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Next day, it was out of the box
and into the loop;
the doors to the coupe.
Then, after hitching said coupe to the trailer, Davey becomes an ‘oer the road sailor.
As the coupe went forward a-clunkety-clunk, through the coupe’s window,
the stench of a skunk.
When asked how he felt,
old Davey said “Look:
I’m still pretty svelte,
but ain’t writin’ a book.
And you know, well, that’s how it goes,
so let’s bring this chapter to a full close.
Truth be told, he’s looking for something meaningful in the travails and tribulations associated with them.
Where is hope for the “uninsured”?
Nowhere. They’re just so easily ignored.
Nay, where is the challenge
to big money sick-care?
Go up against it full force, if you dare.
Davey haughtily retorts as he reports:
“We don’t need your thugs,
and won’t take your drugs. So THERE.”
He wrote so many rants
in case you all missed ‘em;
of not taking a chance
with the sick-care non-system.
Davey here gives a plug
for a cocoa-based drug,
but none from that company called Mars;
no ‘tis a cut above from the firm Choco-Love
- oh, their delicious toffee bars!
This gave him a kick
to make energy stick
as he joined in a long line of cars.
So he wasn’t uptight
at the shortened daylight
as he headed home under the stars.
Elsewhere in the snooze, melatonin gets an ‘A+’ for regulation of sleep cycles and perhaps another A for its antioxidant properties.
But you probably won’t hear it advertised very vigorously in the mainstream media.
“Never let your bard down” Davey thought
while driving past the tan hay fields
and stinking weather hot.
So as summer flew by on July 21st,
Davey was spry but fearing the worst.
Today Davey crashed hard.
9+ hours in the proverbial sack
to get his energy back,
then back to the drawing bard.
Later, Davey heard Marvin Gaye’s version of “Heard It Through The Grapevine” on the scratchy, static-laden radio.
Onto the next barrage of commercials:
support for Trump? Give it a bump,
yeah, give it all you’ve got;
our Twitter brat,
decidedly is NOT.
‘Twas not a Monday
and Davey H reckoned,
‘twould not be a fun day,
as tangled work beckoned.
And just as coal is extracted from mines,
Davey’s first goal was to pull down some vines.
It was a dank day,
but he did okay
and the vine covered tree
looked much better, you see?
The utility trimmers were here
not long past dawn,
and the trees they cut clear
looked rough, pale and wan.
They did enough and then were gone
This brought back memories for the grate Davey H, during times when those noisemakers had created such a racket as to necessitate wearing of hearing protection by spectators. OSHA seemed not to have jurisdiction over such transient operations in that era, so the utility trimmers took chances, at times becoming reckless and a sloppy.
Yet another tangent in the context of semi-harrowing aerial adventures:
Up, up and slightly rain-kissed.
Up where lichens lessen but still cling.
Knees knocking, fear choked,
the sloth remains taut with mettle invoked.
Fear stifled! But will Nature take him?
OBJECTION! Objection sustained.
Fear here, primal-brained.
Do or die.
Thus in danger, time was spent
as showers came and dripping, went.
Tree man did not then relent
but in fact, remained hell-bent
and certainly not too reticent.
And then the rain temporarily stopped
and Davey got outdoors;
fixing the tire that had popped
as well as his other chores.
Into the trunk of the car he loped some tools
then got on all fours, the greasiest of fools.
This just in as of an hour ago:
MAYOR OF GRAINFIELD IN HOT WATER.
That’s funny, most grains prefer natural rainfall, not higher temperature water. At least that’s the fatuous assumption we the gentleman and lady farmers make.
Bruce the mayor, however, is strong,
yet some of the townfolk say
he has been in office too long
and perhaps he should step down today.
Sorry, Bruce; you played fast and loose,
so your tenure, it seems,
they will have to reduce.
Next, it was time to go to the Goodwill-type thrift store and pick up some thrifty-ass work clothes. That is an ongoing project, as Davey H grudgingly acknowledges the need to change his horrendously dirty duds once in a while.
It’s good for burnishing the public image, you know.
Whilst attempting to remain firmly rooted,
Davey was on a path so convoluted
that he up and barked “oh, screw!
You have some catching up to do.”
So before any of this particular day’s trips,
he pondered unloading the previous job’s chips. Not the kind you “win” at a poker table.
Meanwhile, the classical radio station,
perhaps to his consternation,
displayed a bit of its quirks
by playing Prokofiev’s works.
But the new oldies station – the one that popped in seemingly out of nowhere – was indeed too good to be true.
Yup, just as sure as you sit on your gluteus maximus reading this, someday – likely sooner than later – it will begin peppering hapless listeners with all manner of commercials just like the rest of ‘em.
Then it rained
and Davey knew it was time
to be more left-brained
and take respite sublime.
So he went back
and began to unpack.
As mentioned previously,
and not too deviously,
not too late
did Davey the grate
endeavor to land in the sack.
Needless to say, it rained cats and dogs,
at the end of the day, then,
the stench of smashed frogs.
Davey set out with a glimmer of hope,
as he was like a small heliotrope.
