Sherardia arvensis - Bar Ditch Weed Plus Crumby on Rev. Wright

DY 2 is a bad year in many respects. The Kinglet, our precious Commander and Thief, loots the national treasury. The fascist noose tightens around Lady Freedom’s neck. Demand exceeds supply. Yet on the good side, here at the CB we have been little troubled by pesky weeds from foreign parts.

Oh sure, we have filled a couple of five gallon buckets full of pulled up bedstraw, rescuegrass and Japanese brome, but that is nothing compared to years past when we pulled up truckloads of the stuff. By the way, always put those weeds in the garbage can. They need to go to the dump. Otherwise your compost shall be full of them forevermore. Besides, everyone needs to use up everything, like garbage dump space, as fast as possible. Right now, you have as much right to pollute as a Republican. But that right is fixing to get taken away from you. So get your licks in while you can.

This featured weed. Sherardia arvensis, may now be almost global in distribution. Despite a probable global distribution, it is fairly inconspicuous until it forms up into a large colony and blooms. The depicted is part of a large colony habitating in the bar ditch. All of it is fixing to go to the dump.

As everyone knows, all the stuff you send to the dump, in a few thousand years, shall turn into jewels, precious metal artifacts and oil. Won’t that be a grand surprise! Our dopey descendants shall one day be digging around in the dump, only to discover all our trash metamorphosed into valuable commodities. Won’t they be surprised and happy!

Hold it! Here is my bosom companion, Crumby, arrived at the venue. Que paso, Crumby?

I am pissed off bosom companion Ray. As a defrocked minister I need to stick up for Reverend Wright.

Yeah but, Reverend Wright is disrespecting our candidate, Crumby.

Don’t matter Ray. I got to succor the Reverend.

All righty Crumby. Go ahead on if you must. Just remember, the Ark Druid may be watching.

All righty. This is the Crumby Ovate. No, I don’t necessarily believe AIDS is a biological weapon of the US guv. They would have tested it out on the troops first. No, I don’t believe Louis Ferrakhan (sic?) is a genius. Yes, I do believe the imperialist occupation of miserable Iraq seems like the same difference as terrorism. So that is one item out of three that Reverend Wright and I agree on. Probably, if I knew the sum total of Reverend Wright’s opinions, we would agree on an even higher percentage that 33%. Plus we could swap dumb parishioner jokes. And don’t forget the lady parishioners. We could agree on them.

Yet in all seriousness, no one should take preachers seriously. They are just for entertainment, like your favorite comedy shows. Especially, nobody should get mad at preachers for what they say. After all, preachers start out with a ridiculous premise, so whatever a preacher spouts is bound to get silly and sillier. Like there was this preacher who wanted to cure addictions, including the addiction to mean gossip. But first he had to identify which ones of his parishioners were mean gossipers so he could help Jesus save them. One Sunday between the benediction and the sermon, the preacher asked all the mean gossipers to hold up their hands. Nobody volunteered. Then the preacher allowed that anyone who was a mean gossiper, and did not hold up their hand, was fixing to burn in hell for all eternity unless they fessed up. Still no volunteers. So then the preacher began quoting all the mean gossip he had heard from various parishioners plus naming names. That started a buzz in the pews, but still, nobody fessed up.

Now it so happened that one of the parishioners at that church was a ventriloquist. Ventriloquists are well known as irreverent. And this particular ventriloquist only went to church for the entertainment. So this ventriloquist started throwing her voice. First, a deaf, dumb and blind gentleman in pew uno announced, The organist, old lady Hunsacker, is a mean gossip. For example, she told everyone my grandson had a hard on during his baptism and ejaculated in the font water. How can that be? He was only four years old.

Anon, another, and yet another parishioner miraculously spilled his or her guts about this or that mean gossiper of their acquaintance. Still, nobody fessed up. So the preacher got worked up and told them all he was fixing to pray to Jesus for all of them to see if he could keep them all out of Hades on account of their mean gossip. But if anyone wanted to come in and talk things over in private and pray to Jesus in private with just the preacher present to help, he, their preacher, would stay an hour after church to facilitate the mean gossip addiction private prayers.

Nobody showed up. But that’s OK. The preacher went fishing. See! It’s all entertainment. If the entertainment is not this good at your church, you should get a better church. Like Reverend Wright’s church, maybe.

Back to you, Ray.

That was really interesting Crumby. I never knew ventriloquists were church goers.

Not all of them Ray. Just some of them go.

Say Crumby, Do you know that tomorrow is the last day of Hope Remains the Season in these parts? Yepper. Tomorrow is May Day, the last day of spring. Then it's Beelzebubberific from here on out for weeks and weeks. Hot! Hot! Hot!

Yes Ray, I knew that. Plus a Shiite Militia in miserable Iraq has called a General Strike. Good. Maybe if none of the miserable Iraqi Shiites go to work, Chitlin's profits will drop so low we shall end the occupation. I may go on strike in sympathy.

You don't have a job, Crumby.

That's right, I don't. Dern it. I need to get a job so I can go on strike.

Ray's Rainfall Update - Day 128, DY 2

More free water fell yesterday, Praise the Goddess. The new all important total is 7.17" + 1.40" = 8.57". Free! Free! Free! Free! Ha!

A rainy day is good day to refurbish your butterfly net. You may not believe it, but the material employed in make wedding veils and butterfly netting, eventually rots. So those items are typically in constant need of repair.

Yesterday, Crumby and me, working in shifts, eventually got a new net fixed up. That was lots of work. Hard work, since our sewing machine is always broke. But we finished up without any tantrums. So that is good. Now we are ready. Lesto!

Perhaps later I shall edit this post to show our refurbished butterfly net in action. The moths, or muths, need to watch out.

Crumby’s Serpents - Thamnophis marcianus marcianus

Oh! Crumby’s a wildlife biologist. He can do the snakes.

Yes, that’s right. Crumby can do the snakes. That way, nobody else has to do the snakes. Fortunately for Crumby, the snakes are mostly, history.

I didn’t know garter snakes ate my Sigmodons. But look at this fat rascal. And this one is a garter snake. Imagine how many of my Sigmodons a really big snake could eat, six, maybe eight.

Actually, I only suspect this checkered garter snake is full of my rats. It may be full of something else. Anyway, here this snake is, located right out from the front porch. Rayetta first espied it.

Crumby, come look at this snake!

Dern it! Snakes are the super opposite of children. Better not seen or heard. Anyway, I was compelled to take its picture. This is a good sized checkered garter snake. I am certain that everyone else in these parts could easily identity it as a rattlesnake.

Fortunately for me, Crumby, this segment of the venue, Serpents, shall be blessedly intermittent.

Ray’s Rainfall Update - Day 128, DY 2

More free water! Makes me want to sing!

The Moon belongs to everyone.
The best things in life are free.
La, la, la!

Uh oh. That’s all I can remember of that ditty.

We got a little rain last night.
The pets ran under the bed.
We all got spooked by the terrible storm
when the pets ran under the bed.

When the pets all hide in the closet
Don’t shut that closet door.
Fer if ye ferget yer pets er in the closet
Ye shall pet those pets no more.

The pets all climbed in the bathtub.
The safest place to get.
When the thunder booms and the whole house shakes
it’s the safest place to get.

Amusing, is it not, that the pets, during a storm, head for all the places in the house you have been told to go yourself. That’s right. The local weatherman has just interrupted your favorite TV program for the fourth time in 15 minutes. The weatherman’s message, If you want to survive, better go get in the bathtub. Be sure to haul your mattress into the comfort station. Once you are in the bathtub, pull the mattress into position, then duck and cover in the bathtub under the mattress. Only in this posture are you liable to survive the terrible approaching storm.

But what is the new all important rainfall total? Well, let’s just sum that puppy up. 5.17" + 1.2" = 7.17". Pitiful, yet less pitiful than formerly.

Rayetta's Birds - Myiopsitta monachus (Class Aves)

A learned lady like me always makes the effort. That’s why, when Crumby finally negotiated the release of my copy of the Zuiko 70-300mm, the very copy from the original first shipment from the Land of the Rising Sun that was stolen by pirates, and that copy, my lens, finally arrived at the CB, I headed out to take pictures of monk parakeets. The monk parakeets in these parts stay on a microwave tower. There, on that tower, they live happy productive lives, cheerfully squawking away, high above the frenetic and useless capitalistic hustle and bustle below.

As everyone knows, parakeets are social birds even extending comradery to the similarly inclined starling (Sturnus vulgaris) (not shown). At the microwave tower, the starlings dwell on the top floor, spending their time flycatching from the accommodating perches. Many are aware that starlings spend lots of time flycatching from exposed perches. That is why the other common name for starlings is yellow-billed martins.

Confused? I am attempting here to relate to serious umbdaassesa who may think starlings are yellow-billed martins. Yet martins are different from flycatchers because of the difference in styles of fly catching between the martins, swallows and swifts of nature and flycatchers. Still confused? Well, who cares?

This subtopic is about parrots, or parakeets, same difference. The monk parakeet is an immigrant from South America, possibly from the great Pampas of Argentina. Here is a monk parakeet holding a twig. Holding a twig is smart.

In its natural habitat, the monk parakeet, hangs around monasteries, seeking only to convert those sheep and cows that stray from the monastic fold to a religion that recognizes the natural world, as opposed to the Catholicism of the actual monks, which does not. At the same time, monk parakeets have evolved a symbiotic relationship with all the cows and sheep, not just the strays, eating up what those ungulates don’t want or, sometimes, eating up what they can get to first. Nature is like that, believe it or not.

In these parts, the immigrant monk parakeets live off the fat of the land. For these immigrants, life is a never-ending vacation from all the toil and trouble of their native land. Here, the mission to the ungulates is entirely forgotten.

Crumby wishes to fire them up though. Crumby surmises that these immigrant monk parakeets, if they were trained in civil communication, and knew some theology, could prove a valuable resource for his plan. Crumby’s plan is to persuade everyone, cows and sheep included, to go on a general strike against our precious Mammonite ruling class. Crumby believes a general strike, where nobody goes to work for about a month, might scare the bejesus out of our precious Mammonite ruling class parasites. Then, once those parasites were made aware of the Labor Theory of Value, as clearly explained to them by the monk parakeets, those ruling class parasites would have no choice but to accede to Crumby’s demand for worker control, a four hour day, economic justice, economic equality, and other good stuff.

After all, even parakeets know that productivity is entirely social.

Geum and Sanicula Revisited

Many may know that Geum canadensis and Sanicula canadense are frequently encountered simultaneously. Many may also know that both may be easily grown from free seed. Earlier in DY 2 the CB combined crop of these twain interesting plants was indicated electropictoidographically in basal rosette modes. Now, here those same plants are, bigger than me. What a deal!

Earlier, I exaggerated my height by 4cm. I am actually 19cm, not 23cm. I had to go back and make that correction in the previous epistle lest everyone assume these plants are 4cm taller than they are.

Now that everyone knows how tall I am, I can easily be utilized for scale. Then, let us say an unfamiliar object is twice as tall as me. Then, if I was included for scale with reference to that object, one might say, that object is 38cm in height, or about twice the height of Ray, or maybe, two Rays in height.

Ray's Flies - Tabanus atratus

The black horse fly (Tabanus atratus) has a lot going for it. First, its genus name ends in anus, always a good sign. Second, it is big. This one is pushing 3cm. Third, it has red feet. Fourth, it is readily identifiable as a regular fly. Regular flies are those flies that run-of-the-mill knuckleheads can easily identify to Order.

This is the first black horse fly documented at the CB. It, I should say, she, made a casual visit to the butterfly feeder. But she is a bloodsucker by nature. So she lost interest after getting her picture taken, departed, and has not been seen again.

Actually, since I do a lot of traveling in duck disguise, top height 19cm, I may not want many of these giant flies hanging around. One of them might get me. Plus, they pester the cows. Many a stampede, resulting in incalculable loss of beef on the hoof has resulted from lady horse fly bites.

Here is how that works. A cowboy is riding happily along singing merrily yet soothingly to his charges. But his chaps, Levis and undears are dragging low in the rear, pulled too low by saddle friction. Suddenly a rapacious lady horse fly alights on one of his upper butt cheeks, probably the right butt cheek, and takes a big larruping bite.

Yippee-yi-yay, the startled cowboy hollers. Away they all go. Those cows run so far and convert so much mass to energy that mass quantities of beef on the hoof are lost to posterity. The fact is, once the stampede eventually gets rounded up or corralled, those particular cows are only fit for potted meat. Yep. Those cows have to be mixed up with sheep and pig lips to be fit for human consumption.

Ray's Rainfall Update - Day 124, DY 2

Here at the CB you get the weather news straight up with no ullbaitsha. The new all important total is 5.93" + 0.04" = 5.97". Rain for free.

Only one more week of Hope Remains, the Season. Then, Beelzebubberriffic commences. Many shall perish.

Hyphantria cunea - Moth, or Muth, from Hell or Hades

The little white moths, or muths, of this species are flying lately. Also known as fall webworms, bagworms, pecan bagworms, tent caterpillars and vermin; the caterpillars of this species eats up mass quantities of pecan foliage every year. So it is best to shoot them on the wing before they can lay eggs.

If you are a good shot, you can easily shoot down these moths with a BB gun. Be careful though, not to accidentally shoot birds while you are shooting at the moths. Those birds are trying to help you with your bagworm problem. Just shoot the moths.

I am a fair hand at shooting moths on the wing with my Daisy pump action. Later, once the dew dries up, I shall go forth into the pecan orchard. Then the slaughter shall begin. I shall show no mercy.

Hold it! Where’s my BB gun? Where’s my BBs? Crumby, have you seen my BB gun and my BBs?

The ladies hid those items, Ray. Using my ovational skills I heard them talking it over. They were afraid you would make a public nuisance of yourself , bosom companion, plus maybe shoot yourself.

Dang it! What about my Second Amendment right to bear arms? Seriously though, it would be nice to afflict those moths before they lay all those eggs all over.

Yep, it sure would Ray. But so far those moths have not appeared in large numbers. Not like some years when they present the aspect of a late Hope Remains the Season, snow storm. The fact is, so far they have appeared in such low numbers that I am fixing to have trouble capturing one of them. What I want to do is capture one, torture it, take its picture, then torture it to death. Once the rest of them espy what I am up to, they shall be scared off and the pecan foliage shall be afflicted not at all.

Seriously though Crumby, do you think that shall work?

Not at all Ray, but I shall feel better. By the way, Ray, could you drop by a hobby store on the way home from work? Much time has passed since we possessed an operational butterfly net. Pick up about a three cubit length of wedding veil material. Uh, pick up some needles too.

I may be too tired to do all that, Crumby.

No you won’t be too tired, Ray. I have already foreseen it. You shall round out your chest, bosom companion, and stop by the hobby store. Plus get me some new sewing needles.

Maybe Crumby, if you have ovated thusly.

Later

Well, as it turns out, I, Crumby Ovate, got my ovation date wrong. Ray goes by the hobby store, Saturday. However, as everyone knows, patience is not a virtue of Druids, this one in particular. So instead of catching one of these moths, or muths, and photographing it, I have worked up an artist’s conception of what one of them probably looks about like. Here that is.

Crumby Gives Thanks to the Merciful White Goddess

As everyone knows, the US Fish and Wildlife Service is a wholly owned subsidiary of the Mammonite developers in these parts. Yet what happens when 875 acres of golden-cheeked warbler (Dendroica chrysoparia) (Class Aves) habitat gets developed adjacent (right across RM 1431) to the Balcones Canyonlands National Wildlife Refuge, the actual federal component of the preserve system? Seems like, since the government employees at the refuge have to drive past the new development to get to work, they might be aware of it. Turns out they are aware of it, yet clearing of gcw habitat has proceeded without a permit, or even, apparently, negotiations.

Thank You, thank You, thank You, Merciful WG for getting me out of the environmental consulting business. I am so happy that I am not involved. The WG has spared me from being cooped up in meetings with a bunch of liars and gluttons, or receiving their lying e-mails and memos.

