Crumby Finds Something New to His Experience

Yes. I did. There I was mincing along in my cowboy boots, favoring my bad knee. Suddenly I chanced to gaze upon an odd appearing Oxalis residing in the midst of a great forest of usual appearing yellow Oxalis that some name O. corniculata, O. stricta, or more familiarly, O. dillennii. Yet these are not the usual bright yellow flowers I am used to. These are a pale greenish yellow, and also appear smaller than the regular yellow ones. Now I must go back and collect some of this. Other characters may also differ.

Actually, I should have collected it when I went back to take this picture. But cowboy boots are tricky. You go along hastily in cowboy boots at your own peril. Plus, the slighest shift in mass, like even the tiny mass of an Oxalis specimen, could throw off the bilateral symmetry of a cowboy boot wearer easily enough.

My cowboy boots leak. Parts of the insides are unglued. Those parts may ball up in the toe, frightening me when I try to put the boots on. Maybe those are all good reasons not to collect a specimen. Maybe not.

Now I have to go back again. This next time I shall be sensibly shod.

The New Amaryllis

From what we know from hearsay, the ancestors of these lived in South America. Those ancestors were happy little plants dwelling in their own happy homes. Then along came some bulb collectors, looking to introduce new species to the flourishing bulb trade. Those bulb collectors took those ancestral bulbs. Then those little bulbs got sold to selective breeders who took those bulbs and performed strange sex experiments with them. The end result is this.

We have no idea what this is for sure, but it may be a Hippeastrum. It is a present. It is still in its pot. Plants that are in pots can be moved around from one background to another. Crumby, move the pot over there.

Electropictoid credit: Rayetta Pistrum, PH.D., LDR

A Tumbling Flower Beetle, Mordellidae (maybe), Thanks to the Magic of Digital Zoom

This may be a good example of a tumbling flower beetle. That’s because this one tumbles, a family characteristic. At this very nonce, thousands of these tiny tumblers are fixing to tumble around on the primrose, verbena and oxalis blossoms. Fixing to, because they shall wait until it warms up. Actually, a few of them may be tumbling about, for all I know, right now.

My sister took the picture. Crumby identified this beetle to family, maybe. I am interested because there are so many. Like I say, a great many, many, many, many. Too many to count. A tousand or maybe two tousand.

According to Rayetta, they do their best tumbling right before a girl tries to take their picture. The one depicted, according to Rayetta, is probably weary. Yes weary. Worn out from a long day of tumbling.

Ray's T for the D - Drizzle

The CB gauge may have collected a cipherable amount of drizzle last night. I better go check on that. There may be an upcoming addition to the all important total.

Rereading my T for the D of yesterday reminds me that I need to completely ignore not only the TV, but also the news articles provided to me via the internet. I need to train myself not to look at those ignorant headlines, much less open one of them. All they are good for is reminding me of bad news I already know about.

Yepper. Despite knowing everything, periodically, I fall into boorish behavior, like reading dopey news stories I have already read a thousand times before. How stupid is that?

Yet somewhere, I know not where, my delicious cinnamon is baking in an oven. Let the dough rise. Ummm. Then too though, the carnival is back. In fact, the miserable carnival is occupying the space normally occupied by my cinnamon bun vendor. Since the carnival and my cinnamon vendor can not occupy the same space at the same time, (that's impossible), my cinnamon bun vendor shall hopefully just move over a ways, west or south, and set up there. Or, my cinnamon bun vendor may not show up. Gasp!

The reason we are blessed with my cinnamon bun vendor, the annual carnival, Pow Wow!, all night cancer marches with high definition surround sound, car races on Sunday morning and various other large scale herd activities is because the Mammonites that run these parts don't like school taxes. So the schools have to think up creative ways to help pay for educating the poor, tax paying masses. Hence, large scale paying events are regurlarly scheduled at the adjacent school facilities.

Apparently, all the events which occur at the football stadium are attended by the nearly deaf. The nearly deaf require loud speakers to hear. So do those with normal hearing, in Manchaca.

Later.

Nope. The gauge contained nothing cipherable, only the qualitative. Most of the qualitative is in the sink, soaking in vinegar and water. However, a beetle, genus Diplotaxis, got shook out of the gauge. Maybe that beetle drank up the cipherable total.

Now we are 99 days into this perilous annual journey, DY 2. All the ovations are bleak.

Later.

All the Ovations are Bleak

Yep. I am down in the dumps. All the ovations are bleak. Yet when my noggin gets down, sometimes a happy little song or hymn helps pick me up out of the dumps.

All the ovations are bleak
Let out a pitiful squeak
Whenever my weenie does leak
I let out a pitiful squeak.
Eek!

All the ovations are bleak.
Out from my window I peek.
What portents or signs do I seek?
Eek!
I let out a pitiful squeak.

All the ovations are bleak.
Just take a peek at the meek.
Eek!
Espy how they cringe and they sneak.
I let out a pitiful squeak.

All the ovations are bleak.
Eek!
No discouraging word shall I speak.
Yet the new kitty’s litter box reeks.
I let out a pitiful squeak.

Eek!
All the ovations are bleak.
Into the closest I’ll sneak.
What portent or sign shall I seek?
I let out a pitiful squeak.

All righty then!. Eek!, has made a full circle. I feel much better.

Ray's T for the D - Goody Goody Gum Drops

Well goody, goody gum drops. Now our brave military is fixing to cluster bomb the Bejesus out of miserable Basra, presumably to keep those miserable Iraqis in Basra from controlling their own oil. How much shall that cost me? When shall I expect to see relief at the pump?

Yes. Blowing up the infrastructure in our colonies, so later, after US blows it up, some Mammonite Republican contractor can virtually rebuild that infrastructure, enhanced digitally, makes me feel really swell about taxation.

What a uckingfa joke on US, that ullshitba is.

Meantime, here in the Kinglet’s Homeland, the poor continue to subsidize the rich. Oh well, we get what we deserve.

Yet, I am informed that the Cubans may be allowed to own cell phones. Any of you Cubans want mine. It’s hardly used and I still have all the accouterments that came with it, plus the box.

But what will the Reagan democrats do in the upcoming? Yes. The media has given US the notion of Reagan democrats. Who are these hybrids? Who are these democrats who vote Mammonite?

Easy that, they are the true believers in the trickle down. Good luck true believers. Better move to the ROT and buy a trailer if you can afford the down payment. Bring your own water.

Magnus is Attacked by Ancient Romans, Part 4

Onward the twain of them journeyed, both Twrch Trwyth and his companion, Magnus.

You know Twrch, we should exact some revenge on Child Molester Village for all the annoyance they caused me.

That is correct, Magnus. Never forget, never forgive, always do pay back.

What do you reckon we should do, in terms of payback, to those child molesters, Twrch?

We should afflict them, and I should eat a few of them. A few of them, mind you Magnus, not all of them. I shall not eat so many of them as to jeopardize their long term productivity.

Yeah but, Twrch. This is about me, not you. I’m the one that got molested. Besides, in those days I was more impressionable. There’s no telling what long term adverse effects those child molesters had on my personal psychology or attitude.

OK Magnus. You, personally, shall fit the punishment to the crime. Whatever you decide is hunky dory by me. Just remember Magnus, I am merely a large pig. What if I come to Child Molester Village one day, starving? Yet no food items are available in Child Molester Village, because, Magnus, on your advice, I ate them all up on my previous visit.

Jeez Louise, Twrch! All you ever think about is eating everyone up. What makes you think I want you to eat them all up? I don’t necessarily want you to eat them all up. Jeez Louise!

Well excuse me Magnus. I thought you wanted my help. But perhaps you don’t want the help of the globe’s largest pig. You probably consider my methodology crude, or even swinish. I thought we were friends. Yet all this time, even when we shared my sty, you were thinking, that pig eats too much.

No, no, no, Twrch. I never thought that, then. Uh! OK. What we need to do is just scare the child molesters. Then, once we scare them, I shall give them a good talking to. Then, just to show we mean business, you can maybe eat up all their peanuts.

Time passes.

Twrch, do you think that’s a good plan?

Time passes. The journey continues in silence.

So you are fxing to not have any more polite discourse with me, Twrch?

Time passes. The journey continues in silence.

All righty then, Twrch. I am super sorry I said, all you ever think about is eating everyone up. I didn’t mean that. I know you think about lots of other stuff, not just eating everyone. Why, here I sit, comfortably astride your mighty noggin, living proof that you don’t merely eat everyone. Plus, looking back on our long friendship, I don’t recall that you ate any of the paying customers at the WG Bar and Grill, either.

I ate a few of them, Magnus.

You did?

Yes Magnus. But only the ones that got too far behind on their bar tabs. You may see, Magnus, that even the globe’s largest pig is bound by rules. Plus, the WG keeps me on a tight leash, metaphorically speaking.

Well OK, Twrch. Like I say, I am super sorry. Now that I think about all that, it must be a super big dialectic that you must harbor within your mighty noggin on a daily basis. That thought makes me even sorrier than I was before. Now I am beyond super sorry. Boo-hoo-hoo!

Don’t cry Magnus! If you cry, I shall cry. Then, with my eyes clouded up with an ocean of tears, I shall not be able to see where I’m going. We could have a wreck.

All righty then, Twrch. I’m OK now. Sniffle. Are we still buddies?

Yes we are, Magnus, best buddies.

On the soft-hearted companions go, making relentless progress in the general direction of Child Molester Village. By the way, only Twrch and Magnus, refer to Child Molester Village as Child Molester Village. Anon, we may discover what everyone else on the planet calls Child Molester Village.

