when you are finished you could put them in the dispensers. Then maybe you could do a quick check of the seats to make sure nobody got in there and peed on the seats. OK.

Well that is it. Magnus you have stove me up. All righty then, Magnus. Come on in. I am done for now.

Uh. You are sure it is all right Maam.

Sure Magnus. Come on in. I am all done.

Magnus hastened through the Lady’s Portal.

Uh oh. A lady giant. Uh oh.

Yes. Magnus had accidentally, through no fault of his own, pissed off the wrong lady giant. This particular lady giant that Magnus pissed off is the great grand daughter of Gog and Magog. She goes by the name, Gogette.

Gogette is about the worst lady giant an unlucky young man like Magnus could accidentally piss off or rile up. That’s because Gogette is a famous lady giant wrestler and stunt person. Gogette even wrestles bears and gorillas simultaneously. In fact, she was fixing to go wrestle two bears and two gorillas once she finished her ablution. And it was Magnus’s fault that Gogette was stove up.

Yes. The thought of wrestling twain bears and gorillas, stove up, while attired only in her skimpy Spandex wrestling outfit infuriated Gogette. In fact, Gogette never performed unless she had enjoyed a good ablution before the show. She even had that in her contract; no ablution, no show. And now Magnus, had potentially cost Gogette, a gig. She was furious.

Gogette did terrible things to Magnus that night in the Lady’s Comfort Station of the WG Bar and Grill. Fortunately, Magnus was conked out for most of that terrible time. If he had been conscious, he would not have been able to endure the pain, and the shame, subsequently.

Many wonder why, considering the provocation, Gogette did not slay Magnus outright. Well, perhaps the fear of Twrch Trwyth, sated her blood lust. For anon, the alert bouncer pig espied Gogette as that lady giant squeezed herself out through the front crack as surreptitiously as is possible for one of her great mass.

Time passed. Progress slowed. That is because the tables were not getting bussed. Where is that Magnus?, everyone wanted to know.

Rayetta’s Grackle (Class Aves) Practice

If eventually, one is ever to do anything fairly well, one must practice, some. Therefore, I am practicing on the grackles (Class Aves). The innate advantages of grackles for practice are many. Some of these advantages are, large size, and, bright conspicuous eyes, and, there are more innate advantages, maybe.

Wild Grackle at the CB Bird Bath

Hmmm. Over at the various restaurant and shopping area parking lots, those grackles are much tamer. Tamer is a major innate advantage. The CB grackles, by comparison, are wild, heathen savages. So I am contemplating, Should I move my grackle practice sessions to the restaurant and shopping area parking lots?

Here’s my plan. Someday we may have some left over grits. I shall have Crumby chop those grits up into bite sized tidbits. Then I shall make Crumby fry them up in bacon grease. Such a treat should attract scores of parking lot grackles. Once I have the leftover grits fried up, all I have to do is bag them, drive over to a restaurant or grocery store parking lot, toss them out the great vehicle window and wait. Then, utilizing my great vehicle as a blind, I shall practice to my heart’s content.

But Rayetta. Remember how those grackles like to come into the house during Hope Remains, the season. Hope Remains, the season, is not far off. Anon, those grackles shall be marching into the house just like they did last Hope Remains, the season. Once that happens, I shall capture those grackles. Then you can practice on the captured grackles. Yep. You can take pictures of me, holding those grackles captive. I bet, due to the horrific climatic conditions anticipated during this upcoming Hope Remains, the season, lots more grackles shall come into the house than ever before, seeking both our precious water and the pet food. How about that, Rayetta?

Crumby, you often spell, Patience is no virtue. In fact, you hold the opinion, that patience is for ignoramuses. So why should I wait around until Hope Remains, the season, to practice on the grackles? As a matter of fact, I lack the patience.

Uh! Yeah but, Rayetta, I could hold the captive grackles real close to the camera. Those grackles like to be handled once you hold them captive and they get used to me holding them. Think about that Rayetta. The only issue is, we may need a new lens for your camera to do all that . Like maybe the 14-54mm. Yes Maam. That is the very lens I would recommend for captive grackle practice indoors. Why Rayetta, you could also get a bounce gizmo for your flash. Merciful Heavens, the pictures we could take given all that equipment would be astounding. Why Rayetta, we twain could become the greatest grackle photographers, ever.

Crumby! Calm down. The only reason I am taking pictures of grackles in the first place is because they are birds, Class Aves. And the second reason I am taking pictures of grackles in the first place is also because they are easy stand-ins for the rest of the birds, Class Aves. I am definitely not fixing to purchase a bunch of new, expensive equipment so you can mug in front of the camera with hand held grackles. That is out.

You are not making sense Rayetta. Why not practice on easy, hand held grackles. No kidding! I shall capture those grackles easily. Well, maybe not easily. But I shall capture them. Think of the opportunities Rayetta.

No Crumby. No. I shall pursue my plan, not yours. If, perchance, you do actually capture some grackles during the upcoming Hope Remains, the season, then maybe I shall take your picture with your captured grackles or grackle. But I shall utilize the available equipment. If we need to go outside, with your captured grackle or grackles, so be it.

OK Rayetta. That is a fair compromise. Can I go with you to the restaurant or grocery store parking lot? I can help. Right?