Ha! Rumor has it, that to get a managerial position at the FWS in these parts, you have to believe in the fair flat tax, the trickle down, and intelligent design. That figures. If you believe all that, and you can tell a good, eating endangered species joke, you may be able to negotiate with the Mammonite developers without pissing them off. Yes. Sweet talking the Mammonite developers into doing exactly what they want to do must be a great job for an aspiring bootlicker or ass kisser.

Anon, inevitably, Lago Vista is fixing to look just like that other eyesore, Bee Caves. But Praise the Goddess, I am spared involvement in the process. On the other hand, I shall not be spared the result. Mercy!

Magnus is Attacked by Ancient Romans, Part 7

Hi there Rosalind. My name is Magnus. I was not expecting to be greeted by such a pretty and efficient young lady. What’s a nice young lady like you doing in Child Molester Village? Were you kidnapped?

No. I was never kidnapped. My parents moved here to Child Molester Village, I mean Hamletville, when I was little. They sharecrop and do odd jobs for the bourgeoisie. Nothing illegal mind you, just the odd bit of work that may not be too damaging to their honest worker natures. They have to work for the bourgeoisie, and me too occasionally, just so we can make ends meet.

You do? Say, I bet those bourgeoisie are the very ones that molested me while I was trying to work out by the Dolmen. Do they molest you too, Rosalind?

Why yes they do, Magnus. Just a little while ago the vewy City Managew molested me. Those bouwgeoisie awe vewy bad people.

He did. What did he do?

He made me sign tewwible documents. Now I have to pay a poll tax. Whewevew shall I get the money to pay the poll tax?

Fret not fair Rosalind. Twrch and me are fixing to make some changes in these parts. Say Rosalind, you ought to climb up my rope with me so you can help me an Twrch interpret your important documents. Plus you need to be properly introduced to the mighty Twrch Trwyth.

All wighty.

Then the twain of them, both Magnus and the fair Rosalind climbed up Magnus’s rope all the way to the tip top of Twrch Trwyth’s noggin.

Goodness gwacious, Twwch Twwyth, you cewtainly awe a tewwific pig.

Why thank you Rosalind. I am the globe’s largest pig as a matter of fact.

Goodness gwacious. I have nevew been this high. Magnus, howevew, do you climb up and down that wope. I bet you climb up and down that wope many times a day. It must be vewy tiwesome. Whew!

Yes it is tiresome. But Twrch makes me do it for the exercise. Right Twrch.

Correct Magnus. Rope climbing is good exercise. Besides, each time you rise to great heights, climbing your rope, Bran’s prophecy is fulfilled. And if you rise on your own merit, the prophecy or ovation is that much more fulfilled. Then too, some day you may appreciate the ape like physique all that climbing has afforded you.
Now though, I am a hungry pig. What do y’all say to a picnic?

Count me in.

Me too.

Off the tripartite of them went to have a picnic. Having Rosalind along proved entirely beneficial. For Rosalind knew where the bourgeoisie of those parts cached all their most choice victuals. Anon, Twrch Trwyth, Rosalind and Magnus enjoyed a delicious picnic. No picnic was ever better than that particular picnic for delicious foodstuffs and libations. But once the picnic was ended, and everyone had a nice nap, the threesome adventurers got down to business.

OK boys, that field over there belongs to the City Manager. It is full of nice peanuts. But wumow has it, that the City Managew mixes sawdust and glass in his peanut butter. So it is OK to eat all his peanuts befowe he wuins them for omnivowous consumption.

Hmmm. Rosalind, you know a lot about these parts. I might have accidentally eaten up the peanut factory instead of the peanuts. You ought to throw in with me and Magnus. Thus, I would be less likely to eat any glass or sawdust and Magnus would have a partner besides me that actually knows something.

All wighty then. I should like to wowk with you, Mighty Twwch Twyth, plus the famous pig wider, Magnus.

So, a deal was struck. Rosalind entered into a partnership with Magnus to exploit the bourgeoisie of Hamletville. Twrch Trwyth agreed, time allowing, to settle all disputes and complaints potentially arising from the bourgeoisie. Thus, the poor proletarians of Hamletville were fixing to be delivered, child laborer pestering was fixing to be eventually outlawed, and a new age was fixing to dawn for Hamletville.

_____

Oh all righty. Maybe not most of those rs.

Cwumby

Ray's T for the D - Sisyrinchium pruinosum

Long, Crumby and me labored to build up populations of blue-eyed grass at the CB. Now, these days, at long last, we have a great many. We have two species, both S. pruinosum and S. ensigerum. The latter has undergone a name change, but we still refer to it as S. ensigerum.

Here’s how we went about acquiring our littlest irises, blue-eyed grass. Wherever we journeyed during the fading time of Hope Remains the season, we would be on the look out for blue-eyed grass. Once we espied some, we estimated how long it would take the developers to destroy that population. Then, we either saved those blue-eyed grasses on the spot, or saved them later.

Born again at the CB, our blue-eyed grasses, are fit subjects for ecological perusal, easily accessed. Which brings up the subject of pollinators in these parts during Hope Remains, the season. Seems like, relative to the available blossoms, the pollinators are seasonally sparse. For example, there are three fifties times a tousand or maybe two tousand of Oenothera speciosa flowers at the CB, but visually few diurnal pollinators. Such huge numbers are impossible to monitor given the talent available.

However, the blue-eyed grasses are way fewer. Few enough for Crumby and me to handily watch. And watch we have to see what pollinators show up.

Blue-eyed grasses open up late in the day once it starts to get hot. Given that, one would assume the pollinators are also of like habit. Yet, even when the flowers are ready, the pollinators are sparse. Finally though, we espied a bunch of potential pollinators on blue-eyed grass. One of those is this one, a petal eating beetle. Here that beetle is, dining on the petals but simultaneously rubbing its nasty little hiney in the pollen.

Ray’s Rainfall Update - Day 119, DY 2

Twice the potato giants woke me. Yet, once I tore myself away from the Ample Bosoms this morning and looked around, I could espy no puddles. But for these parts, it rained a lot last night. So the new all important free water total is, 0.92" + 5.01" = 5.93". Still pitiful, but I’m takin’ whut She’s givin’. It beats paying fer it.

Crumby, my bosom companion, and me espied this cool beetle yesterday after the Arizona sister incident. This beetle is possibly a close relative of Euphoria sepulchralis. Crumby says, pull him out of the banana Ray, so we can get a better look see. So that is what I did, not thinking about whether this beetle had finished dining.

There the beetle goes to ground. This beetle was aggravated over being pulled out of the banana.

Ray's T for the D - Rugged Individualism and the Latest Fuss

Do you know that advertising always works on large herds of people, but almost never on the rugged individuals comprising the herd? How can that be? Does your common sense explain that?

Do you know that millions of individual Americanos arrive at work at the same time every day? How many of those rugged individualist Americanos actually want to arrive at work at the same time as everyone else, every day?

Do you know that the mohair goat subsidy checks all arrived in the mail boxes of the recipients on the same day? Those subsidy checks, arriving at the same time, were imperative to a way of life. Next day, after the subsidy checks finally came, the cafes would be crowded with happy cowboys, spending their hard earned loot, every one of those cowboys, a rugged individualist. Hey, where’s Pete? The dang guvment cut off his subsidy check.

Do you know that Hitler’s Germans were all rugged individualists, until they bunched up?

These are all facts, or informed opinions, that many know, and now, so do you.
_____

Mercy! Suffering through a weak moment I turned on the last potential queenlet versus kinglet fuss just in time to have Senator Obama aggravate me. He used the magic words, common sense. Senator Obama, if he doesn’t wise up in a hurry, is about to find out just how much sense he has in common with the ruggedly individualistiic Americano electorate, circa George Orwell’s worst nightmare.

I shall still vote for Senator Obama, if I get the chance. But I wish he would delete common sense from his vocabulary. It is embarrassing to hear him say, It’s just common sense. Common sense is mumbo jumbo reserved for the especially stupid.

Meantime, Senator Clinton could not resist joining up with the interrogators for a little old fashioned red-baiting. Jeez Louise! Well, everyone knows Senator Obama needs practice handling red-baiting. Might as well get some of that practice out of the way. Of course, if Senator Clinton is really good at red-baiting, once she gets through with Senator Obama, he won’t need any more practice.