Ray’s T for the D- Obama in 30 seconds

Whoa! Turns out, if I actually do a 30 second TV ad for Senator Obama, and it gets selected, I could win $20,000 worth of video equipment. Plus millions shall see my ad, including Matt Damon. I wonder how much I could get for $20,000 worth of video equipment on EBAY if all the equipment was still in its original boxes.

Er. I reckon the purpose of the ad is to sway the millions, including Matt Damon, into giving more money, and ultimately voting, perhaps twice, for Senator Obama. That being so, maybe, I think my ad should emphasize the miraculous. Yes. Even though many do not believe in miracles, many pretend. Besides, if the miracle was documented on TV, by my ad, then many would have to believe their eyes. That’s right.

All righty then. I need a script or whatever. Er. OK. The scene is set at the Great Salt Lake due to the added buoyancy of that particular body of water. No point taking chances. Every little bit helps.

We start with a long distance shot of Senator Obama attired in his bathing costume, standing a ways out on the water. A voice cries out, walk Senator Obama, walk on the water, you can do it.

Tentatively, Senator Obama takes a first baby step. But right away he espies that though he can stand on the water, he may not actually be able to walk on the water.

No, no, no! I can’t do it, I need your help. Merciful White Goddess, please help me walk on this water. The Merciful WG hears the mournful cry of Senator Obama, who is pitifully adrift, yet standing upright on that great salt sea or lake. Ethereal music wafts about everyone's ears, mysteriously indicating the WG knows what's happening.

Suddenly, million of sea gulls come flying to the rescue. Hold it! That’s been done, twice. No, millions of yellow-headed blackbirds (Xanthocephalus xanthocephalus) that normally nest in the adjacent marshes, come flying over. Those xanthcephalic blackbirds quickly assume a funnel cloud like formation over Senator Obama. Obviously, the additional lift provided by the bird tornado is all Senator Obama needs. He skips along merrily to shore, where he is greeted by a tousand or maybe two tousand witnesses who saw him walking on water, live.

I am Barack Obama. And I approved this message. Send the prize to Ray.

Magnus is Attacked by Ancient Romans, Part 3

Back in the saddle again, Magnus, once he recovered his breath from the rope climbing exercise, wondered out loud what had happened to the sentient beings in those parts they were now traversing.

Easy that Magnus, they were slain outright, then, when their bodies rotted, their constituent nutrients were absorbed.

Really! What insidious evil got them?

Fierce great plant serpent hybrids got them Magnus. It happened like this. Once upon a time in these parts there lived a wicked boa constrictor. That boa constrictor was so wicked that no one, even among his own species, would have anything to do with him. He was totally alone, so he had plenty of time to think between meals. After a while he became interested in genetic engineering. Long he thought, and as always, his thoughts were wicked thoughts.

I know, I shall combine my genes with those of Panicum obtusum. The vine like stolons of that plant should combine with my genes easily enough. That is what that wicked boa constrictor thought up.

Sure enough, one day the evil boa constrictor succeeded in producing carnivorous stolons that were half giant wicked boa constrictor and half Panicum obtusum. The first thing the new baby hybrids ate though, was the wicked boa constrictor progenitor. He was handy.

Really! What happened then?

Well, those boa/stolons went everywhere in these parts. Anon, those boa/stolons had strangled nearly all the sentient beings in these parts. Yes. This is how the boa/stolons fed. They strangled a sentient being, allowed it to rot, then slurped up the constituent nutrients of those once sentient beings.

Yet, one only of the sentient beings survived to tell a tale. That lonely survivor was a young duck of a kind that is all black, black as the stygian darkness save for a white ring around its neck. Plus its feet and bill are orange.

Really? What did the young duck do, once it ducked those stolons?

It fled these parts Magnus. Yet it was too young to fly. That brave, lonely young duck, though flightless, determined to walk or swim to safety. Anon, after a terrible journey frought with perils that would have dismayed all but the amphibious, the little duck reached the relative safety of the WG Bar and Grill.

Blodeuwedd found the little duck one afternoon when She went out to sweep the porch. There the little duck lay on the porch steps, exhausted, nay, worn out from its tedious journey.

Oh my goodness!, proclaimed the beautiful Blodeuwedd. Here is a poor little tired out duck. I shall fold this little duck up in my apron. If it turns out to a good duck, I shall keep it as a pet.

Whoa! Dang it! I wish I was that little duck, Twrch. That is one lucky duck.

So it would seem Magnus. Yet that duck, though lucky, had a speech impediment so severe that even the WG could scarcely understand its speech. Long the WG labored to understand the little ducks’s excited quacks. At last though, after many tedious sessions, the WG began to understand the little duck and to glean something of the horrible goings on that had transpired in these parts. Yes, eventually the little duck and the WG were able to communicate so that at last the WG understood that an unnatural environmental disaster had overtaken these parts.

Mercy Twrch! What did the WG do then?

Well, of course, the WG always relies on me to sort out these kinds of disasters and to set things right and back to normal.

Twrch Trwyth mightiest of pigs, assemble yourself!, the WG cried out. Alertly I trotted over to the WG’s favorite table where She was ensconced upon Her favorite chair.

Twrch! Blodeuwedd’s pet duck has just barely related an incredible tale. Through all the spittle I deem, seemingly that the Panicum obtusum stolons in the parts where that daffy little duck formerly habitated tried to eat him, her or it, instead of vice versa, as is normal. You need to go check it out.

As you wish, Highest and Lovliest. I shall go check it out. Where do I go? Should I take prisoners?

The WG, after another laborious conversation with the little black duck, and after wiping most of the duck saliva off Herself, got some directions for me. Then She Ordered!, Spare No One, Twrch! Eat them all!

That’s my favorite order. I like that order. That is just the order for a real he man pig like me.

So then you came to these parts and ate up all the boa/stolons, right Twrch?

Yes I did, Magnus. But as things turned out, I got mighty tired of boa/stolon; breakfast, dinner and supper. Those dern things were everywhere. Plus, after I ate maybe half of them, they became wary. I would have to play dead to lure them in. That was the hardest part, Magnus, playing dead. You might expect that someone like me, possessed of hams, would be more of a natural born actor. Yet playing dead was not the part for me. As soon as I lay down, the flies would afflict me. Try as I might, once those flies afflicted me, especially on my anus, I would thrash about in order to counter afflict those same flies. Then the boa/stolons lurking nearby would see that I was not really dead. Mercy! It took forever to lure the last of them in.

How did you finally get them all lured in, Twrch?

Manure Magnus. Manure proved irresistible to those bottom feeders. What I would do is try to always go to the comfort station in the same clearing. Then, once I had huge pile built up, I would lurk in the adjacent brush out of sight and mind. Then, to that very location those boa/stolons would come, slithering along. Once a great many of them had assembled, I’d pounce. By that stage of the game, I was well beyond showing any mercy whatever. Eventually, I ate every last one of those unnatural boa/stolons.

That’s swell Twrch. Uh. What happened to the duck? I don’t remember a duck of that same description while I was lucky enough to habitate at the WG Bar and Grill.

Easy that Magnus. That particular duck eventually became a stud duck.

Whoa! You don’t mean he got a date with Blodeuwedd, do you Twrch?

No, no, no, Magnus. Once we figured out that he was never fixing to be less annoying, and also his sex, the WG sent him off to Her duck farm. She thought maybe the other ducks could cure his speech impediment and teach him to fly.

How did that work out, Twrch?

Well, the speech impediment persists, and he never learned to fly , but as is it turns out, those traits are of no account anyway when it comes down to a career as a stud duck. You may see, Magnus, that specializing, rather than generalizing, can come in handy as a career option.

But he was Blodeuwedd’s pet duck. If he was good, surely Blodeuwedd wanted to keep her pet duck, always.

No Magnus, She didn’t. By the time that duck got put out to stud, everyone was tired of him. It was time for that duck to move on.

Mercy, thought Magnus. I have a lot in common with that duck. Yet that duck eventually found his niche. Alas! When shall I find my niche or destiny?

Still More, Hocus Pocus Focus

Once I surmised. I could take pictures. Yet the difference is, I actually know something about the subjects. Hmmm. Pride goeth before a fall. So that is the opinion of Crumby.

Well, Crumby, just got me a 14-54mm Zuiko, refurbished. Oh My Goddess! Now, I am in business.

This one was a weed in a commercial pot. Ray rescued it. We need a bunch more of these. Seed shall be collected. Hmmm. This one could use some more DOF.

Once again, the attempt is, all or nearly all of this colony in focus

All righty then!

More Hocus Pocus Focus

M. Manual. M. To adjust the aperture, turn the wheel while pressing the +/- button. That's what was messing me up. I needed to be in Manual, but I would always forget which button I was supposed to press to adjust the aperture. Then I would head back into the domicile. Back in the domicile, the Manual would be temporarily lost. So then, because the Manual was temporarily lost, and I was in a big hurry, I could not read up on how to adjust the aperture in Manual, in the Manual. And I would give up on the complicated procedure, temporarily. But now, I have at last committed that complicated procedure to memory.

Hmmm. The +/- button is a versatile little booger. More depth of field practice on the CB infloresences on a bright, sunny day. Electropictoid credits: Me, Rayetta Pistrum, Ph.D., LDR

Hocus Pocus Focus

How do you get the whole infloresence, or for that matter, whatever part of the plant’s anatomy you have identified as required for documentation in focus, all of it, at the same time? Hocus Pocus Focus, by the way, does not always work. When Hocus Pocus Focus fails, try something else. Sashay outside on a bright, sunny day. Make the hole in your camera lens go tiny. Dial up the shutter speed as fast as you can. Take a sample shot.

