gruntingslime
04-28-2009, 01:28 PM
Sneaking Sheep Spa!
“One of them wee bloody sacks of emulsion.” He was a brute with a horn sticking out of his knuckle, between his pointer and long finger. His head was as big as his back and melded into it like a steel plate. He peeled a living bit of leather off the sheep’s back, which lay sprawled out with its arms forward and its cheek on the table.
Jerry sat in a chair, one leg crossed tightly over the other. He stared at the brute nodding with sincerity. “Uh huh.”
“Then, there was the other time two of them came across. I tip toed into the field, thet were broad daylight see? And I put down the bear trap. They tipped their’s hats and stepped in out of consideration.”
“That would be kind,” clucked Jerry, the noise emitted from his Adam’s apple which had awoken from a deep sleep and still could not open its gnocchi eyes.
“Well yeah! I felt bad for them.” The brute gentle squashed the sheep’s head in with his fist. “So I made a nice meal that night. No skipped around in me undies, he he.”
“That was the sheeps then?” Jerry stood up. His legs twisted and danced the swing beneath him, but he faced just forward. His Adam’s apple grit its two racks of teeth and kept its gnocchi clamped. Sweat was beginning to pour from Jerry’s neck. Little squirts shot up and tried at the brute’s eye.
“Whatnooo,” the brute threw his chin back. His mouth was open a meter wide and a gummy band was his lips. “The sheeps are me day spa.”
“Why you saying things like that, huh? Come on, it’s not funny.” Jerry threw his face side to side. He screamed out in his head, No no! Make it stop! Then hallucinated himself waking up in bed from a bad dream. His half naked bed body burst out laughing and pointed tauntingly at his mind’s eye.
Jerry snapped out of it. “Sorry, I just had a craving for some tea.”
“That’s alright.” The brute held out a strip of the sheep’s flesh to Jerry. Jerry bowed his face and opened his throat, then swallowed the flap in three goes, without chewing, as a bird might.
Labour Day
Night time came early. At four o’clock, p.m., Jim Sanderson had been awake for about four hours, perhaps a little more, perhaps a little less. The sun was already behind the horizon line, but it threw out a pail of musty red light with soaked the sky. Jim yawned. The red skies shot blood in his eyes and made him sleepy.
He battered some white school room glue over a structure, a makeshift board compiled of at least 50 popsicle sticks, maybe 49 just to make the number not seem so round. For that matter it was 3:61, p.m. And with this pasty white school room glue he stuck a coloured bit of construction paper to his makeshift popsicle stick board. The construction paper was navy blue, but he had coloured it with a white pencil crayon, he had no other use for those whites! And besides, the black marker didn’t show up well over navy blue, and for that matter he liked the black over the white! With black marker he wrote in block letters Demonstrate your right to Demonstrate! That was sure to get them all thinking. This would be the best Labour Day yet!
Jim Sanderson curled up beside his rights to demonstrate and suckled the spittle on his soggy lips and slipped into the most beautiful sleep. I won’t say much, but there was a rainbow! Wink.
It rained on Labour Day. There was no rainbow. Maybe tomorrow. Jim Sanderson sat in a puddle, soaked through to the core. His sign melted and fell to bits around him. No one stood by his side, demonstrating their right to demonstrate. They were all in the café across the street laughing and guvrahing, having a ball and peeking out the window from time to time at him, chuckling, as they might at a free show that wasn’t very good.
What can you think? Just kidding, you can think anything you like!
“One of them wee bloody sacks of emulsion.” He was a brute with a horn sticking out of his knuckle, between his pointer and long finger. His head was as big as his back and melded into it like a steel plate. He peeled a living bit of leather off the sheep’s back, which lay sprawled out with its arms forward and its cheek on the table.
Jerry sat in a chair, one leg crossed tightly over the other. He stared at the brute nodding with sincerity. “Uh huh.”
“Then, there was the other time two of them came across. I tip toed into the field, thet were broad daylight see? And I put down the bear trap. They tipped their’s hats and stepped in out of consideration.”
“That would be kind,” clucked Jerry, the noise emitted from his Adam’s apple which had awoken from a deep sleep and still could not open its gnocchi eyes.
“Well yeah! I felt bad for them.” The brute gentle squashed the sheep’s head in with his fist. “So I made a nice meal that night. No skipped around in me undies, he he.”
“That was the sheeps then?” Jerry stood up. His legs twisted and danced the swing beneath him, but he faced just forward. His Adam’s apple grit its two racks of teeth and kept its gnocchi clamped. Sweat was beginning to pour from Jerry’s neck. Little squirts shot up and tried at the brute’s eye.
“Whatnooo,” the brute threw his chin back. His mouth was open a meter wide and a gummy band was his lips. “The sheeps are me day spa.”
“Why you saying things like that, huh? Come on, it’s not funny.” Jerry threw his face side to side. He screamed out in his head, No no! Make it stop! Then hallucinated himself waking up in bed from a bad dream. His half naked bed body burst out laughing and pointed tauntingly at his mind’s eye.
Jerry snapped out of it. “Sorry, I just had a craving for some tea.”
“That’s alright.” The brute held out a strip of the sheep’s flesh to Jerry. Jerry bowed his face and opened his throat, then swallowed the flap in three goes, without chewing, as a bird might.
Labour Day
Night time came early. At four o’clock, p.m., Jim Sanderson had been awake for about four hours, perhaps a little more, perhaps a little less. The sun was already behind the horizon line, but it threw out a pail of musty red light with soaked the sky. Jim yawned. The red skies shot blood in his eyes and made him sleepy.
He battered some white school room glue over a structure, a makeshift board compiled of at least 50 popsicle sticks, maybe 49 just to make the number not seem so round. For that matter it was 3:61, p.m. And with this pasty white school room glue he stuck a coloured bit of construction paper to his makeshift popsicle stick board. The construction paper was navy blue, but he had coloured it with a white pencil crayon, he had no other use for those whites! And besides, the black marker didn’t show up well over navy blue, and for that matter he liked the black over the white! With black marker he wrote in block letters Demonstrate your right to Demonstrate! That was sure to get them all thinking. This would be the best Labour Day yet!
Jim Sanderson curled up beside his rights to demonstrate and suckled the spittle on his soggy lips and slipped into the most beautiful sleep. I won’t say much, but there was a rainbow! Wink.
It rained on Labour Day. There was no rainbow. Maybe tomorrow. Jim Sanderson sat in a puddle, soaked through to the core. His sign melted and fell to bits around him. No one stood by his side, demonstrating their right to demonstrate. They were all in the café across the street laughing and guvrahing, having a ball and peeking out the window from time to time at him, chuckling, as they might at a free show that wasn’t very good.
What can you think? Just kidding, you can think anything you like!