Sure Crumby. You can be in charge of the grit sack.

All righty then!!!!

Ray's Thought for the Day - Panicked Cowards Flush Constitution

Yes. My thought for today is, panicked cowards flush constitution. That’s right. The panicked cowards flushed the constitution down the toilet.

What better way to cover up crimes, than to get shut of the law that regulates the crimes? Call 911? Why? It is too late. The panicked cowards have skedaddled, almost.

Shall justice be served upon the panicked cowards, post upcoming? Probably not. US shall instead, either enjoy another healing process as ballyhooed by our media, both leeber-al, and conserv-a-teeve. Or, US shall continue making progress, similar to the previous progress. Either way, the panicked cowards shall go Scot free.

At this very nonce, the panicked cowards have ordered tractor trailers backed up to the front doors of the federal agencies. Minions are busy looting what is left and flushing more paper, less grandiose paper, than the Constitution.

Yep. That was my thought this morning. Tonight, I am feeling more optimistic. I don’t know why. But I am feeling more optimistic. Maybe that is because I can actually listen to a Kinglet candidate speak, without sniggering and promptly turning off the TV. To be honest, I can not remember that happy circumstance, any time, since maybe Ike on a good day.

Magnus the Busboy, Part 10

Part 10

For a time, the know-it-all elderly Druids busied themselves critiquing Arianrhod’s Checklist of the Flora and Fauna of These Parts.

Here that pig is. Common name, Twrch Trwyth. Scientific name, Sus gigantica ephemeranus. Er. That young lady may be correct. According to the scientific name, that particular kind of pig may wax and wane, size wise. Still, I would have to see it to believe it. Me too. Correct. Big as four double wides. Ha!

Yes. The elderly Druids had to check the contents of the checklist against their personal observations. Plus, they needed to make sure Arianrhod’s synonymy jived with their synonymy. All this took awhile.

Meantime, the beautiful Blodeuwedd hovered nearby, in case the elderly Druids required libation restoration. Which they all did, a lot. Going over a new checklist is thirsty work. Also, since Blodeuwedd had previously provided the elderly Druids with an identification opinion regarding Twrch Trwyth, they now viewed Blodeuwedd as something of a local expert.

Are you sure this is correct young lady? An elderly Druid indicated a series of potential taxonomic errors within the genus Hymenocallis.

You need to ask my Mama. My Mama did the checklist. But my Mama is busy right now. Can I take your orders, please?

Yet the orders were not immediately forthcoming. In fact, the elderly Druids were so involved with their complimentary checklists that they had paid scant attention to the menus. Plus, they had guzzled up so much Silver Dollar Mead, old bladders notwithstanding, that a trail had been beat to the comfort stations.

Young lady, that comfort station is out of tp. We need some tp in the Lady’s.

Meantime, Magnus contentedly dumped out a load of leftovers into Twrch Trwyth’s food trough.

The mighty bouncer pig took time out from espying the Dining and Gaming Area for rowdy behavior, to acknowledge Magnus and all his hard work. Thank you Magnus.

You are welcome, Twrch Trwyth.

Magnus, could you come here a minute?

It was the beautiful Blodeuwedd. She needed Magnus. She was in distress. Magnus could save the beautiful Blodeuwedd from Her distress. Hastily, Magnus parked his wheel barrow out of the way behind the beer trough, where none of the paying customers were likely to trip over it. Hastily, Magnus hastened to the side of the beautiful Blodeuwedd.

Magnus, these elderly Druids are driving me crazy. Now they have used up all the tp. You need to police the comfort stations. Make sure there is plenty of tp and the seats are all dry.

Uh. The Lady’s too.

Yes Magnus, the Lady’s too.

Yeah but, what if there are ladies in the Lady’s. What do I do then?

You shall just have to figure something out, Magnus. Figure out a solution, efficiently. You may need to put up a sign while you are policing the Lady’s.

I don’t understand.

Yes. It is true. Magnus, in the presence of the beautiful Blodeuwedd, was reduced to semi-idiocy. His wits were befuddled. His noggin was askew. His IQ, if there is such a thing, had actually ebbed, from the time he arrived at the WG Bar and Grill to the present time. That’s because Magnus spent too much time fretting over his prospects, leaving less time for other intellectual pursuits.

Poor Blodeuwedd. There She was. Peppered by queries from the besotted elderly Druids. Fetching still more libation refills. And now, afflicted with a busboy who claimed he did not understand how to police the Lady’s Comfort Station.

So in between Her various waitress duties, Blodeuwedd patiently listed all the steps Magnus needed to undertake if he was to successfully police the Lady’s. She had to go over the steps four times. After four times, Magnus claimed he understood. Off went Magnus.

Where’s Magnus?, the Lady Arianrhod, wanted to know. Tables 7 come 11 need busing.

Sigh! He’s policing the Lady’s, Mama. The Lady’s is out of tp.

Ray and Hope Discuss What Hope has been doing at Work

Hope! You have been covering our governor for the DNS. Right? Has he been in the ROT since his last inauguration?

No Ray. And a weary time I have had following him around too. Goodness gracious sakes alive! That well-coifed governor of ours is a globe trotter, all righty then.

What the heck is he up to?