Hmmm! My electropictoid reflects only the stygian darkness. Dial down on the shutter speed as fast as you. There now. That’s better.

Electropictoid credit: Rayetta Pistrum, Ph.D., LDR.



Electropictoid credit: Rayetta Pistrum, Ph.D., LDR.

The Bunny Trail

Here comes Peter Cottontail, hoppin’ down the bunny trail.
Hippity, hoppity Easter’s on its wa-ay.

What a great song!

I fondly recall my first Easter at the orphanage. There we little orphan bastards labored one early morning, chained to our little desks, each with an onerous task to perform. I was sorting through onion specimens I was supposed to identify and mount before bedtime. Yet suddenly a Great Rabbit appeared before us.

All righty then!, proclaimed the Great Rabbit. I am fixing to release you from your chains. Once I do that, you shall all proceed outdoors in tandem, that is, two by two. The fact is, you are fixing to get to go outside. Yet you all have buddies you are responsible for, especially you Rayetta. You Rayetta, must make sure that Ray, ventures not astray.

Excitement gripped all us child laborers. What the heck was going on? It must be an unscheduled fire drill, many surmised.

As soon as the Giant Rabbit freed us, we all buddied up. Rayetta gripped my hand tightly. Then off we marched in tandem through the dusty, near stygian corridors. The journey was long and arduous.

Yuck Ray! You sure have a sweaty hand.

I can’t hep it Rayetta. I’m nervous.

Suddenly, as we marched forward, making fair progress, I looked up. There, up ahead, was the Great Rabbit silhouetted by Ogma’s fickle gaze. We were almost outside!

All righty then!, proclaimed the Great Rabbit. You children each require a basket. All of you pick up a basket. Do not squabble over a basket. All those baskets are the same difference.

Anon, we were outside, clutching our baskets in one hand, holding on to our buddy with the other hand, squinting in the unaccustomed light of day. As my eyes gradually accustomed to the unaccustomed light of day, I espied that besides the Great Rabbit, there was also a Great Chicken, a Great Serpent and a Great Sea Urchin variously disposed about the pasture facing the porch upon which we all now assembled.

All righty then!, proclaimed the Great Chicken. You are all fixing to enjoy an Easter egg hunt. All of us Great Animals have laid eggs out in the pasture as a special treat for you little orphan bastards, I mean children. All you have to do is run around and find all the eggs. Then, once you find those eggs or ovums, you get to keep them. They are your eggs. Won’t that be fun! Are there any questions?

I had a question. Great Chicken or Hen, please maam, I am afeared that if I venture off the porch that Great Serpent yonder shall certainly get me. Is that Great Serpent a good snake or a bad snake? Ow! Whut did ye pinch me fer, Rayetta?

The Great Chicken answered up for Rayetta. Ray, we are all kindly Great Animals here. We have, all of us, including the Great Serpent, gone to a lot of trouble, ovapositing all over the pasture so you may go find some delicious eggs. Your very smart sister pinched you Ray, because you asked a stupid question. Are there any more questions? No. Good. Then let the hunt begin.

I had some more questions. But all the other children tore off the porch at a great pace. Even Rayetta tore off the porch. Yes. My sweaty hand betrayed me. There I was, all alone on the porch with the Great Rabbit.

Run along Ray. You need to go find some eggs before they are all gone.

Reluctantly I warily departed from the relative safety of the porch. Keeping one eye peeled for the Great Serpent, I ventured on out into the pasture. OK. I need to find an egg. Suddenly I espied an egg. Yet my sweaty hand betrayed me. I could not get a proper grip on that particular egg. Lo and behold, it slipped away and another child stole my egg. Then, seemingly before it began, the hunt was over. All the eggs were found, ensconced in the baskets of the other children, my basket empty, except for a little hay in the bottom.

Yet my torment had only begun.

All righty then!, proclaimed the Great Sea Urchin. Now we shall count the eggs in the baskets to see which child found the most eggs. The child with the most eggs, shall receive a special egg.

Naturally, the results followed a normal curve with Rayetta on one end and me on the tail end.

All righty then! proclaimed the Great Serpent. Rayetta wins the special egg. Everyone give up a great many coyote yips for Rayetta. The children and all the Great Animals yipped for my sister.

What are we to do about Ray!, proclaimed the Great Serpent. Ray found no eggs. His basket is empty. I know, I shall have to eat Ray. Ha! Just kidding Ray.

But it all worked out OK, anon. Rayetta explained it all. All the Great Animals were just faculty members shape-shifted into those particular animals. Plus, Rayetta shared her eggs.

Ray and CrumbyTeam Up on a Special Movie Review - Braveheart

Movie reviews are one of our specialties. But we don’t do them very often. If we did them often, they would not be so special. This one makes about four. Uh. We may have done this particular movie, twice.

Mel Gibson is what is known as a ham. Many eat ham. But the question arises, do many more eat ham, or do many more, like Crumby’s inner ape, eat bananas? Yet that question may be impossible to answer.

Braveheart the movie, as everyone that has seen it may know, is set in Scotland. At that time, progress was slow as indicated by the blue facial paint. However, the blue facial paint used in the movie, washed off. Dye from woad does not wash off so easily. So much for the most interesting part.

The next most interesting part after the water soluble blue paint, is the freedom opinion. The freedom opinion, eloquently and emotionally expressed in the movie, goes something like: It is better to be oppressed by our own nobles, than be oppressed by English nobles. Furthermore, in the movie that seems obvious, because the Scots nobles do nothing but talk, while the English nobles get to rape all the Scot peasant ladies, chop the Scot peasants up generally, then burn the village.

A great many of the movie Scots, perhaps a tousand or two tousand, are persuaded to rebellion, preferring we guess, getting talked to death over the alternative. Yes. It is better to get talked to death, while you slowly starve, than to have yourself pillaged and burned. But before you can get yourself to that preferable status, you must first, fight the English. So that is what the Scots peasants do in the movie, fight the English while the Scots nobles talk.

Since the freedom opinion in the movie is presented as an emotion, rather than an idea, Crumby and me decided that bananas are the same difference as freedom in the context of Braveheart.

In our version, William Wallace hassles his countrymen thusly: What will you do without bananas? Will you fight?

No. We will run. And eat hagus.

Yes. You will run. And you will eat hagus. And dying in your beds, many years from now, what would you give for just one taste, just one taste, of a banana smoothie.

The actual history of those times in those parts is poorly reflected in the movie, Braveheart. What was actually going on historically was the Ark Druid had sailed or maybe rowed into Edinburgh harbor bringing the gift of bananas to the Scots.

All the Scots assembled at Edinburgh to receive their free bananas.

OK, proclaimed the Ark Druid. Line up, nobles first. Everyone shall receive a free taste of these delicious bananas. Then after most of you have gotten a free taste, I shall explain to everyone how to take care of the banana trees I have brought you. Once I have explained all that, you shall be qualified to take care of these banana trees even in this cold climate. Then every one of you shall enjoy delicious bananas from now on.

Anon, the Ark Druid, having successfully introduced bananas to the Scots and vice versa, rowed or sailed off, leaving the Scots to squabble over the disposition of the banana trees.

Yet times in those parts were evil times. To the south, King Edward heard tell that the Scots had received a shipment of banana trees. It is not fair, King Edward hollered. How come those Scots got bananas? Where are my bananas? Yes, we have no bananas!

So King Edward eventually sent his whole minion army north to rustle the bananas. Thus we come full circle in our movie review of Braveheart.

Full Circle!!!!

Here’s an example of why bananas are so important. What would this bumblebee flower beetle (Euphoria inda) do, without bananas?


Electropictoid credit: C.H.T. Ovate

More Mammonite Money, Gone Astray, Maybe, and Prisons?

Mammonites are free and easy with the trickle down, campaign contribution version. Apparently, the Mammonite theory is, a campaign contribution is an investment in friendly legislators. A legislator is apt to be real friendly to me, if I pay for his real estate investments.

So actually, the trickle down, in this example, does not trickle all the way down, just a little ways down. Could be, this particular trickle down is caught in a do loop? Campaign contribution - legislator - real estate - campaign contributor. Yes it could turn out that the legislator bought the real estate from the contributor.

So in this example, the trickle down, unlike regular water, trickles up the leg right after it trickles, down the leg. Unnatural!

My oh my!

But economics is really boring for the average Americano, so I need to keep spelling, economics. Since the Mammonites privatized prisons, incarceration has become one of the biggest and best Americano growth industries. There are plenty of prisoners too, black crackies, illegal aliens, dope heads of every kind and description, the usual suspects, plus some actual hardened criminals. But for the industry to grow, like it should, since the prison business is privatized, US needs lots more prisoners all the time.

That is why the Kinglet is wiretapping everyone. That is why ELF, according to the FBI, is the greatest threat to the Americano dream since, uh, poisonous snakes. That is why just about anyone with feelings other than those on display at the Fox channel, (the feeling of the Fox Channel Nazi moron mouthpiecies are AOK) could wind up in a nice, privatized prison. But if all that is true, why not bust all the white collar Mammonite criminals.? Why not throw them in jail along with the crackies, speed freaks and Mexican children?