Simultaneously, at the White Palace, the Kinglet is busy. One wonders if this Kinglet thinks enough of Senator McCain to leave the silverware. I bet not. No. Our precious Kinglet does not think that a way. He probably figures, McCain is so old and silly, he won’t miss the silverware.

Crumby on Elite, Elitism, Elitist

Elite is a typewriter that spaces 10 characters per inch. Elitism is employing that typewriter for propaganda purposes. Elitist is the typist.

Once it became temporarily clear that I, young Crumby, was never going to amount to much, the responsible parties decided I could at least learn to type, maybe. That is how, eventually, I got up to 18 wpm with three errors and pulled down a D in typing class. D is the lowest grade you can get if you show up most of the time. But I passed. That’s how I got to be an elitist.

But then, along came word processors. Overnight, almost, the Elite got tossed into the Dumpster, where it belonged, along with the white out, carbon paper, and all the Elites associated lackeys or bootlickers.

These days the Elite is almost gone. Oh well. A few of them are still around, performing special tasks, maybe.

Then one day, also long ago, but not that long ago, I got really hot because I was working so hard in my cubicle at TxDOT. I was sweating in my air conditioned cubicle due to all the heat my labor was creating as a byproduct. Seat sweat puddled in my undears. Anon, I was badly chaffed.

I can’t stand it, I cried out. I am fixing to die in this cubicle from the heat. Can I have a fan, please? The responsible parties found me an old fan. But then I noticed my friendly fan had a sticky white powder or excrement all over the backs of the fan blades and clogging up the motor housing. What’s this?, I surmised. Then I knew what it was. White Out! Mercy! We have a Hazmat Emergency! Yes, that old fan must have belonged to an elitist or even several elitists to accumulate all that White Out.

Interestingly, our Mammonite ruling class overlords have a different take on the Elite and it is not a typewriter. Consider that our precious ruling class is a real elite. Yet they have somehow managed to pass themselves off as the salt of the earth. At the same time, they have managed to convince many that, for example, joining a labor union is elitist because union members look down on non-union wage slaves and call them names, like scab. Similarly, environmentalists are elitists because environmentalists look down on the average salt of the earth types who drive Cadillac pick up trucks.

If we turn the Mammonite propaganda upside down we discover that the Mammonite constituencies, real and imagined, look down on union members and environmentalists. Yes they do. They feel they are better than union members and environmentalists because rugged individualism in the work place is the Americano way of life and nature is evil.

The fact is, that the way the Mammonite ruling class uses elite, elitist and elitism, obscures who the elite is, them, but makes the rest of US feel like we are in an elite. For example, when a man and woman marry each other exclusively, they may feel like they are part and parcel of an elite, a company of one man, one woman married couples fully justified in looking down on polymorphists, polygamists, the general run of fornicators, sodomites, aged bachelors and old maids. I bet lots of them do, too, consider themselves superior.

Oh my. Or maybe those theoretically monogamist one man one woman couplets don’t feel that superior in general. Maybe they feel some other way. Maybe they feel like their way of life is not sufficiently in the elite to allow them to feel superior. I just don’t know about all of them for sure.

Here is another example. Many, perhaps a majority of Americanos, love this country on a purely emotional “gut” level. This love of country may lead to the feeling that this country is to be loved, right or wrong, no matter what. Naturally, those who have these feelings believe they are an elite because they have these feelings. And, these feelings justify, anything. That’s correct, anything, including every action, every thought, every sin in the book. These are the Feeler Firsts.

Outside this elite of feelers, the Feeler Firsts, are those who, in their deeds and actions, put facts and informed opinions ahead of their feelings. This is precisely the bunch the Feeler Firsts look down on and make sport of. Let’s call them the Facts and Informed Opinions Crowd.

Many in the Facts and Informed Opinions Crowd very much desire to be an elite themselves. But to do that they have to convince some of the Feeler Firsts to join up. Proceeding calmly and rationally they appeal to the Feeler Firsts noggins, explaining the inconsistencies of this or that. But, naturally The Facts and Opinions Crowd convert not a single Feeler First because those Feelers Firsts are armored in feelings. Rationality can not penetrate that armor. Plus, the dopey spokesperson for the Facts and Informed Opinions Crowd forgot to wear his flag lapel pin.

In summary, these days in the Homeland, feelings trump facts and informed opinions. So if you want to be in the virtual elite, as opposed to the actual elite, get yourself some gut feelings.

Another New Butterfly, Maybe

Crumby, check this out.

Whoa! Hey! Rayetta! Your dern brother has a butterfly in a tumbler.

You better let it go Ray. Here she comes.

Get out the way so I can see. Me oh my! It is Adelpha eulalia. Uh-oh. Now we are faced with a dialectic. Can we count it on the CB-BDS or not? Where did you get it Ray?

It was in a greenhouse fairly far away. They go in the green houses, but they never come out. So I rescued this one, maybe. Long I chased it round about. But finally it wearied and I seized it. Then, I put it in a tumbler, covered it with a magazine, and brought it home.

OK. We need to take some pictures. Crumby, this is your big chance. Employ your trusty C 5060WZ on this butterfly while it is a captive in the tumbler. The C 5060WZ was made for just such photography.

OK Rayetta. I think if I take its picture at the CB, it should count on the CB-BDS if it staggers out of the tumbler, alive.

No way Crumby. It has to do something besides stagger out and fly off, like enjoy the banana feeder. Stop fooling around and take its picture.

All righty then. There’s one.



There’s two.



Now get it to come out of the tumbler, Ray.

Here it comes. There’s three. Oops! Off it went.

All righty Crumby. You need to be on the lookout for this butterfly from now on. You are in charge of monitoring for this butterfly. If it is seen again, we can add it to the CB-BDS.

I am on the job, Lovely Druidess.

Rayetta's Butterflies - An Actual CB-BDS New Record

The previous effort gave me a lot of trouble. Not only are my pictures out of whack, But the new butterfly record had to be rescinded. But today, just for balance, we did get a new one for the CB-BDS.

The little wood-satyr (Megisto cymela) outnumbers all other butterflies put together by far in Juniperus ashei closed canopy woodlands in these parts. Possibly, right now, there are 100s per acre in that habitat. Yet, I never expected to see one at my banana feeder.

In the woods, this species bounces around in the shady understory, usually low to the ground. It is a lazy flyer and wimpy. Yet here one is, tussling with the brush feet (not shown) for a share of the bananas. Amazing!

Rayetta's Butterflies - A New One for the CB, or Perhaps Not

No sooner had I put out some rotten bananas than the butterflies appeared including this one. I was very excited about this one because I nearly convinced myself it is Asterocampa leilia which would be a new species for the CB-BDS. But I am not sure about that. It may be Asterocampa celtis. The black lines indicate field identification characters. Ha! This one may be a hybrid.

Oh well. Here's another shot of possibly the same butterfly. Focus is better. Plus there are four insect orders represented. All ordered banana.

Later

What weird bokeh! What the heck is going on here? Crumby, you need to help me fix my bokeh.

Whoa! That's some weird bokeh Rayetta.

I know. Fix it Crumby.

Later

Ray, look at this weird bokeh on Rayetta's electropictoids.

Whoa! Do we still have the raw files, Crumby?

What's raw files, Ray?

Never mind. Move over. Let me look. Here they are. Looks like my sister resized those files. Maybe we can't do that with the 70-300mm. The bokeh gets too weird.

Let's try this one.

Magnus is Attacked by Ancient Romans, Part 6

OK Rosalind, since you have volunteered for this ambassadorial mission to the pig rider, we need to get some important paper work out of the way before you depart. Since you probably can’t read, I shall briefly go over the information contained in these documents. Then, all you have to do is make your mark in the spaces provided. Then, off you go.

Wait a minute! I cewtainly can wead and wwite too. I shall wead these documents myself, you wuling class lackey.

Suit yourself. But they are long documents full of technical mumbo jumbo. The pig may get us all before you finish reading and signing all these complicated documents.

Oh, all wighty then. Just show me whewe to sign.

