Vote by rote gets my goat; stick it in a tote, row row row this boat, toss it in the moat, or, fuck that shit, here's some nature of note

Why don't you make like a tree and get outta here

Because the only revealable thought tumbleweeding through the barrens of my skull is that if Horatio Alger and Alger Hiss had a love child this Horatio Hiss would surely be a down-on-his-luck private dick, here's some autumnal leaving.

First flight

Finally nabbed one of you ninja bastards.

Frequency: common. Treasure type: nil.

It's a bomber.

Can't forget the magic.

Doom

Since one can't simply stroll down to the local Revco CVS & pick up a BFF Bot, 'tis a good thing someone invented Primal Headbang Therapy.



In more interesting news,

Poor man's Instagram.

I don't know what happened here.

I know what happened here -- DEATH.

WHERE'S THE HEAD?

Here are the shrooms.

& Boris, too.

Watch out for humans.

If only they were magic

Darkthroning, like graffiti, jaywalking, sidewalk chalk art, and bus people, kills

Since darkthroning in the city is so dangerous,* I decided last eve to troo kvlt with the SBH twixt trees & trolls & yeah actions incongruous but you try toting both a viking axe & berserker rage over the concrete of your burg, smart guy/gal. Even Olaf would be taken down by a .45.

First these guys, then those sneaky sciuridae.

I suppose that you're hungry, too.

The spinner of this probably is. Better call Shatner.

Close enough. No killer frogs, though.

Aren't they cute? You shut up, you know who you are.

Wish I had gotten a better perspective; this sucker was mighty ominous.

As ominous as the lowest water level I've seen in a good while.

Scanning for suckers? St. Francis of the Squirrels is not fooled.

One bit, two bits, orb-its, a dollar.

Even the trees have Reflective Powers.

For they too know that Roots sucks.

Add a corpse, some ravens, B&W it, et voila, black metal album cover.

Canopy jar.

Artsy nouveau.

Every town has one.


*since we oft stroll near there, I or my ghost will let you know if we get plugged

Tyre! Tyre! burning bright in the suburbs of the night

The piece of shit can't actually traverse Routes 66, 666, or n.

A nail, nay, a screw, lay deep inside the rubber.

Lest ye thinketh this post is très sexy, 'twas only the catalyst for dropping off the wizard jeep, trudging with the SBH back chez Randal, waiting for five lousy minutes for the workingman to herald a fresh, shiny finish at least I got the dishes done, & trudging back, the damn sun out the whole time I hate getting all sweaty & grimy but verily, a necessitie in shewing evasion to both this shambler from beyond the stars

& the interwebs which saveth me from being the 14,346,193rd comment on [insert Issue of the Hour here] because if I can't convince you to spend valuable time listening to Emperor, what chance do I have with anything unimportant?

Go forth & multiply slack.