Anyone besides Druids ever wonder about all that? Probably not. Yet here we have this very handy source of criminals for one of our major growth industries, prisons, and no one is exploiting this great resource. So we Druids are here to say, if anyone is fixing to start up a private prison for white collar Mammonite Republican criminals, count the Druids in. We want to invest. Go public and name your stock price. We shall be there, money in hand.

Since we are on a roll, economics wise, let us by all means keep rolling. Move On, or somebody, needs to come up with a list of every business that advertises on Fox News and an alternative business that does not so advertise on Fascist, I mean Fox News. If Move On, or somebody did that, I, Ray, would boycott every one of those businesses. I bet I would not be the only one that boycotted those businesses, either.

Ray and Crumby, Bosom Companions, Again!

Boy howdy! I narrowly survived a big boy whuppin’. Thank goodness my twain beautiful girl friends happened to be handy when Crumby launched his surprise attack. Yepper. My twain beautiful girlfriends managed to get between me and my bosom companion. They saved me all righty then, by superimposing their bodies between me and Crumby. Bravely they hugged themselves to my form, which by that time, was almost lifeless. They cried out, Crumby, what did your Granny tell you about smiting ladies? To get at Ray, you must smite us twain ladies first. What would your Granny say about that?

Then Crumby at last realized that his noggin was overcome by witless rage, that he was beside himself, that he was hopping mad, that he was fixing to actually smite ladies to get at me, his loving bosom companion, Ray. Whew! That was close. I shall never, ever, discuss Crumby’s Granny in public again. Plus I am really sorry I did that in the first place. But it is not my fault. You may see that lacking any Grannies myself, I did not fully understand how a reference to Crumby’s Granny might set him off. So I was innocent, yet I got what I deserved anyway, for being ignorant. A bosom companion should have known better.

There now Crumby, I have apologized publicly.

Thanks bosom companion, Ray. I appreciate your sincere apology. And I too, am sorry that I smote you from your blind side employing a cowardly surprise attack. My instinctual and irrational behavior was understandable, thanks to my inner ape. So I too am innocent on that account. Yet I am judged not only by my inner ape, but by my Druid Training which keeps my inner ape peacefully eating bananas somewhere inside me. At least my Druid Training finally restrained my inner ape before it was too late. There is no telling what your sister would do to me if you were slain outright, Ray.

Yepper. That is correct Crumby. Under those dreadful circumstances, Rayetta would make the remainder of your existence on this globe in this plane a living hell. Yet now all that has abated and we shall live happily ever after, bosom companion.

All righty then, bosom companions, forever!

Should Pop Quizzes be Allowed in Church?

OK. Everyone take up a pencil and a piece of paper. You shall discover plenty of pencils and paper in the rack on the back of the pew in front of you. Now that I have finished my sermon, we are fixing to have a pop quiz. Print your name and the date at the top of your piece of paper. Then number down the left hand side of your piece of paper. Double space the numbers.

Now I can tell from the many groans arising to High Heaven, that many of you do not wish to take a pop quiz in the Sight of the Lord. So tell you what. Anyone that actually passes, answers 7 out of 10 questions correctly, is excused from the tithe this month. How about that!

Are there any questions before we begin?

Can I go to the bathroom?
Do we have to write down the question?
What’s the date?
Is this pop quiz, optional?
May I be excused? I have a note.

Oh ye of little faith, oh ye of muddled and possibly irreverent thoughts, oh ye that do not listen and understand, this could be the very situation you find yourself in, verily, this upcoming Sunday. For all the churches have made an ecumenical decision to give a pop test in all the churches this Sunday to determine if anyone is paying attention to, and understanding, at least 70% of the Sunday sermon.

This was supposed to be a top secret, pop quiz, but we Druids found out about it. Since we found out, pity for the average church goer has welled up in our hearts. For we ovated the results of the pop quiz and discovered that almost all of you flunked, miserably. In fact, even after the ecumenical council lowered the minimum passing score to 50, most of you still flunked, miserably.

So to save all you average church goers from flunking the pop quiz, we decided to give you fair warning. Stay away from church this Sunday. If you go to church, you shall almost certainly, flunk. Or, if you do go, despite this warning, for Goddess’ Sake, try to pay attention to your pastor or pastorette.

10 Good Reasons the Druids Shall All Vote for Barach, except for those Druids that don’t vote

1. He is black, or black enough.

2. His last name rhymes with Oh! Rama.

3. He seems a calm and deliberate man.

4. He seems fairly smart.

5. He may actually take some of Jesus’ words seriously.

6. Barach is similar to baroque.

7. He has a n opinionated wife, and his kids are little and cute. Counts for two.

That is not quite 10, is it? Oh!

9. He wants to help US stop supporting the imperialist occupation of the miserable Iraqis.

10. He may try to roll back fascism a tad, here in the goose-stepping Homeland.

OK. That is 10 good reasons to vote for Senator Obama. And we Druids are going to do just that, if we get another chance at exercising ourselves electorally for Senator Obama.

But what about the great majority of Americanos, afflicted as they are with various heritages and now, also, with fascism. Well, we hope, scantily, that Senator Obama can unite all the coons, crackers and beaners, that 4-5% of Americanos of those ethnic persuasions, plus injuns and various half breeds of every kind and description, who might not slay one another outright over a crack pipe, a real estate scam or a rooster fight. Then, if he can do that, we still have no chance, but we have a better chance than we had before. We eagerly await Senator Obama’s next navigation of the choppy fascist waters. Will he sink or swim? Or, will he walk?

Ray’s Rainfall Update - Day 89, DY 2

High-Hopping Hosannas! We got a little free water, yesterday. That rain yesterday makes the new total in the gauge, 3.71" + 0.97" = 4.68" for DY 2 to date.

Meantime, I am contemplating a tell all on my Granny. Except that, as everyone knows, Rayetta and me were poor little orphan bastards at the time our Grannies should have been hugging us twain to their quartet of ample bosoms and telling us lies. But Crumby, my bosom companion, had a Granny or two.

In fact, Crumby could, if he chose, tell a great many racially charged Granny tales out of school, if he just would. Most likely though, he won’t. But he could, if he would.

Shut up Ray! Don’t ye be spellin’ on my Granny!

Hep! Hep! Somebody hep me! Crumby is fixing to murder me! Biff! Sock! Pow!
______

Yes. It is true. Though southern culture is on the skids, telling racially charged Granny tales, out of school, is still a problematic activity.

The Ark Druid

Magnus Is Attacked by Ancient Romans, Part 2

Part 2

As the twain companions journey along, Magnus saddled up betwixt the mighty pig’s ears, the twain of them hold polite discourse.

Twrch, what is a word that rhymes with Blodeuwedd?

Uh. Death. Then there are some words that also rhyme if the spokesperson happens to lisp. Like for example, caress, which would be pronounced, under those circumstances, careth.

Er. OK. That’s good.

Time passes.

Say Magnus. You sure are quiet up there. What the heck are you up to?

I am writing a poem. Yepper. This is my first actual attempt at the poetical art. My poem shall be called An Ode to Blodeuwedd.. So far, it is incomplete.

Well, let’s hear what you got so far. My ears are handy.

All righty.

An Ode to Blodeuwedd

Oh, oh, sigh, Blodeuwedd,
My one and only Blodeuwedd.
I long for your careth.
If I do not get a careth,
I may catch a germ, and go to my death.

Er. That’s it so far. Pretty good, eh?

Yes it is pretty good Magnus. The rhyming is ingenious. Plus, the pitiful pathos of it almost brings a tear to my eye.

Thanks Twrch. I need some positive reinforcement with my poetical art form. Yet now that I have part of a poem, or ode, actually written, perhaps I should seek the guidance of an actual literary critic before I, you know, actually send my Ode to Blodeuwedd , to Blodeuwedd. Yep. This particular ode needs to be generally perfect before Blodeuwedd espies it. Say Twrch. Do you happen to know if a literary critic or two dwell in these parts?

Hmmm. There used to be one, one that was famous for a limited time on a limited scale. But then he left off literary criticism to write his own poetry. At one time I had a copy of a slender tome, his only published poetical art. Let me think. Yes, now I recall the title, The Duck and the Woodchuck, Shall We Ever Meet Again, Anon, Alas?

So he mostly wrote poems about ducks and woodchucks?

That’s right Magnus. I thought those duck and woodchuck poems were excellent, though sad and full of remorse. But the critics panned that tome relentlessly. Then the censors got hold of it.

The censors got hold of it? Oh My Goddess, Twrch, the censors, Why would the censor’s censor a sad and remorseful tome, applying to the ducks and woodchucks?

Think Magnus, think! What word verily rhymes with both duck and woodchuck?

Er. Oh yeah. So what happened after that?

Well, no one knows for sure. Some say, the author of The Duck and the Woodchuck, Shall We Ever Meet Again, Anon, Alas?, constructed a tar paper shack in duck and woodchuck habitat. There he dwelt for many moons, reflecting on his cruel treatment, cursing his destiny and talking to himself. Yet the kindly ducks and woodchucks watched over him, making sure he had plenty to eat and clean socks.

Others surmise, that he got a job at one of the White Palace outbuildings. There he labored long hours as a librarian, dusting off the library copy of his slender tome.

That is so sad, Twrch. Hmmm. You don’t think he ever got a date with Blodeuwedd do you?

No Magnus. I am pretty sure he never got that far.

That’s good anyway.

On the twain of them journey, while simultaneously indulging in polite discourse, both Twrch Trwyth, and his companion in destiny, Magnus.

