OAK, you want a horse too? Well, ok, I'll pay. Run out and find one, maybe Stradee or HofT will be able to help you with this. I only have the money. Unfortunately I know nothing about horses other than that I love them.
(But really, HofT, I only clicked the clicker for some of the stuff, so my expense hasn't been too great. I haven't spent more than a couple million. And that's just pocket change.) :-)
i've owned too many horses (hay burners) give me the carton of camels, i already got the zippo
One carton of Camels coming up, Dys. You naughty man. I may like outlaws, but I prefer my outlaws alive. Can't you just eat those magic Alice B. Toklas brownies and be done with it?
(Oops, Lola expressing concern. Must watch that tendency. I might become a busy body. Nope can't to that.) Hee Hee
:-)
Ah, tis too late. I just met an Italian bloke , who spoke with a strong Siscilian accent and he said he had a horse he didn't need any more. The intended recipient cough up an apology before he fell off the 10th floor
So the Italian is puff puffing away with his Camels
Awwww, poor guy. And he didn't even get to enjoy his cigs before meeting the pavement.
i intend to die, shot in the back by a jealous husband while lighting a camel after great sex
Dys -- wanna nice new bodybag, range of tasteful colors, guarenteed by all good hitmen
At this rate, Dys, you may soon succeed. I'll cry at your grave though. "Here lies a fine friend. Shot down in his youth in a needless episode of oedipal drama."
Couldn't you keep the great sex part and postpone the dying?
<... at news of imminent approach of Sicilian husband of lady with whom Dys has been recently consorting, Stradee, OaK, Lola and HofT load Dys onto a horse over his shouted objections (Dys's, not the horse's) and all ride off to watch beautiful sunset from park near Lola's townhouse.....<G>>
Excellent solution, HofT. And Dys is saved from himself for another day.
(all the ladies scurry around making Dys comfortable, seeing to his every little need.) Life is good........have a little more.
and they all lived happily ever after in Once Upon A Tyme Land
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
How lovely
What a refreshing ride! I feel so much better now. Think I'll have a little of that quiche for lunch, Jeffers, then a nice nap in the sunshine outdoors...
Lovely it is oak. But don't forget the part about all the women petting you too. That's even lovelier.
Lola got up from the breakfast table and walked to her study. Trevor wasn't there. He was working. Lola wanted to read her new book, Dreaming of Babylon, Richard Brautigan again.
Lola scrunched herself into the corner of the big leather sofa in front of the fire place. Pulling a crocheted blanket over her and leaning back on a pillow, she read.
". . . 'Son!' I heard a voice yell coming toward me from behind some tombstones. 'Son!' I recognized the voice. It was my mother. She came hurrying up to me, almost out of breath.
'What are you doing here?' I said in a numb voice.
'You know this is always the day I visit the father and husband you murdered. You know that. Why do you ask that?'
'It's midnight,' I said. 'It's dark.'
'I know that,' she said. 'But do the dead know that? No, they don't. I just stayed a little longer than usual. But why are you here? You never visit your father any more.'
'It's a long story.'
'Are you still being that private detective, chasing people with bad shadows? When are you going to pay the money you owe me? You bastard!'
Sometimes Mother like to call me a bastard I was used to it.
'Now that you're here, go say something to the man you murdered. Ask him forgiveness,' she said, marching me over to his grave.
I stood there in front of his grave, wishing at the age of four I hadn't thrown a red rubber ball out into the street while playing with him on a Sunday afternoon in 1918 and he hadn't run after it, right into the front of a car and stuck to the grill. The undertaker had to peel him off.
'I'm sorry Daddy,' I said.
'You should be,' my mother said. 'What a naughty boy. Your daddy's probably a skeleton now.'"
Lola read on to the next chapter
Good Luck
"My mother and I walked back across the cemetery to the other side where her car was parked.
We didn't say anything as we walked along.
That was good.
It gave me some time to think about Babylon. I picked up where I left off in my serial Smith Smith Versus the Shadow Robots. After I'd finished talking to the good Dr. Francis, I gave my secretary a passionate kiss on the mouth.
'What's that for?' she said, a little breathless afterward.
'Good luck,' I said.
'What happened to the good ole rabbit's foot?' she said.
I took a long lustful look at her moist delicious mouth.
'Are you kidding?' I said.
'I guess not,' she said. 'if that's replaced rabbits' feet for luck, I want some more.'
'Sorry babe,' I said. 'But I've got work to do. Somebody has invented mercury crystals.'
'Oh no,' she said, the expression on her face changing to apprehension.
I put my sword shoulder holster on underneath my toga.
'Watch out, son!' my mother said as I almost walked straight into an open, freshly dug grave. Her voice jerked me back from Babylon like pulling a tooth out of my mouth without any Novocaine.
I avoided the grave.
'Be careful,' she said. 'Or I'll have to visit both of you out here. That would make Friday a very crowded day for me.'
'OK, Mom, I'll watch my step.'
I had to, seeing that I was right back where I started, the only difference being that when I woke up this morning, I didn't have a dead body in my refrigerator."
Two couples live in apartments, one above the other,
in the Fillmore district of San Francisco. In the upper
one the melancholy Bob and Constance act out a bondage
game named after the sex novel The Story of O, a
necessity driven by the fact that Bob has venereal warts
and he doesn't want to reinfect his wife who gave them
to him in the first place. Constance -- the name in
dramatic denial of the reality -- is a junior-league
novelist who was initially infected after a one-night
stand with a middle-aged lawyer. Bob has forgiven this
deadly indiscretion, chooses to navigate their
relationship with a "fourth-rate theatre of sadism and
despair" interpolated with obsessive readings from The
Greek Anthology.
Meanwhile the couple downstairs -- John and Patricia --
have a normal sex-life and two other basic interests: a
paper mache bird called Willard and some bowling
trophies that were liberated from an abandoned car.
John is also aficionado of the Johnny Carson Show, an
obsession grown from some minor insomnia.
Hummm, Dys. What book are you reading?
Gosh Lola. Petting ? I'm going all red, just like a beetroot. I don't know what Mrs. Oak will say. Well I do and she'll have her high speed Rolling Pin with her as well. Her mother was a black belt in the mysterious arts of the Rolling Pin. Not someone or something to be trifled with.
Guess we better watch our steps around you, oak. I'm not keen on finding an early death. No siree! Not at all. (taking back the petting. Keeping my distance.) How do you do, oak? How've ya been?
Hey, anybody know what's become of BillW? I haven't seen him around for a little while. Hummmmmm......
Miss Hawkline sat naked on the floor of a room filled with musical instruments and kerosene lamps that were burning low. She was sitting next to a harpsichord. There was an unusual light on the keys of the harpsichord and there was a shadow to that light.
Coyotes were howling outside.
The lamp-distorted shadows of musical instruments made exotic patterns on her body and there was a large wood fire burning in the fireplace. The fire seemed almost out of proportion but its size was needed because the house was very cold.
There was a knock at the door of the room.
Miss Hawkline says, "come in." And oh my God! It's the monster. What's a woman to do?
John's key opened the front door lock and Pat pushed the door open. Across the room was the darkened outline of Willard like a dwarf tree and the religiously glowing bowling trophies.
The click of the light switch exploded Willard and the trophies into their full presence and the glory in that presence.
Willard looked curious. Sometimes the expression on Willard's face would change. He was artfully constructed.
Hi, Willard, Pat said. You would have loved Greta Garbo. Hey, we should have taken Willard to see Greta Garbo.
