Murder was the case that they gave me

The title: there were some a few years back, pre-renovation.
The feet: we wished to experience how much comfort millions can buy.
The verdict: concrete lounge chairs aren't as relaxing as mesh lounge chairs.

Not a burial mound. Officially.

What a view.

The seats are too low, the table too high. As The Duchess astutely pointed out, it's as if it was designed by someone with an intimate knowledge of gulag dining.

Anti-homeless makeshift boudoir guard rail for your protection.

We've got one, too. See, I'm positive, I'm fucking positive.

AMERICAN ISN'T CAPITALIZED RALPH IS A RED

This green space looks suspiciously like my high school track.

Well, okay, as long as the ordinances are codified.

"Duchess, what could this miniature table possibly be used for?"

"Doing a line." True story. The conversation, silly rabbits.
We can't afford drugs on a Peon's salary.

The garbage can of the future -- today!

Viking booty storage.

Avian industriousness elicits both applause & tears.

Thinking caps, kids. What's wrong with the following pair of images:

Front.

Back.

Clevelandia Tilt-A-Whirl.

When low on funds, snark is an acceptable substitute.

False advertising.

♪ MY LOVE FOR YOU IS LIKE HULETT, BERSERKER ♫

Attend? I'd much rather disregard them.

Mmmm.

Sacrilicious.

Lack of snow makes me seasonally affected & disorderly.

More scare tactics.

COULD BE TOXIC CALL FEMA

Because we're twelve years old.

Looking glass Wicky Wacky thumbs up with gusto.

Fiddle-dee-dee, that will require a tetanus shot or eleven for 'tis only the month of the two-faced

It's not me, it's you. 

After a Sammy Hagar unplugged weekend, still unpacking The Google readership [ed. note: I really do try & check out everyone's shit & shit-to-be-clicked 'cause beats the alternative of "work," what a ringing endorsement, you say, relax, I say, your place will never be as useless as this holder, be proud], & I conclude, verily, this: silly season means jack, homes. The Year of Quetzalcoatl is l'année de nouveau tuneage [ed. note: & some choice remasters that were probably released last year, but I'm slow], as are all previous & future years.

Coronary corollary: The wisdom of crowds as oxymoron: the crowd is a toxin-wrapped package of flawed sausage links, as are thee, as is me, & if member-shaped members of this collective were to replace the current PTBs, same shit, different names, more or less panache TBD. Any gang above a baker's dozen is doomed to shiv spines various & sundry. Go do something better with your time, as will I after I finish this negative iota contribution to learned discourse, such as delving into necromancy in order to resurrect Zombie Harry Clarke so he can pen a fresh line of graphic novels.



I know 'tis not new. I don't care. Thanks for trying. 

Sunny [ed. note: ugh] day real estate

Crap from vendredi 'cause I've got zip else, though the oh-fer, like the domestication of the dog, continues unabated but hey, second verse in a week, even if gatekeepers hate it. I do too but that's completely you-know-what.

Darkthroning in the "woods."

Scare tactics.

We're number one. In rust, not corpses.

Why don't you get a haircut, you hippie.

Your humble host & hostess.

Ghosts never come out in the day. I don't blame 'em.

Cadaver to be named later.

COULD BE TOXIC CALL FEMA

Creatures of habit.

Graveyard, pshaw. Sometimes we get drunk in the alley.

How microcosmic.

I hope this purchase was approved by the OWS banking committee.

Skyscraper.

You're always ruining my shots.

Limbs.

Not ours.

Everyone else is getting some but me

Commander Cody gets boomed.

The Fucking Bengals @ Houston AKA the Johnathan Joseph Revenge Game: ♪ misty AFC Central Memories ♫ Sniff, & who else misses Jerry Glanville? Jack Pardee was a professional, you know, one of those who leaves tickets not for Elvis but his tax accountant, & thus was never going to funhouse mirror Wicky Wacky postgame. Since the Planet Hoostons smack mouths on O & D, if Schuab was still swabbing ye scurvy skinflints, they might have been Indy-lubbers in the end #srsly. But Andy Dalton, unless the internets lied to me, is also rookie-ish, too [ed. digression: I recall a rookie leading us to the postseason once upon an aeon ago], en plus, the Bungles are 0-7 against playoff teams [ed. note: in the interest of not being a politician, 5 of the 7 losses were* by a touchdown or less, a sixth by eight, but does regression mean, oh, 11-5 post-Quetzalcoatl? Nein: check the future sked, homeslice]. 0-8 after Saturday night's fighting, all right. Texans 20-17.