Good. Sign here, and here, here and here, here, here, here. Oops, and here, here, here and here. Hmmm. Just a couple more. Here and here. Put today’s date below that one. Hold it. Here’s one more.

Goodness gwacious!

Mercy! The altruistic Rosalind, her ample bosoms heaving with exasperation, has just signed a bunch of documents. Briefly, these documents absolve the municipality of Hamletville of any responsibility should fate catch up with Rosalind in the performance of her duty. Or, to put it another way, anything that happens, is Rosalind’s fault. Also, Rosalind, as a part time employee, gets no wages, no benefits, no insurance, no legal recourse, no holidays, no overtime, no meal money. However, she must provide her own transportation, proof that her personal transportation was not stolen, and pay a poll tax.

Mewcy! Am I fwee to go now?

Almost. Just as soon as we run copies of these signed documents by the legal, accounting and human services departments, you may depart. Did you bring a lunch?

No.

Yet the City Manager of Hamletville reckoned without Twrch Trwyth.

Suddenly terrified whining noises declaimed to the very high heavens from every nook and cranny in Hamletville. Eeek! Yikes! The vast pig approaches at a gallop.

Yes indeed. Twrch Trwyth and his famous pig rider, Magnus, made good progress from their last stop and arrived on the outskirts of Hamletville, known to those twain travelers as Child Molester Village, just in the nick of time.

Heaven help us. There is that giant pig already arrived. Oh no. He is headed straight for my peanuts. Do something, Rosalind. Go forth. Negotiate.

OK. I shall go fowth undew a flag of twuce. Do you have a flag of twuce, handy?

By the time the City Manager and Staff managed to locate a flag of truce and a stick, and affix the flag of truce to the stick, Twrch Trywth and Magnus were arrived at the very doors of city hall.

Whuff! Come forth responsible parties of Child Molester Village. It is I, Twrch Trywth together with my friend, Magnus the little orphan bastard, come again to these parts. We have come for revenge. Long ago, many of you child molesters molested Magnus while he was trying to work. Now, Magnus shall have his revenge. Right Magnus!

That is correct. As Twrch Trwyth has stated, I, Magnus, have come back to these parts after many years. My revenge, while slow in coming, yet shall now be swift. Once I am done with you child molesters, you shall never molest another little orphan bastard traveler again ever.

Oh noooooo! Go on Rosalind. Hurry up. Go outside and negotiate.

Yes. Even though the lawyers, accountants and human service whatevers had not okayed Rosalind’s contract, the City Manager was eager for Rosalind to get to work.

I shall go as soon as I am pwesentable.

The City Manager watched in exasperation as Rosalind, employing a vanity, made minor adjustments to her hairdo and makeup. There now. I am weady.

Come forth responsible parties. Come forth immediately, or we twain shall lay waste to child molester village. All of you, all your crops, all your livestock shall be utterly uh?

Hello weawy twavelews. My name is Wosalind. I come fowth, undew my flag of twuce, to negotiate the suwwendew of Hamletville. To save time I have pwepawed a wathew tiwesome list. My list, as you shall see anon, has two columns. The left column lists all the pwoltetawians now staying in Hamletville. The wight column lists all the bouwgeoisie. You shall not afflict the poow pwoltetawians identified in the left column. Howevew, you may afflict the bouwgeoisie identified in the wight column. Goodness gwacious! Howevew am I evew fixing to get my tiwesome list way up thewe to you siws, for youw pewusal.

Twrch! We need to think about this. We need to talk this over in private. This situation is more complex than I expected.

You are correct, Magnus. You are also aware, Magnus, that this young lady pronounces all her rs as ws. I hope you are aware of that fact.

Really. OK, then some of what she said makes sense, maybe.

Siws! Do you wish to wead my wist, or not?

Magnus, I think you should rappel down. Then you can get a copy of that document the young lady is waving. Once you have the document, you can bring it up here so we can read it. Announce to the young lady that you are fixing to rappel down.

OK Twrch. Dang it. What did she call herself?

I believe she calls herself Wosalind. But you, Magnus, should remember to call her Rosalind. Remember Magnus. Mentally translate all the ws into rs.

OK Twrch. Young lady! Miss Rosalind. I, Magnus, am fixing to rappel down. So you need to back off a ways so you won’t get hit with my rope when I drop it.

All wighty then. I shall back off a safe distance to avoid youw wope.

Rosalind backs off a ways as Magnus unfurls his rope and fixes to begin his descent.

Psst! What’s happening Rosalind. How are the negotiations going?

Vewy well Mistew City Managew. While you cowew inside city hall, the pig wider is wappeling down to weceive my list.

List. What list?

Excuse me Mistew City Managew. Hewe the pig wider is now.
______

All righty. It is me, Crumby. The whatchamacallit of this historical document. What is the correct term? Narrator. Yes. Or as Rosalind would have it, nawwatow. From now on, having made my point, I am fixing to go ahead and translate almost all Rosalind’s ws into rs, because she is driving me cwazy.

Rayetta's Butterflies - Return of the Orange Dog

Life as we know it, much like the earth’s orbit, follows a more or less circular pattern. Full circle! Here we go again with giant swallowtail caterpillars. Not long ago, a giant swallowtail visited this toothache tree as depicted electropictoidographically previously. Yes, that young lady laid eggs on the barely emergent leaves. Now this orange dog caterpillar is holding forth from one of those eggs. The same thing transpired in DY 1. Full circle! Pagan orthodoxy! The way it is for all life as we know it! Full circle! A fact of life. A fact of life, even for the apparently lifeless.

Anyway, this caterpillar is supposed to erect orange feelers from its noggin when annoyed. I really want to see it do that, but I don’t seem to know how to annoy this one, despite much success at annoying black swallowtail caterpillars. I tried tapping on the tree above its noggin. I tried tapping its noggin with my finger. I tried tickling it with a little bluestem stem. I tried taking its picture. How annoying is that? No erection.

So I tried to annoy another orange dog. No erection. So how does one go about annoying an orange dog?

You may think orange dogs are slow. Actually, they can move along at a great pace, like maybe 100cm in under a minute. But mostly they like to rest up and eat. This one is resting up.

Hmmm. Perhaps I should annoy these orange dogs when they are dining. I bet that would get an erection.

But erections aside, I am fascinated with the cryptic. Where does the caterpillar end and the lichen begin?

Another good question is, Why are orange dogs called by some, orange dogs? Easy that, orange dogs habitate on trees of the Citrus Family. Thus, since oranges are possibly the most valuable of all the citrus crops, we get the vulgar name, orange dog. They may also be called lemon dogs, grapefruit dogs, tangerine dogs, lime dogs, or whatnot, so long as the vulgar epithet includes a citrus.

Rayetta’s Butterflies - Echinargus isola

According to hearsay, Reakirt’s blue is supposed to be around these parts all year. But we have only recorded it at the CB around the end of Olwen White Track, the season, and about now, toward the end of Hope Remains, the season. Perhaps this diminutive blue has eluded my sensors. They like Vicia ludoviciana a lot.

Ray’s Rainfall Update or Alert, Day 111, DY 2

This is actually an alert. Later will come the actual update. For technical reasons, the actual update shall have to wait. But stay posted to this very spot. Anon, we shall have the all important update. All righty then!

Now my sister is fixing to contribute a practice Hymenoptera electropictid to the venue. Are you ready, Dr. Pistrum?

Ready Ray.

Ahem. I am Dr. Pistrum. As everyone knows, the Hymenoptera quiver at the sub-atomic level. The Hymenoptera, quivering at that diminutive level, is accomplish at or near light speed which is why the average photographer may have a hard time getting electropictoids of those Hymenopterans in focus.

Yes. Below that rigid exoskeleton, the non-rigid tissue is abuzz with activity and the hum of industry. All that Liliputian motion under the skin or exoskeleton is what causes the whole bee or wasp to appear to vibrate in your electropictoid. The same is true of ants, but to a lesser extent.

Nevertheless, I have always wanted a picture of a honey bee with an orange pollen sac visiting a bluebonnet. So here that is.

Later.

Wow! Rayetta has already finished up and departed. What is this? A memo. Uh oh. My sister has left me a memo marked private and confidential. But never mind that for the nonce.