Well Ray. He has an agenda. Apparently he is shopping himself as vice kinglet, first with Rudi the Fascist, now with the elderly McCain, first sucking up to one, then the other. Jesus, apparently spake unto our well-coifed governor, thusly: Rick it is your mission to turn the ROT into a global transportation corridor. So our well-coifed governor, heeding Jesus, is seeking leverage, applying for Chitlin’s job. Yep. Once he has Chitlin’s job, Vice Kinglet, he shall work for the global transportation corridor from secret locations.

Mercy!

That is correct, Ray. Mercy!

Plus, the elderly McCain is almost certain to peg out, anon, hopefully at an easily accessible spot. So after that happens, Rick shall accede to full Kinglet status. That’s the plan, according to Jesus.

Hope! Hope! Hope! Hope! Can no one save US from this potential, miserable scenario?

Possible, but unlikely, Ray. There is a slim chance that the Huckabee shall call for secession. Yes Ray, the south may rise again. I can sort of see Chuck Norris, ROT Ranger, playing General Lee. But this time the outcome shall be different. Those Yankees shall get themselves karate chopped to bits. So Huckabee may save part of US, thanks to Chuck Norris as General Lee.

You know, Hope sugar, you got a really crappy assignment covering all those imperialist, Mammonite Republican kinglet candidates. You should have got to cover the other bunch. That’s what I think.

Yeah, me too. That’s what I think too. But hey, it’s a job.

Rayetta’s Birds, Woodpeckers, Class Aves

The CB has four species of woodpeckers, Class Aves, this time of year. They are red-bellied, ladder-backed, downy and yellow-bellied sapsucker. There should be more, like a flicker, but I have not espied any more lately. I have succeeded in taking electropictoids of the three of the four. The saspucker has eluded me.

This female ladder-backed is half of a pair that has nested in the very pecan it is fooling around in as depicted. This electropoid is not bad for hand held.

Another annoying aspect of taking bird (Class Aves) electropictoids is Crumby. By the way, it is Crumby who insists that every time I spell birds, I also spell Class Aves. That’s why I do it, to humor Crumby. I am not sure why he believes this methodology is universally important. But when I initially forgot to spell, Class Aves, after woodpeckers, above, Crumby got really upset. I mean like sulky on the verge of a tantrum upset.

Some ignoramus might read this, Rayetta, and surmise we have woodpeckers in general, not just woodpeckers in Class Aves. Where would we be then, Rayetta? I can just espy the police cars out front, the policemen, shotguns at the ready, searching high and low for woodpeckers, demanding entrance to the very CB domicile, so they could search inside. How would you like that, Rayetta?

This is an example of what I have to put up with. How can I possibly know what is going on inside Crumby’s noggin? Woodpeckers? Why would the police search the CB for woodpeckers not included in Class Aves? Are there any woodpeckers outside Class Aves, anyway? Sometimes I think Crumby is delusional.

Magnus the Busboy, Part 9

Part 9

Let’s see now. I have been promised three silver dollars already. All I need is for one more of the elderly Druids to promise me a silver dollar. Then I shall have four silver dollars headed my way. That is correct. All I have to do is remind those elderly Druids, Present me, Magnus, with my silver dollars. Yepper. If just one more of those elderly Druids offers me a silver dollar later, I shall have all my elderly Druids covered. Then I shall not have to worry about which is which. I shall have all four. Ha!

Great theory Magnus. But what if one of those elderly Druids has promised you two silver dollars later. Or maybe, the same elderly Druid has promised you three, or even four silver dollars. What will you do then? How will you handle that?

Dang it!

Hmmm. Look Magnus. All those elderly Druids seem to be gravitating towards a particular table. Come along. I may need some help getting them into the chairs.

Sure enough, the elderly Druids, having selected a table, were squabbling over the seating arrangements. That’s because each of the elderly Druids had a preference for what direction they wanted to espy while dining. All desired the better view.

It took awhile, but Blodeuwedd finally convinced the elderly Druids that whichever way they were facing, something interesting might occur in that direction. Once that happened, Magnus helped each of the elderly Druids into a chair with a potentially interesting view of the premises. One of the elderly Druids though, drew Magnus aside. Young man, the elderly Druid whispered, remind me to give you a silver dollar, later.

Blodeuwedd also then drew Magnus aside. Stay here Magnus. Keep them from wandering off until I get back with the menus.

Young man. Where’s the comfort station? I need to go to the comfort station.

Aha!, thought Magnus. Here’s a potential method for telling these elderly Druids apart based on a tertiary sexual character.

Uh, down that way. See. There are signs, Boy’s Comfort Station on the left, Lady’s on the right. But you all need to stay put until the waitress gets back with the menus. OK please.

Fortunately, Blodeuwedd, in waitress mode, was not only beautiful, but efficient, too.

Here we go, menus. You all look those menus over. Now, what libations do you prefer. The house special is Silver Dollar Mead.

Is it made locally?, an elderly Druid wanted to know.

Sure is sweetie, courtesy of the WG’s bees, out in the backyard.

Young lady. I need to go to the comfort station.

Me too. I need to go. So do I. Me too.

Okie Dokie. Magnus, why don’t you show everyone the facilities. Would anyone like to order a libation before everyone heads off to the comfort stations? If so, I shall have the libations for you plus the complimentary checklists ready when you get back.