*proliferation of italics due to frustration at the continued blah surrounding a certain squad that, like athlete's foot, broken hearts, or ring around the collar, refuses to vamoose. I don't have athlete's foot or ring around the collar.

Detroit @ New Orleans: Pretty please, Night of the Living Tecmo Bowl, though I'm not a completely greedy beast, I'll settle for one of these. Saints 45-31.

Atlanta @ The Fucking Giants: Motown Meltdowns don't just help the I(vory backscratched) in the MIC, but America's Worst Sporting Town, too. Wouldst thou not rather face inconsistency instead of historic greatness? Falcons 28-20.

The Fucking Steelers @ The Fucking Broncos: & next week, we suffer The Fucking Ravens & The Fucking Patriots? 'tis The Fucking Conspiracy, 'tis, what Blud-Soak'd Popery! what Straungenesse vexes mine sportynge soule! but after back-to-back solid drafts on the angry side of the ball (Phil Taylor, Jabaal Sheard, Joe Haden though try covering downfield once in awhile, & T. J. Ward), the Browns -- what, oh yeah, this game. I couldn't care less about how much or how little Jesusery or Dawkinsism or Cthulhuiana Tebow does or doesn't spew & you shouldn't either. If he won your team games, he could engage in megachurch cosplay & you wouldn't grumble one iota. En ce moment, as a quarterback, he sucks. Maybe someday he'll slash, maybe not. Now, injuries notwithstanding, The Fucking Steelers 23-9.

Just like riding a bike or snorting coke

The guess who.

Baby Thor cried at this weak ass fimbulwinter.

This burg is less a rabbit hole than a money pit.

Fine, I'll take my preaching about The Great Devourment
to the street corner, but you're getting eaten last.

No, Clevelandia doesn't have esteem issues.

Winged Eros approves of this message.

Ia! Ia!

Bowling For Jeers.

I'm bubbly, she's bubbly, wouldn't you like to be bubbly, too?

If it keeps on rainin', Erie's gonna break.

Since you asked so nicely.

I always wanted to be on TV.

That bomb ain't gonna blow itself up.

And you can send me plastic flowers every morning
and I won't forget to put rust on your grave.

Is.

'tis blood, & mine doth curdle --

-- for the Hell Where People Are Skinned Alive hath yet to open for business, which can only mean a lot of skin.

Don't be fooled by the corporate logo.
'tis a black site in case any punks act up.

Such as violating open container laws.

You make me feel like dirt.

But he don't know what it means

Brave chicks & magic skulls, what's not to love.

Contents of a box, blueberries bobble on the tongue, processing one from a stack of none. There's this cool Bilibin work I work at work at staring at, & another by some other that I can't remember, though it's not entirely similar. We, fuck that, me, that is, I, stare at this shit for inspiration [ed. note: since it's old & arty & I love the big R, though I don't know under what scholarly heading the experts classify this nor do I care all that much beyond being used as keywords for ordering shit from other libraries], alternating between that & St. Drogo's elixir & the too/not occasional glass of vino chez moi because. Coffee is water, though headaches pop like a whack-a-mole when I don't & gallons [ed. note: I originally typoed galloons which are galleons crewed by Walloons. Would pirates like balloons?] of tea, though tasty, take too long to compensate.

All I know is that I need, really need, to write more 'cause even I get tired of doing nothing but grumbling. Not that tired, let's be clear.

Sit n' spin, see parking lot nuked for new apartments unaffordable by anyone but senior partners, so it's funny that a morning glare out future glass will be ruined by a Towering Slab-dappled view.

Maybe Baba Yaga will move in.

Sing a lullaby, sleep now

Spent fifty-plus-one of Staycation '11 strick'n with decease, never happened at GenCon '88's Ye Olde Lich Hunt I can tell you, but 'tis no skinn'd nose, compost happens, et cetera yet this prevented a fulfillment of my homie duties, & I find as age strolls on by flipping both birds & righteous indignation these body parts wrapped in a piquant nelsonmuntzing, that now & then the vista of rituals that used to angry up the blood are sparser in number yet more potent, but lest me stab me in retaliation & then who would open the Towering Slab?

As for the rest, i.e. this, not sure what I want to do with it [ed. note: look for a resolution, amateur sleuths, you won't find it; nothing is ever resolved], as more & more each day the unimportant stuff becomes important & the important stuff less so which leads to a reevaluation of what's important. November 6, for example, ain't, though verily a chuckle riseth as we who rock &/or roll celebrate the birth of the guy who crooned this. Trust no one.

Did get one hunk of verse done, the dying breath of a year, cursed like all years, to fade in the slow burn, though, also like all, there are stars found in the black.