Ray’s T for the D - Hope Remains, the Season, Has Commenced

By yesterday, the commencement of Hope Remains, Day 86, DY 2, I was sufficiently recovered from my ant bites, incurred on Day 85, Ant Day, to do the annual mowing. This annual mowing proved an eye opener. As I mowed along through the tall grasses, rats ran everywhere. There they went, hustling along to get out of my way.

For a man of my experience, ascertaining the identify of all the hustling rats, even at a distance, even with the rats at high gallop, is easy. Those particular rats are Sigmodon hispidus, the hispid cotton rat, also known as super sigmodon for the S-shaped cusps on their molars.

It is a good sign that the CB has hispid cotton rats. But possibly a bad sign that we have so many. We may need some new additional terriers and cats. Because, apparently, the mythical coyotes in these parts must be slacking off.

Now what could be more embarrassing than mowing your lawn and having the result look like a scene from the Dark Ages. Well, having an audience of stray dogs or coyotes following the mower, barking and yipping. That would have been fairly embarrassing.

Yet spring has sprung. Hope Remains! A bluebonnet bloomed in the east pasture to herald the seasonal change. That bluebonnet bloomed because it got irrigated. The rest of the bluebonnets await unirrigated, free water.

Anon, should the free water fall, the winter weed flora shall burst forth in all its glory. Happily, the little rats shall scurry about, the beautiful flowers, a canopy above their little noggins, shielding their beady little eyes from Ogma’s fickle gaze.

Come to think of it, the owls must be slacking off too. Where are the dang owls? I have not heard them lately. Have the owls of these parts succumbed to all the pollution, at last? They need to be out in the pastures catching my rats. Dang it!

Hold it! What is it Crumby?

Are you done, Ray?

Yepper.

Then move over, because I have a gloomy, semi-important ovation to make.

Well, all righty then. Here is my bosom companion, the Crumby Ovate.

Ola! Meantime, on the landscape scale, fascism continues as the leading ideology of our rulers. Plus, they have most of the guns. So maybe the ruling class is not totally out of ideas. They have at least two ideas that work, fascism and most of the guns. Then there is the upcoming sham election. That makes three ideas. Away we go. We get, what we deserve.

Rayetta is Shocked!

Yes I am, shocked, totally. Here I am. I worked hard, did hard work to educate myself. I even earned my Ph.D. All that I accomplished, on my own, because I worked hard and used my natural smarts to raise myself up by my bootstraps. I made progress.

There I was, a poor little orphan girl. Nobody knows how many of my siblings lived, besides Ray. I shall never know that. We were raised by aquatic moles for Goddess’ Sakes. Then Dr. Swineherd found us, wandering along the freeway in our diapers. Ray’s diapers were always dirty. I had to change his diapers myself. How about that? I had to change Ray’s diapers, yet I still had enough gumption left over to eventually earn a Ph.D.

Yet now I am having second thoughts. Why did I work so hard to raise myself, intellectually, to my current level? When alternatively, all I had to do was flop down on a mattress, spread my legs for a ruling class dude, then wait for the checks to arrive in the mail. I could have been rich, rich beyond my wildest dreams.

Hmmm. Is there such a thing as luck? We Druids discount luck as a silly notion. Yet luck may be a factor of life as we know it. This trollop, Ashley, for example, may be lucky. Boo-hoo-hoo!

No, no, no Rayetta. Do not despair so. First of all, Ashley is full of itsha. Plus, she probably caught something or other. She is not so lucky. Why, Elliot may have been a bad uckfa. For all we know, he may have been a bad uckfa with genital warts. Do not despair, Lovely Druidess. I can not stand to see you cry, thusly. Please, stop that crying. Yer crying, tugs at my heart strings, plus makes me really nervous.

It’s not fair, Crumby. It’s just not fair.

No, maybe not. Yet despair not Lovely Druidess. Ashley shall get what she deserves. Despite the acclamations of the Mammonites, and the envy she has engendered among those same Mammonites, who have gone so far as to open their wallets, Ashley shall get what she deserves, anon. Plus, right off the bat, consider this, Rayetta. Ashley is a man’s name. At least Dr. Swineherd did not appellate you with a man’s name. On top of that, Ashley is properly pronounced, Ishlee. How would you like that? See, if you were a mere strumpet, instead of the Lovely Druidess, gross old white boys with genital warts might be calling you Ishlee. They would say, Bend over Ishlee, I need to stick my warty weenie where the sun don’t shine. Then you would have to do just that, even if you didn’t fell like it, for the money.

Huh-huh. For once, you are correct Crumby. I shall despair no longer. The fact is, I need to get back to my busy schedule. To heck with Ishlee.

That’s my Lovely Druidess.

ACHTUNG EVOLT

Do you know, that in foreign parts, like Europe, the Olympus cameras of the E series are known as E cameras? But here among US they are, or were, known as EVOLTS and have EVOLT printed on their boxes and bodies. Like Rayetta’s camera is the EVOLT E330. But now, the newer models, even among US are all just E cameras. No more EVOLTS.

Many among the wise have long speculated on why the earlier E cameras were called EVOLTS in the US. Many among the wise now speculate, Why are the newer US models no longer called EVOLTS? I have wondered about this important marketing decision myself.

Naturally, rather than going to the trouble of learning Japanese so I could do research on this interesting topic, I have instead, worked up an opinion. My opinion is, that the kindly Japanese wanted to remind all US Americanos that electric cameras have the potential to shock US and maybe kill US. Certainly, that worked for me. Even when I was allowed to use Rayetta’s camera, in those happy days before I broke it, twice, I never got in the bath tub with it. That’s because EVOLT printed in big white letters on the camera clued me to the fact that it could shock the Bejesus out of me. So even if wanted to take some pictures of myself in the bath tub, and I did, do, I never will. Not with an EVOLT.

No. I shall have to wait for that experience until Rayetta gets one of the new models. Then, stealthily, while Rayetta lies supine upon the Ample Bosoms, sound asleep, I shall sneak into the bath tub with that new model, secure in the knowledge that it won’t shock the Bejesus out of me.

Magnus is Attacked by Ancient Romans, Part 1

Remember, just before Magnus acquired his busboy position at the WG Bar and Grill, Magnus had chanced upon a Dolmen located on a craggy hilltop in close proximity to Child Molester Village. Unbeknownst to Magnus, at the time of that visit, that Dolmen was actually the globe’s most powerful magnet. By the time Magnus was fixing to visit that Dolmen again, that Dolmen was still highly magnetic. But it had lost some of its magnetic power, relatively speaking. Yes. At the time of Magnus’s second visit, that Dolmen was the globe’s second most powerful magnet due to the process known as natural de-magnetism or maybe because there was another magnet slightly more powerful than Magnus’s magnet. Still, though it was only the globes’s second most powerful magnet, or the penultimate most powerful magnet, unbeknownst to Magnus, it was still a very powerful magnet.

The occasion for Magnus second visit to the magnetic Dolmen is thus: One of Twrch Trwyth’s jobs is to strike terror into the hearts of mere mortals. To accomplish all that, Twrch Trwyth wanders about the countryside, afflicting the people. Sometimes he east up all the people’s corn or peanuts. Sometimes he eats a few of the people’s cows. Sometimes he roots up a domicile or two and eats the people.

Responding to the depredations, the people call upon the King to come and chase Twrch Trwyth off. Yes. The people send a representative to the King. My Lord, I represent the people of Child Molester Village. The great pig, Twrch Trwyth is fixing to afflict us, maybe. You must save us from that pig. Surely, if you save us not, we shall all perish.

If the king is a good king, at that very nonce, he assembles his better knights and sends them off to counter the depredations of Twrch Trwyth. If he is a great king, he leads his better knights into battle, personally, emulating King Arthur. Or, as it so happens, if the king is neither good nor great, that sorry excuse for a king informs the representative of Child Molester Village as follows: You are a mere peasant. Correct me if I am wrong, at your peril, but since you are a mere peasant, inhabiting you own bucolic village, should not you show some initiative in terms of local control or state’s right or somewhat other along those lines. In short, peasant, you need to settle up with that mere pig, locally. This is not a federal issue. Next!

Forlornly, the representative from Child Molester Village departs from the relative safety of the White Palace. What shall I tell everybody at home now? Boo-hoo. I have totally failed as a representative. But it is not my fault. I did the best I could. But what shall I tell my people? I need to make up something positive to tell my people.

Yes. The representative begins to think seriously about what positive lies he can tell the people. Anon, the representative is so seriously immersed in positive thoughts and solutions that the representative does not notice the great pig, big as four double wides. Yes. The representative of Child Molester Village is thinking so hard and so positively that the cries arising from the White Palace, the bugles blaring, the alarm bells clanging, go ignored.

Whuff! Smack- Smack!.

Jeez Louise!, Twrch Trwyth. You shouldn’t eat people up so close to the White Palace. You will have the Kinglet down on you, or us, by association.

Fret not, Magnus. I am a card carrying member of PETP, Pigs Eating Tasty People. Besides one of my jobs is, strike fear into the mere mortal persons. So what for that Kinglet! Do you see him out and about, serving and protecting anyone? Course not. Whuff.

Nevertheless, Twrch, all that racket over yonder is making me nervous. I think we should go somewhere else. Like maybe we could go visit my Dolmen. That’s it. Let’s go visit my Dolmen.

All righty then, Magnus. That’s a good idea. I feel like your Dolmen may be part and parcel of your destiny. So we shall go visit that Dolmen. But first I feel an urge upon me. That urge is to squeal to high heaven. Cover your ears, Magnus.

