The Coffee Guy's blog

Couching Words in CowTown Not Coyly

So you get inured with that which you know as manure, then the injured jars your Sense and Sensibilia.  Jejune displaced dissidents residing in this fair burg are the worry warts of the western world.  Petulant postulates of positivism are unknown in these environs.  Further oral flatulence fosters no beer from me for these suds.

Dusty Miller and Fuzzy Thinking are creating Chaos for Toto and Dorothy.  She is the one we have and will be our Technical Advisor on further ventures virtually pending payment.  All along the wastrels, no watchtower here for Dylan whiners frothing at the mouth of the mighty Bow.

And I quote,

“Eventually the roads in Alberta will have huge berms of gravel along them, hiding them from access and egress.   There will be a whole new culture of people growing up in the road valleys.  Dust in their noses, grime in their clothes and scabs on their knees.  Breathing and eating gravel and dust.  We will fear them as those who create pot holes to disable our cars so they can scavenge our looty and booty.  Then carry our mud laden bodies off for sustenance.” 

That from a disrespectable, dodgy, dirt digging Neanderthal of the interweb thingy.  I posit that better things are to come.  The western pacific influx here is palpable.  Only in the service industry.  When the resource based economy falls again, and it will as sure as oil sands our time, all the indigenous Caucasians depart because of lack of industrial employment, service workers will be the nuveau riche.  No longer will the Turbanite doctor trained be mopping floors. Hey will be those with a job and a payment for his mortgage. 

High driving rollers in jacked up half tons formerly slurping gas like it’s the proverbial Kool-Aid of Jonestown, leave these behemoths roadside when the last drop is combustibly injected.  No fun or funds forthcoming for the Ford.  Spend swift that which the spendthrift saves for the day of black rain.  Service taken deep by servers and servo motor rounding out the glebe.  I smell it now.  The high teetering on each work from each self-effacing bureaucrat.  The debt payment from taxes on the rollers.  When rollers stop with inertia barren business, the debt climbs till these fiefdom fornicators fast and pack up tents to places unknown.  Left will be the servers and providers.  Next, you will be the newcomer.

Not enough Java in the Blues to get me trans-continentally humping my pack here.  I drive too fast. The limit.

Posted matches.

Slip that slurry in a golden arc to my mug Mastronamus.

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.  Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau.

Edgy Blown Egg Painting

Whatever would possess one to blown the goodness from an egg then layer it with colourations?  Creamy crunchy innards we won’t eat in 39 days, but devour scrambled with tomato sauce.  The position of prominence pre-empts all on this day of worship.   We heed, therefore we obey.

All the talk about the Lepus Laziness pooping out a few ova for the indigenous young’uns.  The mounted chicken being ridden by a Horny Hare, small eating appendages gripping unused alar adaptations for leverage.  No I found that on the humorous side.   Not ROFL funny, but quipish none the less.  Not as funny as “My ass is sore.” Response, “ What?”

But lest we belabor  the blessing of these days.  Spring is on the verge of dragging Southern Ontario out of the winter screaming and yelling that we don’t want to go.  April Fool’s Day, it snowed.  Again.

Hot days, summer in the city, back of my neck getting dirty and gritty, “Well your CD collection looks shiny and costly, how much did you pay for your bad Moto Guzzi.  And how much did you spend for you black leather jacket, is it you or your parents in that income bracket?”

Snowed and Froze rain again today now some 10 days hence.  The dated prose of the preceding post pages piercing my postdated foot stamping.  Frozen to the dog bone in my hair.  No different from a cave creature cro-magnum of champagne or not.  Still cold.  Still frozen.  I think I will leave the locale for less than adequate environs in the west.  Cow town for a coupla.

If youse’a know me and are hither, call me yon on the hand held communication device.

Perk a pot Persephone, pour slowly.

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.  Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau.