Halloweenie roast

Not in the spirit of much of anything nowadays,
but monkey dance at the keyboard:



I'll be watching this for at least one more October 31.

 

Here's some blood.





Here's some metal.

Guess Slayer would've been more appropriate --

oh, all right, you demanding dogs



-- but some Good News nonetheless:

Cleveland owns 12 cemeteries, 11 of them more than a century old. The cemeteries are home to about 400,000 departed.

Why is that good? Because

Census 2010 numbers released Wednesday show Cleveland's population has fallen to a 100-year low of 396,815.

Dawn of the dead, baby. Have a nice day.

Cut ups

So long, class.

Zombies aren't the only threat. Beware of giant children.

Mexed missages.

Commode.

Not pictured: Boo Berry.

King Diamond jokes would fall flat with you heathens.

Yeah, the graveyard again.
'tis Clevelandia, where every day is Halloween.

Source of food during the apocalypse.

Go back to Germania.

Rainbow connection.

This mausoleum's been wrathed.

Peekaboo.

That's not ours, swear.
We already smell pretty when we start drinking in the graveyard.

CALL THE NATIONAL GUARD STAT

Climb that hill.

Skate or die.

We love the little animals.

Also not ours.

Wallflower.

Some kind of portent, I'm sure.

HERE'S WHAT I THINK OF YOUR RULES


A typical Clevelandia Halloween:

withdraw scratch,

get blotto,

& show some skin. Magic.

Also also not ours.

Between yet another source of victuals & Lake Erie's "fresh" water,
I say bring on the end times.

I'm dizzy, oh so dizzy.

Also also also definitely not ours.

Inside, out

This feels like a postscript to yesterday. Crazy crap in the hinterlands, nothing's shocking, nothing to say, new or carbon copy, no solution but blood, flowing never from the deceiver, but the receiver. So, only what I know.

Why should the pump & the brain have all the shakes?

Speak softly & carry a loud heart

LONG LIVE FLASH! YOU'VE SAVED YOUR EARTH, HAVE A NICE DAY.

Despite the best "efforts" of PTBs various & sundry, the city continues to die after nine ten (+ accurate, but alliteration makes me all tingly), & doesn't feel threatened by a group containing itself to one quadrant of one Public Square, thus, what baby shampoo benevolence, look ma, no tears.

Shocking. 



A THREATENING DILEMMA 



Thirty-seven billion words screaming to spill (ed. note: but not on that second thing but I'm sure you can have fun in comments I guess just be sure to read the first; that; that; & that other fuck-if-I-know; maybe that; definitely that), about thirty-six I should, thirteen I will. Is that thirteen? Editor's notes don't count. Lucky day. A shot here & there sit idling, most (ed. note: some one) better than yesterday's quantity-face-punching-quality gig & attendant lack o' words from your friendly neighborhood lackwit, though still ick.

So, a joke.

Insomnia, booze & ______ walk into a bar. The bartender says [bar joke part 2]. Booze drinks himself to death, & insomnia trips over booze's corpse, falling into an eternal sleep.

Don't ask me what happened to ______.

Always couching the serious in humor. I hate defense mechanisms. 



THE EARL PRESENTS, GOOGLE AD HAIKU BY THE DUCHESS

Given my miserable failure as a submission machine -- I'll pause for the inevitable double entendre commentary, you're welcome -- once upon a blue moon I decided that any future batch of versifying will be comprised solely of stanzas molded from the raw clay of gmail Google ads, sure to be a winner in the eyes of the next MFA Bot gatekeeper.

While I continue to avoid getting around to that, enjoy a piece in the same vein from the non-fugly half of Peonage Local no. 13 on one of our favoritest people.

Ford trucks and babies
deer huntin' for the family
offroading Krampus

Leafing