For now it is time for the official all important rainfall update. The gauge collected 0.21". So now we are up to, 4.80" + 0.21" = 5.01" to date for DY 2. Pitiful!

Ray’s T for the D - The Carny Life fer Me

Yet here am I, back home. Turns out, the duck pool eventually closes down for the night so all the ducks can rest up.

Meet my new pal Arth. Arth is Welsh for bear. Or in Pig Latin, Artha.

At the carnival, Artha is a big attraction. His profession, or gig, is wrestling. Or was. Now Artha has decided to run away from the carnival. That’s a switch. Say Artha. Why have you decided to forego your lucrative wrestling career at last?

Well Ray, I got tired of the same old routine, traveling from town to town, village to village, hamlet to hamlet. Each one of those municipalities has a local bear wrestling champion. My job was to wrestle, actually, stand up on my hind legs and waltz around with the local hick bear wrestler. Yet I can tell you now Ray, those matches were rigged. I had to wear a muzzle, plus paw gloves. Then too, if I was actually getting my opponent in trouble, the responsible parties at ringside shot me with a tranquilizer dart.

The worst of it was the post match photo op. There I would be, a hick sitting on top of me, the local dignitaries from the Chamber of Commerce and their lady friends crowding around, mugging for the camera. So, at last, despite the three squares a day and the opportunity to travel, I decided to pack it in.

Whoa! That’s fairly bad. Did the ladies at least feel sorry for you, Artha?

Maybe Ray. But a lot of good that did me. So I ran off.

Er Artha. I really like the carnival duck pond. The fact is, I like it so much, I may run away myself, and join the carnival.

Yer too late, Ray. The carnival has left town.

Dang! Well, maybe next year. Meantime, it is back to work, here at the venue. As everyone knows, I have been attempting to ignore current events. However, the crackdown on the polygamists has caught my attention. Why, those articles in the newspaper pertaining to the polygamists even contain useful information, like the correct phonetics of Eldor-ay-do.

I have wrestled there Ray. Eldor-ay-do is on the carnival circuit.

What’s it like, Artha?

Well Ray, Eldor-ay-do is where the carny boss got the idea for the duck pond.

Er. OK. I can see that. But now, alas, those good times are all gone. What made those polygamists think they could practice their religion, freely, in the ROT, in the first place? Didn’t they know it is illegal, in these parts, for young ladies to marry before they turn sweet sixteen, even if they are pubescent before that important birthday? What is your informed opinion on all that Artha?

Well Ray, I don’t care. The fact is, bears in general, don’t care about the news. That’s right. Despite what you may have heard elsewhere, there is no such thing as a care bear.

All righty then, Artha. If you want a new job then, you can be my assistant here on the venue. What you can do is go over the news stories. Then, once you give the stories the once over, you can pass the ones you care about on to me. You should be able to do that. Right?

I’ll think about it, Ray.

Ray Makes it to, or at, the Carnival Duck Pond

Finally, I am here. This must be Duck Nirvana. Hi ladies! My name is Ray. How’s the water?

Lucky for me, I brought along my float.

Anon though, my float sprang a leak. But never mind that. The ladies keep me up.

I’m so happy!

Rayetta’s Birds, Dencroica chrysoparia, Class Aves

Well I did it. Following Crumby’s directions, I found the gcw territory behind the liquor store. And, after a lot of trouble, I got a few pictures, finally. Here is one of those to prove I did it. The problem is, this one never comes out of the shade. I had to always shoot at low shutter speeds, consequently. Not easy that with the 70-300mm.

Ray’s Rainfall Update- Day 107, DY 2

Good Goddess All Righty! I need to slip on my duck disguise and head over to the carnival. What fun shall I have splashing around in the duck pool with all those other lovely ducks! Mercy!

But first, the all important rainfall update. I am tardy with it. Yet, better late than never, maybe. The new total is, 4.69" + 0.11 = 4.80". Pitiful. Free water is hard to come by, lately.

Now I am off. Here I go. I shall make a bee line for the duck pool. What’s this? Perhaps I should pick some flowers for all those lovely lady ducks as on my merry way I go.

Crumby Heads Out to the Carnival

OK Crumby. Since you have been a good boy, lately, you can take my camera. Here. I am fixing to fix you up with a magical neckstrap. Let me put it on. There now. With this neckstrap attached to the camera on its distal ends and to your neck proximally, you shall find it impossible to break my camera. Don't you dare take this rig off. Keep it around your neck at all times. Hmmm. I am only allowing you to take one lens. Here. I shall put it on for you. This one lens is all you get. So there is absolutely no reason for you to take this lens off. Do you understand all that, Crumby?

Yes Lovely Druidess. Thank you Lovely Druidess.

Off Crumby goes.

I shall approach this carnival from the east, much as fickle Ogma might approach. Er. Actually, I shall approach this carnival from the east, just like fickle Ogma.

Yippee! This is the very Ferris Wheel I am fixing to get to ride.

Young man! How much shall a ride on this particular Ferris Wheel set me back?

What?

Turns out I got a free ride. Here is how it looks from on top of the Ferris Wheel, digitally enhanced. The casual observer may espy all the progress being made during National Dark Sky Week in these parts.

Every once in a while the Ferris Wheel more or less stops, presenting the average photographer with a photo op. However, the cart the average photographer is situated in, continues to rock. Nevertheless, here are some of the carnival trucks from the rocking cart.

Full Circle! After my free ride on the Ferris Wheel I continued my westerly journey over to a game of chance area. I have my eye on a Mickey Mouse or rat item. Yet that item has no cause for alarm on my account.

Continuing along the ecliptic I share with fickle Ogma, I soon espy these. My Goddess! Ray, my bosom companion, has to see these. My Goddess! This is his dream come true.

About this time, me and fickle Ogma, apparently reach the edge of the earth. We had headed as far west as we could head. So then, back we apparently turned around, heading east, only to discover the astonishing, Moby Dick.

Moby Dick needs a diurnal visit. I need to figure out what is happening with Moby Dick. Apparently, Moby Dick has a lot in common with pump jacks. But I need to check that out in good light.

Crystal Lil’s, partially concealed by the Tilt-A-Whirl is a mirror maze. The innocent children go in, and never come out. I hear an interesting story from the carny hand at Crystal Lil’s. A little bitty girl about five years old, just entered the maze a little while ago. In she went. That little bitty girl never took her eyes off the ceiling. She went through quicker than anybody ever. Amazing! But most of the children are never seen again.

And here at last, me and Ogma are, back at the Ferris Wheel. A Druid Mystery. Full Circle!!!! But alas! Sadly. No lovely belly dancing hermaphrodite.

Crumby’s Belly Dancing Hermaphrodite

In Oklahoma, I got used to having the carnival come to town. Mercy! Those memories are fond. Yet the belly dancing hermaphrodites were my favorite attraction. Still, many years later, I can’t believe my eyes. Those belly dancing hermaphrodites probably had more influence on my young noggin than any other phenomena in my young life up to that time, maybe. Those belly dancing hermaphrodites sent me straight to the seminary, to atone for the dreadful influence they had on my wicked noggin.

At the seminary, I longed for companionship. Not the companionship of my dopey fellow preacher trainees, but the companionship of a particular lovely belly dancing hermaphrodite. But, I also knew, from my preacher training, that such longings were beyond wicked, and that I should put those thoughts out of my noggin, concentrating instead upon my exorcism lessons.

That is how I discovered self-exorcism. Here is how that works. Pretend to be possessed in a public place, like church. Make sure you have a Fizzy. Then, when communion comes around, surreptitiously pop the Fizzy in your mouth along with the grape juice. The result can be spectacular, especially for those who have also mastered most of Curly’s Three Stooge wooly bup maneuvers.

But then, once the congregation is appropriately astonished, crawl to the cross located behind the pulpit. Drag yourself up to the cross. Strain mightily to actually touch the cross. Quiver and moan. Then, announce to the congregation that you have personally, thanks be to Jesus, exorcized a terrible hideous demon that was fixing to possess you forever.

After that maneuver, I got my theology degree signed and certified in 48 hours, tops. I was a prodigy.

