The Coffee Guy's blog

BelleVegas or Vacillation Not on Vacation

We have breached the berm and brought the Big Box to the Belle’.  Wanton and libidinous libations not being imbibed on this junket.  The pace set near the pacers of yore.  American Motors not included.  Over 49,000 strong and an agglomeration almost leading the century mark, this `Ville of the great unwashed centered and sheltered behind the county of our late great Edward the Prince.

This could easily be considered the Royal city in the seat of loyalists.  Susanna Moodie, QE, P of Wales, Queen Vic’, Sir John A. Charles the Prince are just a few of the names touted in this town rubbed up against the ubiquitous Lady Fatima, (coal for another fire at a later date I am sure).

Between the head stones of a former Prime Minister, the great Canadiana writer Moodie, there resides or resolves innumerable famed  hockey players some with this writer’s family name.  Home of the inventor of the infamous churlish Cheezies.   Home of my favourite Rocker babe of the 80’s Ms. Aaron, former home of a Miss Universe Mori, home of ice master Orser, and home of the Wilkinsons.

We have the B and B doing the Digitosis Dance leading our troupe to top numbers.  With Solanum tuberosum being pumped and punched to levels unheard of in these environs in some time. Even Eryc enters eventually to even the field.  The only 2 H on a two up day.

The Moira meanders and moseys it’s way through town encumbering the populous to ford the river in Fords.  Don’t Kellogg that Joint my friend, pass it over to me.  You can Gamble that proxy on Proctor to ensure earnings in modern times.  John Walden, no pond intended, began this burb and the rest is history as they say.

Departure is such sweet sorrow, and I can’t wait to weep like a leaf. 

No food, no beer no pets, can’t get no motorbikes.  I’m a man of dreams by no means, gotta get home.  Every engineer and every train, all of their kids and all of their names.  King of the Belle.

Pour steady Raoul, don’t waste a drop.

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land, and for some, from The Dark Side.

 

 

 

Captain Obvious Just Entered the Room

“When was the first time you realized you were the only one on earth that…”

Complete that sentence.  Today. 

The word “sale” is actually an acronym which is genetically bred into women making it unable for them to refuse purchase.

S A L E

Some  Eventualities Lose Everything

Seemingly All things Leave me E”y”earning

Soft Approaches Lose Energy

Soothing Advances Less Energy

Some items Attract Loose money Likely

Stop! Advance! Lift! Everything

Spend Ambrosial Liquidity Everyday

Sacrosanct Abundance of Livery Endlessly

The feminine supposition of space is only surpassed by excessive rampant consumerism.  Hence, the explosion of storage places available, hence the show “Storage Wars” and that Auction show.  Stultifying these moronic viddys purvey plinth of the lowest kind.  Not only are these post-consumer guerillas fighting over this detritus, they are turning around and reselling the crapolla to be set up in another Case De Cornucopia. 

No “One man’s garbage is another man’s cash”, this is out and out communist tree hugging, Volvo driving, Birkenstock wearing, trash trading.  So some “stuff” goes on sale.  I buy it.  No place to put more “stuff”, so I store some “stuff”.  I keep buying more “stuff”.  I rent a place to put some “stuff”,  then keep buying more “stuff” until I can’t afford the place I keep my extra “stuff”.  I lose that “stuff” until I am in a second hand store and see some “stuff” that looks like my “stuff” and I buy it again, “On Sale!” for the second time.

The penumbra of these purchases only bettered by the original travesty.  What is the need to see something for just less than what it was?  What it would be when?  Consumerism is also the father of its own mothers.  With buying more for less, and with Ole’ Sammy W. lowering the quality and service components, is it no wonder we need to buy more.  We need to replace that which did not last long enough or sustain itself well enough to be a lasting pediment to our existence?

Buy more, sell more, buy more lesser stuff, sell more lesser stuff, down sell crap to lower buyers, build China to a super state not the stupor state it once was.  Mao would be rolling in his rickshaw if he saw the putrid poppycock purveyed at these penile emporiums.

Driven to divide the monotheisms of the world to the lowest common penny.  Sliver that up till it speaks to the least of all penury farmers of the largest populace on the planet.  If you can’t buy it with the producers wage, it’s crap.  Hence all but chopsticks made in China is crap!

Hot Amber. Not her, my java!

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land, and for some, from The Dark Side.

 

Garden Coffee gets Garish Goading Ousted

And I Quote about garden coffee clubs, "Interesting … women can't even accept hand-to-thong tips, apparently). “

Now that I have your rapt attention, the ongoing disputes regarding grounds in your coffee grinds groaning in the compost is what we have here on el quinto de mayo!   Still a fortnight away from safety regarding the frost zone in our zone.  However, we planted and dusted with the blood of cows and not the crumbs of coffee.

The earth, warm from the radiance of long wave radiation, coddling my implanted seeds.  Birds and vermin excluded from the club with the generous gilings of blood meal having finally fallen to the plot.  Now the world awaits.

But hail all have you seen and heard the news in these burbs?  http://www.therecord.com/news/local/article/716813--parking-tickets-keep-coming-for-hespeler-homeowner

That was the front page here on Thursday.  Not bad for a kid from the country.   Now’s I gots’ the ear of the local bugle, it’s off to the races.  With a somewhat amicable mustering with this writer and the “Big Kahuna” for the City, a one on one, mano a mano, we discussed and presented with the twain of us keeping our cards so close it was hard to see them at times.  The outcome like a visit to Pleasantville.  Me just getting more people obviously in the know a’sos when the defecations engages the rotary oscillator, there will be nobody in de Nile.  Him just doing his due diligence for the face he keeps for staffers.

Your form, my designation, you provide the copy.  Not understood on the third floor; I lower myself a level and ask at the Big Guy’s office, and they provide under understood understated protest.  The slaught continues as the pestering purveyors of petulance purport to do less with more.  Quoted questioned in the news indicate a complaint of a type, yet citations don’t back this up?  Is this disjuncture the last leaf in the Iliad?  Time will tell.

My grinds and groans enter the stream destined for the heap.  Will our melons from last year meet the thong of the Coffee Garden?   “on top and thong-style bottoms. What's the problem? We like our coffee this hot.”  Don’t we all.  So why all the Hull’abaloo. Oh sorry I couldn’t resist. The nomenclatic reference.  Some like it black, some like it white, some like it sweeter than others, some like it skinny, some like it with a little cream.  So they scantily supply coffee this way.  Why is the prudence of some poking at the pleasure of others?

They wish they had me.  Let that nectar slide Raoul, don’t disturb my cuppa’.

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land, and for some, from The Dark Side.