All the elderly Druids, amzingly, decided on the Silver Dollar Mead. Then, after Magnus helped them all up, everyone headed off in the general direction of the comfort stations.

Hmmm. Blodeuwedd needed to complain about her job. Mama. These elderly Druids are fixing to monopolize me. Can you handle the rest of the paying customers so I can focus on the elderly Druids?

Sure Sugar. Easy that. It’s Tuesday. Fixing to be a slow night. Be sure to recommend the creamed corn.

Got it. Creamed corn.

Meantime, Magnus was pretty sure he was fixing to learn the various sexes of the elderly Druids eventually. Ha! Two of each, maybe. But then Magnus realized that for all practical purposes, the data he had acquired, did him no good. Dern it!

The return trip from the comfort station to the table took awhile. All the freshened up elderly Druids needed to explore on the way back to the table. Magnus, charged with bossing the drive, felt stress along the trail. Great was the stress encountered by Magnus. But anon, all the elderly Druids were reseated, occupied with delicious meads, menus, and the blessed checklists. Plus, happily, the regular paying customers were filtering in. Anon, Magnus, wheelbarrow at the ready, resumed his usual, low stress routine.

Ray's Rainfall Update - Day 50, DY 2

One fifty of days have come and gone since the Polaris or Polar Bear Solstice, the start of DY 2. Actually, Day 50 has not gone yet. But, it too shall go. Simultaneously, our little planet, Earth, has traveled a great many furlongs along its annual perilous journey through the depths of outer space.

Since the last rainfall update, no rain has fallen. The CB continues to enjoy 0.99" of precipitation for DY 2. Many suffer and die.

The top of the food chain, though, is buffered against all the suffering and death. We have restaurants. Yes. We have wisely thought to store up lots of food and libations, including precious water, at restaurants. Not only have we cached all these major necessities at the restaurants; those restaurants are all stocked with cheap labor. So when the hard times start up again, like now, all we have to worry about is navigating our ways down the dangerous streets to and from the restaurants.

At the restaurants, the cheap labor converts all the food into delicious meals. Yes. There is plenty to eat and drink at the restaurants. Plus, we don't have to do any work. The cheap labor takes care of the work for US. Yes. The restaurants shall see US through these hard times.

Interestingly, Quiscalus mexicanus has also figured out about restaurants. How did those grackles figure out about restaurants? Well, it is a long story.

Many moons ago, restaurants in these parts were rare. Consequently, Quiscalus mexicanus was entirely absent from these parts. Oh! Mistake me not. There were plenty of grackles in these parts, just none of the mexicanus sort.

Change is inevitable. Progress is made, especially locally, at the county level. Gradually, restaurants, responding to our species need for adequate food storage and preparation, sprang up everywhere.

Quiscalus mexicanus is naturally, a nervous bird. Yes. I am plenty nervous. That's why, when I am strolling about, I need to be able to see around me. You shall never catch me strolling about in the tall grass, because tall grass is precisely the type habitat where some fierce predator, like a coyote, might get me. There that coyote would be, cryptic in the tall grass. Hector Protector, I might walk right into that coyotes slavering jaws. Then, where would I be.

No. I shall stick to this restaurant parking lot. I can espy really well, all around me in every direction. Ola Senor, can I have a French Fry or two. Just dump those French Fries out anywhere. Do not fret. I shall clean them on up.

Hold it. French Fries, nada. It is time for my delicious cinnamon bun.

Not Quite a Loser, Yet

Seems like many are of the opinion that my Kinglet candidate still has a chance at the hemi-coronation. So I am not a loser yet. Plus, I may actually get to vote. Yes. My vote this time may be a futile gesture as opposed to a totally futile gesture, .

Yet many wonder if the Republic of Tejas should be allowed to participate in US elections. After all, the ROT is barely part of the rest of the country. Where else, even in Seceshland, could a state agency over estimate its annual budget by 1.1billion and then actually let the non-existent 1.1 billion on projects.

I mean, in the good old USA, the Republicans have turned the government into a money laundering operation. But in the USA, at least the money is usually real.

Magnus the Busboy, Part 8

Part 8

Yes. It is true. Behind the bar, set apart, there exists, at the WG Bar and Grill, a secret area where the food is prepared for human or proto-human consumption. This area is called, the kitchen. This so called kitchen is vast with lots of equipment. There are measuring devices, there are ovens, there are grills, there are ice boxes, there are sinks, there is cutlery of every kind and description, there are pots of almost every volume, there are skillets, there is a cauldron. There is also plenty of cheap labor to operate all the equipment. Often one cheap laborer may operate a piece of equipment by itself, but sometimes, in complex food preparation situations, the cheap labor must gang up on one piece of equipment, to prep the desired food product up to Lady Arianrhod’s exacting standards.

The cauldron is of special significance. That is because, the creamed corn is cooked in that particular cauldron. That cauldron is big. It is so big, that four cheap laborers are required to operate that cauldron by themselves. For example, the spoon those cheap laborers employ to stir the creamed corn is in reality a galley oar left over from when the First Ark Druid brought the Gift of Pigs. The First Ark Druid actually presented the WG with that oar personally, many moons ago. So besides Twrch Trwth, the WG also got an oar.

Yes. Above the cauldron is constructed four tiers of steel latticework with a ladder ascending to the fourth tier. That way, each cheap labor component has its own level from which to grasp the oar. It takes a mighty effort, from all four cheap labor components, just to stir all that creamed corn, once the creamed corn thickens.

At last, the quartet of elderly Druids, plus Magnus, herded along by the beautiful Blodeuwedd actually navigated both the porch and the crack. Yes. Everyone made it into the dining and gaming area safely. Is this huge pig friendly?, was the first thing one of the elderly Druids wanted to know.

Twrch Trwyth was in a bad mood. Remember, the WG had sent Twrch Twryth inside, denying Twrch Trryth’s instinctual urge to mix it up with all those ferocious little dogs. So Twrch Trwyth spake sarcastically, thusly: Elderly Druids, you see before you a house pig. If you could think for yourselves, ever, you would know that a house pig is always friendly. Otherwise, that pig would not be in the house.

It talks, exclaimed all the elderly Druids excitedly. O h my goodness, this establishment has a talking pig. Can you beat that! Darn it! I left my digicam in the cart. I need to go fetch my digicam. We can make a movie featuring all of us with this talking pig.

Twrch Trwyth was at that nonce, in a worse mood than previously. Hearing himself, a huge pig standing right in front of these elderly Druids, referred to in the third person, no, not even in the third person, referred to as, it, infuriated Twrch Trwyth. Great hackles of bristles arose all over Twrch Trwyth. His mighty tail spiked upwards corkscrew like. A bucket of froth issued forth from his mighty gullet, slathering Twrch Trwyth’s lips and gums.

Do you not know me, elderly Druids, I am the mighty Twrch Trwyth, not just a mere talking pig?

Naturally, all the elderly Druids knew about Twrch Trwyth. Everyone, in fact, except the village idiots, maybe, knew about Twrch Trwyth. But the elderly Druids were skeptical.

You are definitely not Twrch Trwyth. Though large, you are certainly nowhere near the volume of four double wides. We Druids know such facts, all righty then. Ha!

Luckily for those elderly Druids, the beautiful Blodeuwedd was handy and paying attention.

Elderly Druids and potential paying customers. You find yourselves in grave peril. You have aroused the WG’s pet, the mighty Twrch Trwyth. See. He is about to attack.

The elderly Druids, as one indistinguishable unit., recoiled in confusion, slightly horrified. Yet, the elderly Druids remained skeptical. But, but, but, but, all the facts indicate this can not be Twrch Trwyth. This pig, though large, is too little.

Fortunately for the skeptical elderly Druids, mired in misinformation, and not willing to take Blodeuwedd’s word for the correct identity of the pig, that same Blodeuwedd clasped her plump arms around the neck of the outraged pig. She then whispered into Twrch Trwyth’s ear, Oh mighty One, you may not afflict these potential paying customers here, within the Gaming and Dining Area. However, you may afflict them elsewhere. For the nonce, you need a plan for afflicting them elsewhere later if you so desire, later, outside. So my suggestion is, go drink some nice beer out of your trough, and work up a plan if you so desire, for later. (Blodeuwedd knew that Twrch Trwyth, was intelligent, like most pigs, but also, She knew that planning ahead was not his strong suite. So the elderly Druids were fairly safe. Twrch Trwyth would most likely forget all about them once he guzzled down plenty of beer).

Twrch Trwyth was mollified. Yes. I shall go have some nice beer. Then I shall work up a plan.

Goodness! That was close. That pig almost cost me a potential tip!, thought the beautiful Blodeuwedd. But she spake out loud, Elderly Druids, pick out a table that suits you, have a seat, you must be weary from your journey. Once you are settled in, I shall bring menus, plus take your libation orders.

When do we get our complimentary checklists?, the elderly Druids wanted to know.

I shall bring them along with your libation orders.

For long the elderly Druids consulted on which table might suit them best. Since all the tables were empty, this took awhile.

Come with me Magnus. We need to visit with Granny while these elderly Druids decide where to sit.

Magnus obediently tagged along.

Granny, the nearly omnipotent WG, known to her friends as Cerridwen, was temporarily retired to her boudoire, recovering from all it took out of Her to suspend space and time out in the front yard. Yet the boudoire of the WG is not just any boudoire. Her boudoire is really cool. That’s because She has easy access to all the good things of life in Her boudoire. So it is easy to relax in that particular boudoire.

Granny. I am already tired of those unusual potential paying customers. They almost killed Magnus. They are slow as molasses. They probably don’t tip. They enraged our pet watch pig, twice. I say we kick them out. To heck with those elderly Druids. Anyway, the regular paying customers shall be arriving anon. We know they are reliable tippers.

Hmmm. What about you Magnus? Do you wish to kick those elderly Druids out, too, denying them the hospitality of this establishment?

I agree with Ms. Blodeuwedd. Three times those elderly Druids have promised to give me a silver dollar for my services. Yet, I can not, in my mind’s eye, identify which of those three out of that quartet promised me silver dollars. Then too, I must remind them that I need those silver dollars for my services rendered. Yet I can not tell one from another. So I shall probably never see those silver dollars. Also, may I somehow ingratiate myself with you, magnificent WG, that you should consent or encourage me to, ah, never mind.

No, no, no Magnus. What should I consent to? How should I encourage you?

Never mind, please.