Magnus wisely covers his ears as the mighty Twrch Trwyth squeals to high heaven. The squeal to high heaven that Twrch Trwyth emits is of such a high frequency that the bells and bugles, clanging and bugling over at the White Palace, and constructed from materials obtained through a no-bid contract, vibrate so violently that they all burst asunder. After that squeal, you could hear a pin drop in those parts, if you could hear anything. That squeal made history.

Off they go, the twain companions. They head off in the general direction of Magnus’s Dolmen and the adjacent Child Molester Village, where Magnus’s destiny may await.

Ray, a Responsible Citizen on Ant Day

Here I am, in the vicinity of an ant city. You have no idea of the energy I expended toting the ant bait out to these wild parts of nature. Now, I still have to get the lid off before the ants afflict me. Mercy! Merciful Goddess protect me long enough for me to get the dang lid off.

Crumby! Help me get this dang lid oft the aint bait! The aints are already afflicting my feet. Help me! Help me! Mercy!


Electropictoid credit: Rayetta Pistrum, PhD., LDR.

Rayetta’s Butteflies - Annual Cycles are Life as We Know It

What have those boys been up to in here? The lab smells funny. Like they have been applying an antiseptic. But that is impossible. They would never apply an antiseptic unless somebody, probably me, made them. Hmmm. Well never mind. I shall get to the bottom of this smell, later.


My butterflies are returning. The great heat of recent has stimulated their tiny hormones and now, here they are. The accompanying electropictoid depicts a parcel of that return. Here is, Papilio cresophontes ovapositing on the toothache tree just like it did last year, and the year before that. Now, these days, the toothache tree is bigger, much bigger. This despite the voracious appetites of the caterpillars. Turns out, the caterpillars, which some say resemble bird droppings, do not totally eat up the toothache tree.

These annual cycles are interesting. Every year, Papilio cresophontes ovaposits on the toothache tree. Every year, the WG tests Crumby for worthiness. Every year, I wonder, half heartedly, what George Will would be like in bed. That is the way it goes, life as the Druids know it.

Faux Faith

Dern! The title of my latest article sounds lovely. It would make a nice name for a pretty and efficient young lady or two.

Hi there Crumby. They call me, Faux Faith. What can I do for you?

Dern! What is going on here? The venue must be afflicting me, just like it did Ray. We need to test the human environment for pollutants that may be afflicting our noggins right here in the laboratory. But meantime, I shall employ my Druid Training to get back on task. There now. I’m back.

All righty then. This article contains religious content. The fact is, all my articles contain religious content, but this one has lots more religious content than one of my average articles, maybe. So you atheistic astardbas are forewarned. You may not wish to peruse this article that is highly charged with religion and touches upon a variety of highly religious topics. Just so you know, this article is not for everyone, you atheistic astardbas, especially.

Now that I have forewarned or cleared off most of the atheistic astardbas, I shall commence. My hypothesis is, Believers do not really believe, they only pretend to believe. Is this hypothesis testable? Maybe. Given the assumption that a believer acts on belief, this hypothesis should be testable. For example, round up a bunch of believers as test subjects. Ask those believers, What do you believe? Then, place those believers in situations where those beliefs are tested. Real situations. Totally anonymous situations. Then examine the results to see if the beliefs are reflected in the actions and vice versa.

If my hypothesis is correct, almost none of those believers will act the way they should, according to their beliefs. No. Instead they will act in accordance with the commonplace physical and natural laws or urges.

This is why true believers are rare. Each day, a million times a day, physical and natural laws are confirmed. While religious belief is never confirmed. That is why it is so hard to act on religious belief. That is why Faux Faith, the concept, not Faux Faith the pretty and efficient young lady, is so popular. Few believe, but many pretend to believe.

Because the many believe in Faux Faith, the herd instinct kicks in. So that these days, our leaders must confess a Faux Faith publicly to retain US as followers. That is why, even a leader such as Senator Obama, who appears calm and rational, must ensnare himself in the Faux Faith, lending incredulity to his otherwise calm and rational demeanor.

Yet I must compare all that with the one true religion, Druidism. Any idiot can espy that the good Druid is everlastingly at one with the WG. Take me for example. All the casual observer has to do is cast an eye upon my many religious articles to know that the WG is always with me. She is with me, and I am with Her. There is no way to separate me from the WG. It is the same with Upup (Upoop) the Lord of Gravity. We are inseparable.

Plus, that all being indisputably true, I can do no less than always act upon my beliefs. I know for a certainty that if I follow my natural urge to fornicate, up on the roof, I may fall off, then accelerate off the roof at 9.8m/sec squared. I believe that and if I am not careful and fail to let Friendly Friction take care of me, I might act that way too in response to all the natural and physical laws or urges besides Friendly Friction.

Mercy! See how religious this article is? See why I warned off those atheistic astardbas?

Ray's T for the D - Ant Day - Let the Festivities Commence

If you assumed, like me, that the most important secular holiday in these parts has arrived at last, you would be correct. Today is Ant Day. Once fickle Ogma actually rises, all the responsible citizens in these parts shall sashay forth unto the lands round about all their domiciles on their own properties, inspecting for ants. Should those ants get detected, and they shall get detected, then the responsible property owner is fixing to poison the Bejesus out of those ants all across these parts. Once everyone performs their civic duty, and allowing a while for the poison to work, these parts shall be ant free, maybe.

Yes. Among the ants, only the most cunning shall survive. Only those ants that mounded their cities in inaccessible locations, perhaps inside an impenetrable thicket, shall persist. Well, maybe some other ants shall skate by too. Perhaps those ants dwell on properties where the responsible property owner is too old or infirm to properly inspect for ants. Or, maybe the responsible property owner is near-sighted and can’t find his spectacles in a timely fashion. Or maybe those ants dwell so close to the no-man’s lands bordering these parts that, fearful of encounters with foreigners or terrorist school bus drivers, the responsible party owners shall not carefully inspect those scary borders lands for ants.

Yet many among the ants shall perish anyway. Yes. I must still my natural predisposition to soft-heartedness. On previous Ant Days, the ones I actually remembered to celebrate, once the festivities commenced, I began to feel sorry for my ants. Then, once I began to feel sorry for my ants, I started making up excuses for sparing their tiny lives. Like, these ants reputedly eat ticks and fleas. Anybody that eats ticks and fleas, can’t be all bad. Trouble is, the fact that these ants eat ticks and fleas may be an opinion. They may only eat baby horny toads. But that may be just an opinion also. But what about all this dirt they move up. This ant dirt is nice and friable. That’s not an opinion. Course this dirt is also full of ants, so being friable, does not make this dirt more useful. Sigh!

Anon, my natural predisposition to soft-heartedness would lead me to start thinking too much. What if I was a handsome young ant fixing to enjoy sexual intercourse with a beautiful ant princess? Then, right before I got to enjoy sexual intercourse, I picked up some ant bait and poisoned myself. How would I feel then?

Yes. Life as we know it may be complicated, too complicated for the soft hearted. Hark! Fickle Ogma has not yet arisen. I must cease all this foolishness lest I wear myself out ere the festivities commence. I wonder if my ants like cinnamon buns.

Crumby Spells Ray

Crumby, could you take over for the nonce? I am wearing myself to a frazzle ere the festivities commence. Here’s my list of additional facts I was fixing to spell.

Sure Ray. I am raring to go. I shall take on over.

All righty. Here I am. It’s me, Crumby. All righty then.

Whoa! Tucker Carlson has been cancelled. How could our rulers do that? Those rulers must be in ideological hell. What confusion, what lack of ideas led those rulers to cancel, Tucker? Er. Let me consider a possibility. I know, ratings. Tucker’s rating were low or getting lower, or somebody among the rulers speculated that a Tucker replacement might get better ratings than Tucker. That means that the Tucker audience, consisting of the smarmy, must be getting smaller or spending less money. Less smarmy Tucker fans spending less smarmy money must Scare the Dickens out of the rulers. So they had no choice, but to cancel Tucker. How sad!

Meantime, in these parts, the human environment suffered through another record breaking high temperature day. The wind howled and the humidity plummeted, if that’s possible. Anyway, our yearly precipitation for DY 2 to date, probably evaporated yesterday. So all you utheadsba fixing to arrive for SXSW need to bring your own water.

What else? Oh yes, crime is increasing among the Mammonites. Hearsay has it that the RNC has been looted. I sure am happy about that. Because not one plug nickel of that loot, was my loot. Turn that thief loose, and let him keep his ill gotten gains. Those ill gotten gains are trickle down, and good for the economy. As for the Mammonite contributors, they got what they deserved.

Ovation and Opinion

Oh My Goddess! Have all the lies, caught up with our precious ruling class at last? That process has taken a while. But Druids have plenty of time for the accounting. Yepper. The pigeons may have come home to roost. The fat may be in the fire. The fat lady may have sung her little song? But never mind all that.

Our precious ruling class managed to ensconce a crime fighter, one of their own, in the office of governor, New York. That would never happen in the Republic of Tejas (ROT). Here, crime is so pervasive, it is a way of life. But never mind that, too, for a minute. We shall go over that fact, anon.

Anyway, all Elliot did do was fornicate with a professional lady maybe once a month. Elliot paid the professional lady with his own money. Not mine.

So for that, he resigns his semi-important job. Go figure! It is not like he stole my money. I say, fine him 50 million and let him go. He can afford 50 million. Then, once he has paid his whore monger fine, he should be allowed to practice law, or real estate, or whatever he did do, after he inherited all his money from his daddy.

Yepper! The US ruling class is totally out of ideas. Out of ideas and Tucker Carlson is on the TV. That about sums it up.

Duh! Out of ideas!!!!!

The dialectic is, increasing population, decreasing resource availability. How shall that dialectic be resolved in a hemi-democratic fashion? Our precious ruling class has always made US believe in democracy even when such was only marginally apparent to many. That illusion has been mightily bolstered, historically, by generally cheap transportation. Our ability to move long distances any time the ruling class wanted US too, made US think we were free to move about, and doing so of our own accord. Especially when we got to go off in the car on vacations, Sunday drives or parking.

Yepper. We seemed free as birds compared to those unfortunate ones lacking cars. Compared to the car-less, we were free. In fact, freedom came to be closely associated with car ownership. In that respect, owning a car is much like dog ownership. A person has to be fairly free to own a dog. Often I have said to myself or others, Show me a dog owner, and I’ll show you a person of property. That person of property if free, because he or she owns a dog. But never mind all that?

Now, many of US face the prospect that our illusion of freedom, our mobility, shall be snatched away. I suspect that the ruling class has already decided to limit the general mobility to really important trips, like going off to work. But before that, the ruling class shall make sure the occupation forces in the colonies and elsewhere have plenty of cheap gas. Yepper. Anon, the ruling class shall prioritize our car rides. Security rides and productivity rides shall get nearly all the gas, while the Sunday drives and parking rides shall be preserved as ruling class recreational activities.

Fear not. Parking shall not go away. Yet only ruling class teenagers shall participate in that historic activity, possibly with a high dollar professional lady, or even, gasp, a professional gentleman.

Many may resent the gradual curtailment of the illusion of motile freedom. Yet these many are the old. The young, not knowing any better, shall assume, It is part of the natural order for me to be car-less. Yet I am still free to go where I please. I just have to walk, ride my bicycle or wait for the bus, or employ a combination of those transportation options to get to work. I am still free, because I can choose from those many options.

But back to crime in the ROT. What passes for a daily newspaper in these parts, naturally, reported on Elliot’s whore monger antics, extensively. But, of course, that story, in and of itself, is far more interesting if there is an Austink connection. So the daily reports that the professional lady(s) Elliot spent his own money on, may have Austink connections. She says so on Your Tube or Her Tube, maybe. Does anybody remember Elliot’s professional lady from when she habitated in these parts? Our daily wants to know!

Then, another article informs everyone that high dollar professional ladies are widely available right here in central Tejas. These ladies range in age from 18 to their mid-40s. That’s nice.

Oh! I almost forgot. Now, as it turns out, Elliot may not have spent his own money. He may have spent campaign contributions. Well, that is even funnier. Especially since, that is not my money either

Ray's T for the Day - Ant Day Plus Hope Remains the Season are Imminent

This Saturday is Ant Day. Yepper. I got my reminder. So I am totally all set. Those ants better watch out. Day 85, this upcoming Saturday is also the last day of Polar Bear, or Polaris, the season. So Sunday, Day 86, is the commencement of Hope Remains, the season, that some call, Spring. Yepper. That is all correct. Hope Remains opening day, and the most important secular holiday in these parts, Ant Day, nearly coincide this year. I am fixing to wet myself with excitement. Plus, these two dates fall on a weekend, so I am off work. I can celebrate properly, possibly by taking mass quantities of downers. Yippee! I have lots to look forward to this weekend. In fact, three big coyote yips for Ant Day and Hope Remains, the Season!!!!

Ray’s T for the D - Since I have friends, I don’t need enemies.

Dedicated to all those ambitious persons who would have achieved all their desires, except for their friends.

Okie Dokie. This time I have decided I am fixing to make something of myself after all. I shall, after all that, be a historical figure, famous and rich beyond my wildest dreams. All I require is a little help from my friends.

Here I go.

Ray! Your bosom companion, Mr. Crumby Ovate has been busted for having sex with animals or bestiality. Do you yourself, Ray, approve of having sex with animals or bestiality? Have you ever, Ray, enjoyed sex with an animal or bestiality, yourself?

Ray! Your twain beautiful girl friends, both Ms. Olwen White Track and Ms. Hope Remains have been busted for running, of all things, a lesbian prostitution ring. Do you support their lesbian prostitution ring activities, Ray? Have you ever utilized those services, yourself, indulging in those various types of sodomy?

Ray! Your employer, Mr. Red Ears, and your sister, Ms. Rayetta Pistrum, have sold hundreds of ranchettes to poor Mammonite Republicans. Those poor Republican Mammonites only desired a better life in beautiful Iraqi Kurdistan. Your employer and sister took their money, but as it turns out, those ranchettes are under constant threat of attack by the Turkeys. Those ranchettes are worthless, because they are dangerous. Did you know about that real estate enrichment scheme your employer and your sister perpetrated on the witless Mammonite Republican potential emigrees, Ray?

Ray! Did you know that Monsieur Raymone Toutsuite, your friend and confidant, is an illegal French alien and dope smuggler?

Rayetta’s Birds - Passer domesticus (Class Aves)

I must explain myself. I have decided to document as many of the birds (Class Aves) that occur at the CB as I can document. I need no help realizing how silly this decision, on lots of levels, is. Matter of fact, Crumby is helping with that realization at this very nonce. Crumby, you better quit that this instant. He’s flapping his arms and crowing.

Anyway, I shall employ the same methodology that I employed successfully on the butterflies. Except, with the birds (Class Aves) I shall employ more art and less science. That’s because documentation electropictoids of birds are much harder, so I get some artistic leeway.

Here is an example of what I am spelling about. This little bird, Passer domesticus is somewhat concealed from the camera by an impenetrable mustang grape thicket that lies between me and him. Most of the blurry stuff in the electropictoid foreground is grape vines. The blurry grape vines are what I mean when I spell, artistic leeway. I am happy enough with this picture. It shall do me, even if I do not get another picture of Passer domesticus, ever.

Now some natural history. Passer domesticus is not a pest at the CB. It seldom approaches the domicile or the out buildings. It nests in the thickets, spending most of its time hopping, fornicating and chirping happily, in or near the thickets. However, when the bag worm moths swarm, Passer domesticus becomes a flycatcher, catching those moths on the wing. Ours catch a great many moths on the wing, and since they are poorly designed for flycatching, present a comical spectacle.

Doubtless, Passer domesticus, makes the top ten list of trash birds in these parts and most parts. Qualifications for that honor include; introduced (almost everywhere) species, human commensal, butt common. Nevertheless, since Druids feel that the concept, trash birds, is tiresome, and the authors of the concept also tiresome, we appreciate our Passer domesticus for what they are, cute little nasty birds adept at moth catching and fornicating.

Ray's Thought for the Day - Our Kinglet is a Titty Baby

Hearsay has it that our precious Kinglet has gone on the TV whining about high oil prices. What a titty baby or cry baby our precious Kinglet is! Hey Kinglet! Like you say yourself, the free market sets the price.

Also, eventually, those fat ass Saudi buddies of yours shall trickle down some of their oil profits. That’s how it works. Right Kinglet! Just be patient and eventually you shall get some of the trickle down. Maybe the Saudis will give you a nice job, consulting for the Saudi oil industry, post upcoming. Think of that! You shall shmooze the golf courses, globally, especially that fine course in Abu Dhabi. Hey, I bet Chitlin will be there too. Won't you twain iecespa ofa itsha have fun.

Hearsay also has it that the Saudis figure they have 100 years of oil left in their reserves. Reckon they want to sell it all off now, at the going rate, or wait until the price goes up. Huh-huh.

Yepper. The US ruling class is totally out of ideas. Don’t believe me? Just look at who has been Kinglet for the last eight uckingfa earsya. Now tell me, the US ruling class has lots of good ideas. Like for example, growing all the fruits and vegetables in foreign parts, then shipping them to US on airplanes. Huh-huh.
______

To actually understand Ray's Thought for the Day, bilingualism in Pig Latin is a plus.

Ray's Thought for the Day - Day 80, DY 2

Once the rain stops I shall do an update on that all important statistic, the free water total.

Meantime, Crumby and me are taking turns reading the instruction booklet that came with our SEARS KSX-P program camera. Surprisingly, the camera works. Or at least it all works up to the point of getting the film developed and then espying how it worked.

That's right, we put batteries in it and scrounged some film and put that in it and took some pictures of a door knob. All the LEDs came on, all the knobs turned, everything seems to work, perfectly.

Plus, we have two K mount lenses for it. So we are all set in the retro sense. Maybe we shall shoot that roll up, take that roll to get developed, and see what we got. Maybe.

Good Goddess! Film is really annoying. Puttng it in, taking it out, getting it developed, buying it, paying for getting it developed. Good Goddess!

Later.

OK Crumby, I am back.

OK Ray. Look! What we need to do is take a picture of our film camera. I have it posed and the C5060 is all set to take its picture. So what you need to do is borrow one of Rayetta's lenses for scale. Go get the littlest one.

All righty.

Later.

Here it is Crumby, the diminutive 35mm Zuiko macro.

OK Put it by the KSX-P and I shall take their picture. Click.

Look at that Ray!

Astonishing Crumby!

Yepper. The diminutive 35mm macro is twice the size of that tiny Sears lens. You know Ray, we need to get a K to 4/3 adapter for that little booger.

I agree, Crumby. But Rayetta shall not put it on her camera, especially if it has to have an adapter. And she sure as heck won't let me put it on.

