The Coffee Guy's blog

Deirdre Drew Destitution as her Destiny

Nonplussed by the Nubians noodling around under the shed at times, now in preferred not proffered digs.  This travesty of the Third Kind is kindred to that kitsch that caroms around the parkades in these months.  Whilst we were having a short Vacay with Bob’s uncle, we left shy and short of a full load.  She resides now with lovers and leafers not knowing the Ericksons.

No platitude could convey to the plasticality known to us all.  She has been camping and canoeing and rafting on white water.   Travelling the HI ways and byways of this upper land.  Never been to the lower, as she does not speak French or fly.   Pleasing to the eye and not to the palate, this girl has had more plastic surgery than those in Holly or Bolly Wood.

Her nasal structure is always at issue, short button or great dominant schnozz?  This question has been answered and taken to task buy the best of you who have known her.  I could truly be only more pleased if someone with talent attacked this problem.  Not that talent from Daughters of the Empire has not been delivered in the past to this proboscis.

Teens and tens have pasted and plastered, poly and scene have been applied both liberally and lobally.   Globally gallivanting around the orb, this damsel with zero Deniro and zero appendage has no problems with outstanding legs and arms.  One time under the Maro of Cam this torso tumbled.  Out with it; blood, guts, and all.   A crack in the cranium never stopped her.

So now in peaceful sanctum du campinoleum this plastiform friend flops.  Hopefully taken from and to all and in abundance gatherings.  Roun’fires and feasts, engaging the best in banter and blatherings.  She knows her way around the social sphere better than most.  Silent on many issues but vocal on vices and vicissitudes.   Not the biting kinds as she is too proper to discuss religion or politics in public.

Well taught thence travelled, Deirdre sees and knows all and many.  A smirk here and a chortle there.  Where flies that frumious bander-snatch with vorpal sword in hand?  Snick, snack, slothe that blade.  Relax thee whilst she snares that foe.

She always perked it well for me, Coffee couldn’t be better.

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.

 

Garden Gnomes Skulking About

Now that the habitué in the propagatorium has settled to a dull roar, I now direct my efforts at the pulchritude therein.  Efforts accepted  by the Oryctolagus cuniculus, other vermin, arthropoda, or fauna of various ilk tell me they are in MY comfort zone.

The ubiquitous breeder, Daucus Carota eater, finds my yard peaceful and serene.  On my arrival he does not flee like I would suppose.  He merely moves to that part of the garden where I am not present.   I move there and he/she/it hops to whence I was walking.  And back, forth again, two down then left.

The world sworms and swells with pride as it lollies about the solar system, unaffected by the bobtail in my backyard again.  Chaos or not, this theory provides  fodder for the physicist in all of us.  Uh err…  well we all deal in physics don’t we?  It’s that sphincter on your desires, the throttler on your wants, the garrote on the possibilities of the day. 

The shredder neglected to do its task, the cam chain slipped a cog, the peen engaged your opposed digit, while the ball would have simply glanced off.  No, I parry and poke at the greenery and brownery in my glade.  Whilst still those in the near allow all style and swipe of verminous plant to survive and thrive. 

There have been time of past ilk of so when I have provided that which is not needed to survive to neighboring ugliness.  It helps.  Both the vanity and the world at large.   And large it is.  Rotating on a rotation around a rotating Sun in a universe decidedly rotating.    A whirling dervish if ever one existed. “she is no whir stir fliberty giberty mamsel”  this is the big show.

There is no known dénouement for this placitudinous spin.  We are going about our business without the willies or weenies.  Sorry we  don’t fly off, for that would be the easy way to others in the Welt.  The Welt of Douglas Adams.

My Java don’t steep on those Blue Mountains Jose.

 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.