OK Magnus. Well, since you both agree that we should kick those elderly Druids out, I shall tell you a story that may redirect your simple young noggins. Once upon a time, believe it or not, there were no Druids. At that time, not long ago, no being anywhere had more sense regarding anything or anybody, other than themselves, than a squirrel humping a tree branch.

Yes, it is true. The top of the heap, sense wise, in those days, had no more sense than squirrels. Plus those beings acted pretty much like squirrels, monkey shining around in the trees with nary a care in the world or a lick of sense. But change is inevitable. Finally, one of those monkey shiners was born, mutated. However, that first mutated monkey shiner showed no Druid like traits. No, that mutated monkey shiner merely got the rest of the monkey shiners better organized so that efficiency came about.

Anon, there was so much efficiency that one of the monkey shiners noted that it had actual leisure time on its little paws or hands. That one became the first monkey shiner with Druid like characteristics. Mutation followed mutation. For some reason, that I have never quite figured out, the Druid like traits persisted in the gene pool, albeit in low numbers. And that quartet of elderly Druids, now ensconced in the Dining and Gaming Area, consulting among themselves about the best place to sit, is the culmination of those mutations played out on the leisurely tapestry of the monkey shiner lifestyle.

So, do you twain still want to kick them out?

Yes, we do!!!!

Nevertheless, we shall not kick them out. They are potential paying customers. Potential paying customers are always right. So Blodeuwedd, you need to put on your best waitress attitude, and Magnus, you need to skulk around until some useful activity is required of you. Now get to work.

Yes Maam!!!!

Ray’s Thought for the Day - Another Shameless Product Endorsement

Crumby. Wake up Crumby.

No. Leave me alone. Go away, Ray.

You have to wake up Crumby. It is your turn to do a shameless product endorsement.

OK! I’m up!

Later

These are my boots. These are the best boots I have ever had on. No twain feet could ask for better boots.

Yet these boots are worn out in the service of my feet. Unusually, they are worn out from the inside. Yes. You are reading this spell correctly. These boots, long in service, have been impervious to outer wear, almost, except for the slight cracking on top. Yet these boots are not entirely impervious to the inner wear that some call foot wriggling. Sadly, the inner wear, the friction from foot wriggling, has at long last worn them out.

Many miles have these boots trod over rough ground. Yes. They have endured savage terrain, always at a low altitude. They have thwarted the merciless flora. Those merciless flora are armed cap a pie, with swords, with spears with Tommy hawks. Yet, these boots have turned all the blades of that savage flora. Even the most cruel Cactus, even the merciless Yucca failed to afflict me in the feet so long as I wore these boots. And how about serpents? No serpent in these parts has afflicted me. Maybe, because of these excellent boots. If these boots came with sticker burr and beggar’s lice proof shoestrings, they would be perfect.

See that right shoestring. It has worked itself loose. Remember, fellow workers, not to let your shoe strings come loose. Do as I say, not as I do. Loose shoe strings are a potential safety topic, environmental hazard. Many have perished on the job from loose shoestrings. There was this one dumbass, for example, who was sucked into to a cement mixer by his shoestring. Now he is fixed for all time out on the new tollway, a mere building material, where once he was intelligent life.

Yet these days, I am faced with the prospect of purchasing new boots, eventually. These may not be quite worn out. But they are close to being worn out. So I may have to find a vender that handles these type of boots.

These boots, originally, were free, sort of. Course I had to actually have a job that provided complimentary boots. So really, these boots were part of the salary for that suck ass job, kind of like health insurance was also part of the deal for that job.

Many would kiss ass for eternity to have a job that included free boots. But not me. Uckfa attha. I would lots rather have some personal honor.

On the other hand, now, to replace these excellent boots, I have to pay for the replacement pair myself, out of my own pocket. This is such a stressful prospect, fer me, that I actually considered getting a job, just so I could get some free boots. Once I got the job, plus the boots, I planned on quitting. Maybe I shall do all that yet. Free boots are a great lure for an unemployed worker like me.

OK. I am done with shamelessly endorsing these boots.

Later

What’s this? Hey Crumby, bosom companion, you failed to endorse yer boots.

No. I didn’t. I endorsed them, all righty then.

No. You did not. Nobody can discern even what brand they are.

That is correct Ray. My new boots may be in short supply. Already, the local vendor has stopped stocking them. Thus, I am required to order my new boots from foreign parts. Thus, I am not about to inform the ignorant public on what brand they are. Everyone might rush to foreign parts and buy up all my boots. Plus, I have not quite figured out what size they are. I need to figure that out before I order from foreign parts. Once I have figured all that out and have my new pair safely at the CB, I may name the brand.

OK Crumby. I see your reasoning.

Yepper. My reasoning is indefatigable, just like my feet in those boots.

Ray’s Thought for the Day - Dead Man Walking

As everyone with a lick of sense knows, Crumby, my bosom companion, and I, like to do movie reviews on rare occasions. So far, we have combined on two or three in depth movie reviews, maybe, Red River, fer sure.

Many may recall that in a movie similar to Red River, starring Glen Ford and Jack Lemon, all the hands are poverty stricken due to hard times, just like in Red River. Yet, even during hard times and relentless drudgery, the hands have plenty of energy and leisure time to play with a poisonous serpent. Naturally, the poisonous serpent bites one of the skylarking hands in the neck That hand then dies a horrible, miserable death. That’s why all the safety programs on all the jobs warn you hands against playing goosey goose and grab ass at work.

Now remember. It is hard times. So naturally a surviving hand takes the boots off the dead hand’s feet. But he left the socks. After that, the hand that got those boots, was, metaphorically speaking, a dead man walking.

I enjoy shopping the shoe and boot aisles at the Goodwill. Not only does shopping at Goodwill make me feel smart, I also get to speculate on which pair of shoes and boots might confer the status, dead man walking, on me. But forget all that.

We have a scenario developing just like in the various cowboy movies. Consider, John Wayne versus Montgomery Cliff, Glen Ford versus Jack Lemon, John McCain versus Barack Obama. It is a classic scenario. This scenario is even more classic than mere old cowboy movies indicate. The scenario is actually ancient.

OK. Do not forget about the dead man walking. Remember the dead man walking. McCain is old. He could easily pass on at any moment. Hopefully, he shall pass on at a location convenient to someone finding him in a hurry. But the question is, by then, will times be so hard, that whoever finds him shall swipe his shoes or boots. Consider. What would such a pair of McCain’s footgear fetch on EBAY?

Magnus the Busboy, Part 7

Part 7

Yes. The WG had been forced to clasp both the time and space situated out in the front yard to Her Ample Bosoms. But now, having concluded a mutually satisfactory arrangement with Upup, Lord God of Gravity, the WG let loose of both time and space out in the front yard. There they went, temporarily, to 1/3 normal for those parts, just long enough, at 1/3 normal to allow Magnus to land on his feet like a cat. Once that cat like leap was effected, time and space went back to full normal out in the front yard.

Here’s your telescope, elderly Druid sir, safe and sound.

Thank you young man. That was quite a leap. That leap has now been memorized. I am now comparing that leap to all the other leaps I have espied. Anon, I shall rank that leap among the rest of the leaps. But I can assure you young man, that leap shall rank among the top four. Would you like to see an electropictoid representation of your leap at apogee?

Yes sir.

Sure enough, the elderly Druid had managed to get an electropictoid of Magnus at apogee. Now for all time, Bran’s prophecy, that Magnus would rise to great heights, yet not for the last time, was confirmed, electrically.

That’s a great electropictoid, elderly Druid. There I am, frozen in time and space, in mid-somersault, cradling an expensive telescope, for all time.

Yes, young man. There you are, saving my Questar. If you get the rest of my gear off loaded, I shall give you a silver dollar. Don’t let me forget to give you a silver dollar later, if you get the rest of my gear down safely. But now young man, you need to put the great ladder back up.

Yes, elderly Druid.

Meantime the little dogs were confused. They all wondered, Where did that pig go? That pig was right here just a while back. Where did that pig go? All the little dogs strained forward in their harnesses, trying to catch a whiff of the pig that had disappeared right before their eyes and nasty little noses. But the elderly Druid conveyance driver had by now cranked back on the great lever, so the little dogs could make no more progress.

Blodeuwedd! Pet these little dogs while I confer with these elderly Druids. Keep those little dogs quiet. I see now that my obliging busboy is fixing to get back on the ladder. Can’t have that. Why, I could spend eternity cuddling Upup should Magnus get back on that great ladder. Can’t have that.

Yes Granny. Can I unharness them?

Sure. Just don’t let them all start running around. Keep them in one general spot.

OK Granny.

Elderly Druids, the WG cried out. You are most welcome, unusual paying customers. I am Cerridwen, senior most of the Triplet Goddess. Welcome to the WG Bar and Grill. However, you should leave all your gear in your cart. Your gear shall be perfectly safe, in your cart. There is no need for my busboy, Magnus, to unload all your gear. Just leave it there, in the cart.

Cerridwen was utilizing her most commanding and booming voice to communicate her thoughts to the elderly Druids. That’s because, She rightly assumed the ears of those elderly Druids were not what they once were, functionally. But also, Cerridwen was actually spelling those elderly Druids, commanding them not to unload their cart, which effort might take all night.

My grand daughter, Blodeuwedd here, shall see to your dog train. Fear not. She has all these little dogs under control. Dismount, and come inside.

But the elderly Druid who was already dismounted wanted to know, Cerridwen, WG, should I have this young man bestow my Questar up in the cart where it shall be safe?

No. Any gear that is already down, needs to come inside too, the WG shouted back. Magnus hold the ladder while the additional elderly Druids dismount. Then all of you come inside.

Espying that the natural order was restored to the front yard, the WG left Blodeuwedd in charge and headed back through the crack to help Arianrhod make ready for the unusual paying customers that were about to arrive inside at any nonce. But wearied from Her great labor out in the front yard, and espying that Arianrhod had everything under control, the WG retired to her boudoire, to rest up.

The beautiful Blodeuwedd, meantime, was busy petting the three fifties of little dogs, providing each with a nice treat and putting them to sleep, temporarily. Soon each of the three fifties of little dogs was asleep. Each of those little dogs assumed its favorite sleeping posture. Each little dog dreamed happily, that it was off in the woods, murdering a rodent. Occasionally a little sleeping dog, yelped or twitched, murderously.

At last, Magnus assisted the final of the four elderly Druids down the ladder. Thank you, young man. Remind me to give you a silver dollar, later.

Magnus wondered if he would actually get any silver dollars from these elderly Druids. How am I supposed to remind this elderly Druid about my silver dollar? For one thing, I may not be capable of telling this particular elderly Druid from the rest of them, except for the one with the Questar. That one with the Questar owes me a silver dollar too. But what if that one hands the Questar off to an alternative elderly Druid? If that ones hands it off, I may remind the wrong one about the silver dollar I have coming to me.

Yes. It is true. The quartet of elderly Druids that had lately arrived by dog train at the WG Bar and Grill resembled four peas in a pod. In fact, they made every effort to closely resemble one another. All four wore identical white cone hats. All four were white headed, mostly from the paint. All four had tattooed their eye sockets blue. All four had on blue sack dresses embroidered with sun and moon sigil. All had on green brownie pants under the sack dresses. And all of them had on identical poop repellent boots, purchased, no doubt, from the world renowned Pryderi Shoe and Boot Emporium. Heck. Magnus could not even espy what sexes they were, if any.

Magnus next chore; help all the elderly Druids up on the porch. That sounds fairly easy. Yet, even getting them herded over to the porch in a foursome dispirited Magnus. That’s because those elderly Druids were easily distracted by this or that. Off one of them charged, chasing a bug. One of them was crawling around on the ground looking for something or other. Another one tried to head off into the adjacent woodlot, hollering excitedly. Which elderly Druid was up to what? Magnus knew not.

So the beautiful Blodeuwedd, espying Magnus’s discomfiture and slow progress toward the porch with only 25% of the elderly Druid quartet in tow, had pity on the busboy and showed mercy.

Blodeuwedd cried out. Attention unusual paying customers! Attention elderly Druids! Supper is now being served at the WG Bar and Grill. If you hurry along, your supper shall be piping hot. If you fool around, more, your supper shall get cold. Plus, if you come along with Magnus at this very nonce, you shall all receive complimentary copies of my Mama’s Annotated Checklist of the Flora and Fauna of These Parts.

With that, Blodeuwedd caught the attention of the elderly Druids. We all get a free checklist the elderly Druids exclaimed excitedly. But Magnus still had to help them all up on the porch. Thank you, young man, remind me to give you a silver dollar, later.

Ray’s Thought for the Day - Euphoria is Ephemeral

Sung to the tune of, The Age of Aquarius

Euphoria is ephemeral, ephemeral, ephemer-al.
La la la la, la la laaa, la la la, la-la.

Catchy, but not much good maybe. I was fixing to spell in the next bunch of la las, but that prospect was overly challenging. Besides, why should a winner on a winning team like me fool around with such nonsense anyway. Well, maybe, because all the euphoria engendered by being a winner on a winning team is already going ephemeral.

When did I win? Yesterday. Yet today, already, I am fixing to feel like a loser again. Even though, I am so far, still a winner. If anything, my winning team is winning more than ever.

Hold it! I may be in over my noggin. I was fixing to present my thought on winning or losing as related to earth’s orbit. But I may not have worked out all the important details yet.

So I shall change the subject and explain why the Huckabee loser is such a total loser. I surmise that about two days ago, maybe, I happened to be enjoying myself watching the TV. (When I say I was enjoying myself, I mean that literally).

Here’s what the Huckabee loser had to say. Well, maybe I was enjoying myself so much, I can not give an exact quote. But I can get close to an exact quote. Here follows close to an exact quote from the Huckabee loser. We have to replace the nonsense with common sense. This Huckabee opinion is in reference to the Internal Revenue Service which he desires to replace with a fair flat tax.

Yet the fair flat tax is not common sense. The fair flat tax is only the sense of a tiny minority of lunkheads. While the Internal Revenue Service methodology, due to its long life, and the general interaction it has with US commoners, more generally, if imperfectly, reflects common sense.

Ha! The Huckabee is such a total loser!

Mmm! The cinnamon bun vendor was back on track today. The cinnamon bun I had was just right. The outer ring was nice and crispy, almost burnt, just like I like it. Then the inner rings gradually got wetter and gooier. Mmm-boy. That cinnamon bun was delicious

Ray's Thought for the Day - I am a Winner!

Yes. That's right. I joined the winning team. We kicked ass. So for the time being, I am a winner. I am a member of a winning team, so, I am personally a winner. Yes.

This is my greatest electoral achievement since I helped defeat the City Manager iniative and thereby temporarily saved my village from the Republicans, sort of, maybe. I may be on a roll. Perhaps, despite the foul weather in these parts, I shall win more and more. Like maybe I shall win some money.

So! What are the chances of my winning team winning all the way to the White Palace? Easy that, none. Nevertheless, I shall stick with my team through thick and thin until at least next Tuesday night. After that, my team may be dissovled and I shall be deprived of team membership until 2012. However, by 2012, membership on a winning team may be a low priority for me. I may have other, more desperate, priorities.

By 2012 I could be in the process of drawing my last wheezy breath. Looking forward to drawing my last wheezy breath, utter fearlessness comes easily in the meantime. Therefore, I would like to share this opinion.

The worst, most incompetent ACLU lawyer in the history of the Americano Homeland has done more to protect my freedom over the last 63 years than the entire military/industrial complex put together. If such a military/industrial complex exists.