But never mind all that. Once I waltzed off with my theology degree, I went in search of that special belly dancing hermaphrodite. Long have I searched for, uh, it. Yet I have never, ever, found, it. Nonetheless, I wearily search on. So that is why I am headed off to the carnival, anon. Perhaps it is there, at this very carnival.

Yes. I intend to totally compromise myself. It is National Dark Sky Week. What habitat is more lit up than a carnival? Yet off I shall go, in search of my belly dancing hermaphrodite.

Ray’s T for the D - National Dark Sky Week

Or, we’re so phony, we’re funny, maybe.

It has come, a whole week of secular holiday. What we do is switch off all our unnecessary outdoor lighting. Which means, in practice we do nothing. Because all the outdoor lighting is necessary. Yes. The outdoor lighting protects us from coyotes and terrorists. Or, it demonstrates our patriotic belief in Jesus, all year. Or it allows us to play baseball in the dark. And don’t forget those happy motorists zipping along 290W. What about them? They can’t change lanes in the stygian darkness, their swerving erratic progress illuminated only by headlights.

Alas! All the outdoor lighting is necessary, one way or another. So what is the point of National Dark Sky Week anyway. Well, National Dark Sky Week is a sop to the powerful Amateur Astronomy Lobby (AAL). The AAL realizing that most of its membership is confined under starless skies, making their expensive telescopery gear useless, except for window peeping, decided that everyone needed to fell guilty about the disappearance of the stars. Also, everyone needed to feel sorry for their membership.

The AAL sent their best lobbyists to Capital (sic) Hill. Long they pleaded. Please, please, turn out some of the night lights. We can not espy the stars. We can not even espy Polaris, our friendly guide star. How shall we know which way to go in the dark?

The negotiation was long and arduous. Eventually a compromise was reached, National Dark Sky Week. Yes. During National Dark Sky Week everyone pretends to turn off some outdoor lighting. Then, when that does not improve heavenly visibility, everyone feels sorry for, and commiserates with, the average miserable amateur astronomer.

Oh you poor little fellow. You can’t see stars. That is too sad. However, you must realize that you should not go outside at night in the first place. A coyote or terrorist will get you.

Come to think of it, why has Homeland Security failed to cancel National Dark Sky Week all together? Surely those cutting edge fascists, I mean brave and imaginative bureaucrats or consultants, must realize the security gap National Dark Sky Week pretends to engender. Surely they must know, that.

In summary, National Dark Sky Week is not only a whole week of secular holiday, it is also, a virtual holiday. Wake me as fickle Ogma rises

Have you seen the flora?

Have you seen the flora
of Sodom or Gomorrah in the morning?

As many know, valuable lessons may be gleaned from the many interesting stories contained in the Old Testament, King James Version, or from the many other extant versions of that interesting text. Back in the days when I occasionally imagined myself as a preacher, every Saturday night, at the last possible minute, I would jot down or copy a note or two into my Big Chief Tablet. Those notes, hastily jotted down, would guide my opinions on Sunday morning as I excoriated my flock, sheering them of their wicked ways, so that they might then embrace me, their preacher.

Young lady. Yes, you in the fourth pew. Meet me in the baptismal font, immediately after this sermon. There, in that font, we shall discover why you were not paying attention.

But getting back to the valuable lessons, or lesson. Unbeknownst to most, I had a serious competitive advantage over my many competitors in the preacher business. For at that time, I was one of a handful of scholars who could actually read and understand Pidgin Greek. Verily, I could actually translate the various stories of the Old Testament from the Pidgin Greek originals into my native tongue, which at that time, was also the native tongue of my flock. Yes. At that time we all shared the same tongue, my tongue.

Eventually I translated an interesting passage from one of the most ancient of all the Pidgin Greek texts. That passage was so ancient that it actually may have initially been penned in Pigeon Greek. But never mind that. Just remember, that particular passage explained all about the famous Garden of Gomorrah.

Where’s my Big Chief Tablet? Here it is. Let me just flip through this ancient tablet so that I may espy the Garden of Gomorrah notes. Here they are!

Reverend Crumby’s Important Notes on the Garden of Gomorrah

Every kind of tree, every kind of shrub, every kind of subshrub, every kind of herb, every kind of low middle and high grass plus most of the sedges occurred in that garden. Yet every one of those floristic elements was delicious in all parts, plus contained natural aphrodisiacs so that the partaker of a single bite of any part waxed libidinous until he or she was worn out. Yet, those parts were also nutritious so that the partaker would eventually wake up, alert and ready to go again, anon.

The above is the literal translation from Pidgin Greek. Obviously, the author is not a botanist of any repute. If he or she was a botanist of any repute, a species list would be included. Plus, that botanist, he or she, would know more sedges. Nevertheless, the natural aphrodisiac part is of considerable interest. I need to work that into tomorrow’s sermon.

Crumby’s Sunday Sermon

So, in conclusion, my stray prone flock, that wonderful Garden of Gomorrah, may still be right there, undestroyed by the fiery comet or whatever other celestial body, the almighty vengeful God of those times directed at lovely Gomorrah. Yes, a comet, or similar deadly space phenomena , directed through the depths of space and time took the citizens of Gomorrah. Almighty God directed that comet, with willful purpose, to afflict the innocent yet wicked citizen sinners of Gomorrah. Yes they were innocent. They were innocent because they were totally doped up on aphrodisiacs of incredible potency. So their wickedness was not their fault. Yet they were destroyed anyway. Is that fair? Ask yourselves, Is that fair?

Yea verily, lo and behold, all the people and most of the livestock of Gomorrah were utterly destroyed. Yea verily, all the sentient beings were eventually all smothered for lack of oxygen, then burned to a crisp, burned crispier than the crispest pork rind, burned blacker than the ace of spades. Yet the Garden of Gomorrah survived. It is out there, somewhere. Plus, we can go there. That is, you and I can go there. We can all go there right now, all righty then. We can go there and cavort in that happy garden. Let us do it. Let us go there right now.

That was pretty much my last sermon. That young lady in the fourth pew was also my last church related date. That was a valuable lesson.

Politicians are All Liars! Gasp! Oh My!

Yes. Sadly, that is true, in the home of the brave and the land of the free and probably in other mythological everywhere, politicians do lie. They do lie, and sometimes they get caught. Generally they get caught, like Senator Clinton, when, who cares.

A sniper almost got me in Bosnia. Who cares about a lie like that? Not Druids. We do not care about that kind of silly lie, because that kind of silly lie, as it stands alone, hurts nobody. But quality of the lie aside, consider a society made up of Goddess awful liars, US.

No wonder our politicians lie. So do we. Americanos are total liars. So, no wonder our politicians lie. They are our representatives.

Jeez Louise! Get off it thou sacks of itsha, lying Americanos.

Sadly, Americanos no longer believe lying is a wicked sin. Yes. Americanos believe lying is OK in every situation where a lie works. And lies do work on this sphere of this little globe in these days in these parts. Yes they do.

Nor do Americanos recognize lies. Lies are just life as Americanos know it, indistinguishable from facts or well-informed opinions.

Druids, on the other hand, believe lying is a terrible sin. We believe, that if we lie, the White Goddess shall save up her most imaginative tortures just for us. So we don’t lie. That means the WG’s most imaginative tortures shall descend upon our fellow and lady Americanos instead. Good!

Crumby Considers Life as a Pack Mule

Life as I know it is much like the life of that other sentient being, the average pack mule. I have burdens, the average pack mule has burdens. I have a stifling routine, so does the average pack mule. I consider myself overworked and overburdened, so does the average pack mule. We have much in common. Our lives as we know them are almost identical.

That’s why, often, too often, I employ the pack mule as a metaphor, adding yet another burden to the both of us. However, I am generally laden with chores and packs , while the pack mule is laden only with actual packs. That is about the only significant difference.

So Crumby, what burdens, packs or chores have you toted about recently, like yesterday. Well, yesterday, I helped fix the AC, found Rayetta an occupied GCW territory close to the CB, looked at my new Oxalis specimen under the microscope, and cleaned Corydalis micrantha seed so that now, that interesting Fumitory shall most likely, eventually, join up with the rest of the CB flora.

Boy howdy! Always remember to wash your hands after you clean Fumitory seed and before you stick your fingers or hooves in your mouth. That Corydalis tastes, terrible.

What else? We need to add Erigeron modestus to the CB flora. Six robust flowering plants came up from seed. Surely, those may be transplanted from their current location and survive.

But considering life as a pack mule, I may have just about had it. I need to make a bunch of money quick. My alternatives are, robbery, dope sale and robbery or dope sale. Both those can wind me up in jail. Mercy! ROT prisons are the worst on this planet. You get utttbauckedfa and murdered as a matter of course in ROT prisons. Nevertheless, I might not get caught. I might not have to go to prison. That may be, a chance I need to take. Plus, the Mammonites shall never take me alive, anyway.

Yes, alas! Off I shall go, somewhere else, just like my pal, Magnus Magnetico. Magnus is about to engage maybe 10 legions of ancient Romans in hand to hand combat. However, Magnus, is fixing to cheat. Only fair, when cheating evens the odds. Besides, who cares what happens to ancient Romans. They get what they deserve. And what they deserve, is real bad.

Magnus is Attacked by Ancient Romans, Part 5

Eeek! The terrible force of nature, Twrch Trwyth, has been sighted, headed this way. Oddly, the terrible pig has a rider.

A rider?

Yes. Hearsay has it that a rider bestrides the mighty noggin of that pig. The rider sits upon a saddle and that saddle has tassels and is bespeckled with rhinestones. Yes. The rhinestones are of many colors. They are attached to the saddle by glue. And also, from each rhinestone there proceeds a tassel.

Hmmm. Then this rider, unlike that pig, may be civilized. Perhaps we can negotiate with the rider. Perhaps the rider is sent by the kinglet or even a divinity to modify the behavior of Twrch Trwyth. But who shall negotiate with such a rider? Not I. That pig might eat me up. Where is our representative?

Hearsay has it that our representative has not returned from the White Palace. Perhaps the pig got our representative.

That figures. OK. Here’s what we shall do. Call a town meeting. At the town meeting we shall call for a volunteer to go forth and negotiate with the pig rider.

Anon, all the citizens of Hamletville, which is what everyone else on the planet calls that little city, save for Twrch and Magnus, who called it Child Molseter Village, for reasons of their own, assembled. Well, actually, not all of them assembled. The village idiot was lost in the woods and could not be found. Also, the two members and both factions of the Fourth International Student/Worker Anti-Racist Party and Progressive Labor Union refused to attend. But they set up a picket line out front. Uh. Maybe some more of the other citizens did not attend. For example, some of the crippled and bedridden did not attend. Also, most of the anarchists did not attend. But one of them did.

Rosalind, you shall not go to that meeting. We are an anarchist household, and I forbid you to go to that meeting. You shall stay home and do chores instead.

But Mom, heawsay has that the gweat pig, Twwch Twwyth, is fixing to descend upon us. I must go. It is my wesponsibility to my fellow wowkews. I must go.

No Rosalind you shall not go. Now go to your room. Or go milk the cows. If you go to that meeting, I shall tell your father. You know what that means.

Sadly the despondent Rosalind heads out to milk the cows. But then, anon, when Rosalind is fixing to milk the cows, a goat sucker (Chordeiles minor) appears by chance in the cow barn. The goat sucker addresses the beautiful Rosalind thusly:

Fair Rosalind, it is your destiny to go to the town meeting. Only you can save the workers. Only you can resolve the class struggle in favor of the miserable workers. Yes. You Rosalind shall bring worker’s control to Hamletville. But first, you must go to the meeting. I shall milk these cows in your absence.

Goodness gwacious! You are the vewy goat suckew that has vewily dwunk my goats dwy. Why should I believe you?

No, no, no, fair Rosalind. That was an accident. That was not exactly my fault. No. I shall make sure that all the cow milk goes into proper buckets. I shall not touch a drop. Well, maybe just a drop. But most of it shall go straight into the buckets. Please believe me, fair Rosalind. I am sent by the WG to make sure you attend that meeting. Your attendance at that meeting is important. If you don’t go, your absence could unhinge everything.

Evewything!

Yes, evewything. I mean everything.

Anon, the twain of them decide, both Rosalind and the goat sucker, that it is OK for Rosalind to go to the meeting. Off she goes.

OK It looks like everyone is generally assembled. As the City Manager, it is my sad duty to inform all you patriotic citizens, that Twrch Trwyth is about to descend upon us. Many shall be eaten. Some of our cows shall be eaten. Some of our crops shall be eaten. Yet there is hope. Upon the mighty noggin of Twrch Trwyth there rides a rider. That rider sits upon a saddle, a saddle all bespangled with rhinestones and even zircons that are glued to that saddle. Plus, on that saddle there are tassels. It is a sign, a sign I say, that at last, someone, or somebody, has taken control of that pig. That person is civilized, as indicated by the ornate saddle. So we may be able to negotiate with that awesome person.

Yet, sadly, our representative has not returned from the White Palace. Many surmise that Twrch Trwyth ate him up. So with no representative available, I am calling for a volunteer. I am calling for one person of either sex, or both, who is brave enough, and forward enough, to venture forth, to go out, to negotiate with the potentially civilized pig rider. That volunteer, whoever that shall be, shall save us all, and save my property.

I shall go. I shall go fowth. I shall save the wowkews of Hamletville. But scwew youw pwopewty.

Who is that? Who speaks up so wudely, I mean rudely?

It is I, Wosalind. I volunteew.

OK. Does anyone else volunteer?

Nobody else volunteered. That is how it came to be that a pretty and efficient young peasant/worker girl, Rosalind, came to be selected as the Hamletville representative to Twrch Trwyth’s mysterious rider.

Ray's Rainfall Update - Day 102, DY 2

To be fair, the gauge did collect a bare trace of water lately apart from the water and vinegar mixture I put in it. How much it collected lately is unknown. Extrapolating from various data sources, about 0.01" is indicated. That is what I shall go with. So the new total is, 0.01" + 4.68" = 4.69".

Only the irrigated prosper. Time to fix all the hoses, which, in these parts, means yanking them up from where the various stolons have grown over them.

Bosom companion! Crumby! I espy that you are up and at 'em. Also, I see by reading somewhat of your recent past history that you promised my sister, faithfully, that you would check out the nearby GCW habitat for GCWs. Yet, I believe you have failed to keep that promise.

True enough, Ray. Yet I may yet perform that chore, anon, despite my tricky knee. For the pathways in that lingering yet relict habitat are mighty treacherous for the crippled.

It is all these chores I am saddled with. I am a pack mule for chores. Great chore like burdens I bear. I am a pack mule for chores. Would that you could espy, Ray, how my lateral view heaves with the labor of all these chores. Yet, all you may perceive is my equine countennace, my tail, and my hooves. So burdened am I.

Yes. I see that Crumby. Yet you should set forth, Goddess allowing.

I know Ray, bosom companion. I know what's good, fer me.
_____

Sorry about how confusing the previous is. I had to edit a bunch of Crumby's remarks. Then I got mixed up. Sorry about that.

Ray
_____


Later.

Guess what Rayetta. I found one.

Huh!

There is a GCW behind the liquor store. You should go take its picture. Mercy! I sure am happy to say I got over into those dangerous parts so expeditiously and happily found you a territory right off. Go take its picture. Rayetta. Its right behind the liquor store.

Hmmm. So you finally went scouting. And you found a GCW instantaneously. Is that what I was supposed to guess?

Correct Rayetta. Except that the journey was long and arduous and had to compete for attention with the AC repairman who actually got to see one of the CB coachwhips which was a little strange. But that particular AC repairman is atypical. Praise the Goddess those coachwhips may have eaten most of the rats. Praise the WG, no rats swarmed the AC repairman. Plus, the AC is entirely fixed. Notice how cool it is. And to top it off, there is an easily accessible GCW territory behind the liquor store where you can ply your photography skills on that rare Dendroica. Have I pleased you, Lovely Druidess?

Maybe. I shall need to verify this information independently.

OK. But it is all true. There goes Rayetta. What's this? Ray has messed up all my pack mule speeches. Dern it!