Dern it!

Dang it!

You know Ray, we need an old, used dslr camera, like an E 300 that we could mess around with. We could keep it a secret from Rayetta. That way we could change lenses on our cameras to our hearts' content.

That's correct Crumby. We could put on adapters, daisy thingys, reversing rings, everything imaginable, to our hearts' content.

Let's get one.

All righty then.
_____

The above exchange was spurred, tangenitally, by the mutual interest of Ray and Crumby in the newly announced E 420, a diminutive dslr with a relatively tiny pancake lens option.

The Ark Druid
_____

All righty then, Crumby. Now I have to do the all important rainfall update.

All righty then, Ray. I am eagerly awaiting the new total.

Ray's Official New All Important Rainfall Update

Ta-tum. The new total is 2.11" + 1.60" = 3.71".

Ray Goes Shopping

Yesterday was my turn to go grocery shopping. The CB was totally out of my delicious popsickles. Off I went to the Central Market that vends my popsickles. But first I had to go to Sun Harvest. Yepper. I planned my shopping adventure out ahead of time because I did not want my popsickles to melt.

Jeez Louise! I fondly remember the good old days when a person could acquire all the required available items needed for survival at one grocery store. Those good old days are long gone. Now I have to go to four different stores to get all the items needed for mere survival.

Meantime, I bet the dopiest shoppers in the world comprise the regular Central Market clientele. I refuse to include myself in that category, dopiest shoppers in the world, because I only go for the delicious popsickles. Anyway, yesterday, the dopy, upscale demographic trend was more apparent than usual.

Blog This! SXSW Party by Blooger (sic).

That is right. Hoards of dopy upscale shoppers from foreign parts, and fixing to attend SXSW, had crowded into the Central Market. There they were, packed elbow to asshole with the native dopy upscale shoppers, all of them waiting patiently in the free food lines for special treats. The aisles were impassable.

I was in a hurry to get my popsickles out of the dang store before they melted. Wisely, I had planned a strategy out previously for the eventuality of getting out of the dang store before my popsickles melted. My plan was to leave those popsickles in the store freezer until after I had picked up a few other items, like peeled whole Hatch green chilis, which Central Market was totally out of.

There I was, fixing to get a six pack of delicious all natural raspberry soda. There I was, stamping my feet and sighing. But that is all I could do. Stamp my feet and sigh. I could make no progress. The aisle before me was jammed up, elbow to asshole with dopey clientele.

I felt a tug on my elbow. Sir, can I help you get something?

It was a young lady, obviously pretty and efficient, but as helpless as me, given the circumstances.

No, no, no. I shall snake through here eventually. I am after that soda water, yonder.

Anon, I managed to snake past barely. I had to turn sideways and sidestep along, but I made it over to the raspberry soda. Central Market actually had the raspberry soda for vend.

But then I had to get my raspberry soda water back to my cart which I had wisely left in a relatively unpopulated area. On I snaked and side stepped.

I had plenty of time on my journey to survey the countenances of the other shoppers. Surveying those countenances, I felt slightly nervous, like when I am out in nature, and a herd of cows approaches me. I always know in that situation, what those cows are thinking. Those cows surmise, He has hay. The cow thinks, that guy is fixing to give me some hay. In that situation, I have never had any of those cows try to afflict me, so there is no good reason for me to feel nervous, but I still feel nervous. That is exactly how I felt gazing at the countenances of those upscale shoppers as they patiently waited in lines for their free treats.

Turns out, I eventually got back to my basket, which was actually at the same location I left it. And there, right next to my basket was the pretty and efficient young lady that had tugged on my elbow hours previously. She was busy, setting up another free food line.

It is these events, sir, that cause the store to be so crowded.

Yeah but, what about yall feeding them. It’s like hogs to a trough.

You said it, not me.

Oh! After all that I got my popsickles. I got tangerine and grape.

Family Values

Hello. This is the famous artiste, Mr. C.H.T. Ovate spelling. Today I have a beautiful speaking model actually with me in the CB studio. My speaking model’s name is Ms. Blodeuwedd. You may know Ms. Blodeuwedd from the adventures of Magnus Magnetico. Yepper. Today, Ms. Blodeuwedd is here in the CB studio at the bequest of me, Mr. C.H.T Ovate, famous artiste. OK. Now that I have made all that perfectly clear, Ms. Blodeuwedd, stick out your bosoms and recite your line.

This explains a lot.

Wait a minute. Crumby, this one line is all I get to speak? One measly line is all I get? Hey! I get paid by the line. You need to give me some more lines so I shall at least break even and cover my expenses. There now. That’s better.

No, no, no! You only get that one line, dern it. I am the artiste here. The artistic effect I was fixing to present to the struggling masses is adequately covered by that one line.

Too bad Crumby. But this is what happens to the stingy. Lots of times a poor working girl like me gets aggravated by the stinginess of the piece labor market, represented in this instance, by you, Mr. C.H.T. Ovate, artiste.

Dern it! How many lines do I owe you for, then?

Four. That’s four lines for the Crumby Ovate.

Rats are Good to Eat

While it is true that dogs eat most anything, for some dogs, rats are a special treat. This dog is enjoying a delicious rat. Do not fret. This particular rat’s soul has departed. No. This rat is not being eaten alive. Its soul is already on hold at one of the WG’s special places for the departed, awaiting reprocessing. Anon, this rat shall be born again. Perhaps it shall be born again as a fatter baby. Who knows?

After all, what is the internet for. It is a place where we can share our experiences, our up and down, our to and fro, our dialectic, our product for sale. Now this dog, sometime tonight, shall vamoose, possibly on the bed. So life goes. This is just life, as we know it.

Ray's T for the D - How will rising gas prices afflict fatter babies?

As everyone knows, a surplus of fatter babies in Norte Americana has almost altered the Earth’s orbit. Yes. Due to the great mass of the fatter babies inequitably distributed across the planet’s surface, all, even the innocent, are threatened with annihilation or suffering. That is because the fatter babies are so preposterously fat, they are causing the Earth to wobble out of its normal orbit. Too much wobble, we all die or suffer. Yet there is always hope.

This time, hope arises from an unexpected quarter. Rising oil prices may save us, even the innocent, from the fatter babies. That is correct. Big oil may save everyone.

Here is how that shall work. The fatter babies require plenty of cheap oil, both to tote their big asses around, and to provide fertilizer for their grubber crops. Yet as oil prices rise, the fatter babies shall have to compete more vigorously for that oil. All that competition shall generate more heat. So the fatter babies shall lose some mass just do to all the exercise and resultant heat of competition. Also, and more importantly, anon, the competition shall intensify. The fattest, fatter babies shall hog most of the remaining oil so that the fatter, fatter babies shall have no choice but to slim down.

My ciphering indicates that due to several laws of physics, just a tiny few fattest fatter babies are less like to wobble the planet off into the stygian darkness of outer space than mass quantities of merely fatter babies. So I have now spelled out my hope for staving off the upcoming general annihilation or suffering.

Uh oh. My delicious cinnamon bun is fixing to be delivered. Gotta go!

Eight Ways the New Kinglet or Queenlet Could Help Restore the CBs Faith in Democracy

OK. We have been considering what the new queenlet or kinglet could do to make the CB feel better about US democracy.

1. Open records on the activities of the CIA. Obviously the CIA has been torturing prisoners and assassinating foreign leaders in secret. Do we want our tax dollars going for all that? The present kinglet wants to legalize the torture so the CIA can indulge in torture with a clear conscience. But the present kinglet only wants to legalize some torture. The other torture would still be accomplished in secret. Our new kinglet or queenlet needs to tell US straight up about that. Because it is our money.

2. Stop messing with Cuba. We do not want the CB tax dollars going to restore the property rights of the former Cuban ruling class. Rumor has it that some of those former ruling class types may be actual organized criminals. They got what they deserved.

3. Knock heads at the FBI. Now we have big shots at the FBI claiming that ELF is about the worst threat to US, anywhere. Meantime, the economy falters in response to white collar criminal shenanigans and political corruption. Get a grip, FBI.

4. Command all the minions to start enforcing the laws impartially. The present kinglet only enforces laws he likes personally. The present vice kinglet actually assists his cronies in evading laws. Uh, what is democratic about that?

5. A top down review of the topic, Is imperialism good for US democracy? You know, at some point, after years and years, even the most idiotic Americano could realize that permanent occupation of foreign parts is not the same as war.

6. Make lots more drugs legal for personal recreational use, especially Cannibis sativa. Now that cheap energy has made history, no more calming Sunday drives, US shall need lots more drugs to calm US down. Yes. The new kinglet or queenlet should spell out that Americanos need to stay home and enjoy their new legal drugs instead of driving around in great vehicles wasting energy.

7. Leave Jesus out of it. Hey, potential kinglet or queenlet. There is no way Jesus would tell you it is OK to order your minions to assassinate or torture somebody. Plus, Jesus would never say, In some situations, my son or daughter, it is OK to rob the poor to give to the rich. Jesus would not say that. So leave Jesus out of it, assholes. Let me reiterate. We can not vote for or support the antics of someone who is constantly involving Jesus in every little sinful detail of their wicked life.

8. Break up the monopolies. Especially, we need to start growing our own drugs, and becoming self sufficient in terms of communication. The new kinglet or queenlet needs to help US accomplish those personal dreams.

That is two fours to make eight. Octo!

Ray’s addendum: The new kinglet or queenlet needs to subsidize my delicious cinnamon buns. I am fretful of another price hike any week now.