With hopes thus increasing,
he’d work without ceasing. . .
rather than stay home and mope.
The day turned out okay
without much to say,
although Davey got pretty damn dirty,
he busted ass
and it thus came to pass
that he didn’t knock off ‘til 6:30.
To get home wasn’t far,
but a fly in the car
had made for some stark consternation;
though a pain in the ass,
a tap on the gas
sent the fly to a new destination.
Then Davey cussed
as he shook off the dust
from the working day’s conflagration.
What if the tariffs would cease to be real?
Well, tariffs will suck and jack up price of steel.
Scorched summer the bummer
with heat from those fires;
we ponder the phenom of these toxic tires.
With weather so hot,
sweat slicked we had fought,
near for naught
as summer expires.
What, the unfortunate reader wonders, denotes ‘toxic tires’? Well, that’s simple. Unbeknownst to consumers, rubber formulations have changed dramatically since who knows when. Of course, we don’t have insider knowledge of industry practices, but take a whiff: our nose knows.
Yes, it’s a fact that tires didn’t used to out-gas this obnoxiously in, say, the mid- seventies. They always did smell like, well, rubber.
But now? The fumes coming off new tires have a perilously pungent bite. The toxins released can scramble brain cells to the extent that one will write such dredge as depicted in the following nonsensical meanderings:
Slake those earplugs, pilgrims; bond that hoary farmster. Plugs? Harrumph.
Belated fly-bys in which cables were snipped; yeah, someone’s wings should have been clipped for that fatal gaffe. But after a not-so-publicized court martial, the perps got off scot-free.
Shift to fifth gear, dear.
We can see the way clear.
and you know that’s
better than the one where those poor saps
were in the radiation aura of a tower ‘farm’.
How much microwave radiation do they absorb daily?
It could be worse: they might be on statins, having “talked to their doctor” and drunk the proverbial Kool-Aid®.
With statins, patients would have the privilege of growing older FASTER.
But just look at that view!
It should energize you!
Of course, if you ignore the fake trees;
those are cellular towers, folks, if you please.
They don’t even try to hide them in most cases, but some cheesy greening won’t hurt too much.
Onto the next distraction: Micycle was a masterful driver, and truly appreciatory of the mundane. He could slither between lanes – no turn signal, thank you very much – and be cool as a zucchini, if not a cucumber.
Through Gettysburg to Frederick, Micycle was very slick.
Each turn, he’d learn to make it stick.
Passed slow or fast, he’d take his pick.
Sadly, Micycle didn’t last,
partnering with Davey so long in the past.
So long, in fact, it’s tough to remember
that it was ended one frigid November.
The year, oh, dear, was 2003,
and Micycle disappeared, you see?
Later, still mourning his Micycle gig loss, Davey licked his wounds for a bit, then set about planning to engage the writhing throngs
by turning E. W.’s words into popular songs.
The late great Ed-Z Walter was pretty prolific; perhaps his writings could be tune-a-riff-ic.
We miss his wit and pate of brown;
some wonder if he’s looking down
from some celestial perch on high.
But alas, we must relent with a sigh:
he’s completely gone, that Ed-Z guy.
Have you ever had to sleep in a car
for more than one night?
Thus the state of the underpaid;
who watched their lives become waylaid.
They’ll slink from their coupe
as if someone cares
whilst enriching a group of billionaires.
Still summer: SUNDAY BEACH:
A long line of cars spew fumes from aromatic unleaded gas, containing petulant brats
out to escape the heat.
At some point, out of the joint,
squeeze hot sand between your feet.
Slimy skin and pink in turn,
thanks to arid day sunburn.
Open dumpsters await in-pourings of the American lifestyle as hotels are packed to capacity – even at THOSE prices.
Look! The 2018 Range Rover is trying to be a Subaru Outback!
War will break out when sheeple fully capitulate, pushed around by climate change. The various warring factions did not overcome tribal tendencies.
As an aside, Davey’s high school history teacher was a shit-stain peabrain flaming gasbag who failed miserably in his brash attempt to convey knowledge
to the likes of Davey H.
Of course, that was many years ago
and still to this day,
Davey has a distinct aversion to history. So that could well mean he is doomed to repeat it.
Today, which was Tuesday and thankfully NOT Monday, Davey, whilst not wallowing, reported the following:
He querulously looked up
in some Quercus crowns
a sight at which he rarely frowns.
Oaks are those majestic trees;
except when stricken with disease.
Having been so thus inspired,
and not in a patch of acorns mired,
Davey saddled up and rode
out on old Spleen Splitter Road.
This was not at all like him,
responding to such a crazy-ass whim;
he only did it just because
it got to where the dang work was.
The work ahead was grueling
and he wasn’t fooling
until it was all complete;
and did he sweat?
Oh, yeah, you bet
ensconced in the sauna-like heat.
So Davey kept-a-workin’, not crappin’
and staying involved,
not an accident waiting to happen,
but rather a problem to be solved.
Thus yet another day in the life
not to be wrapped in strife,
bringing this post to a close
so the reader can safely doze.
What is the RDA for H2O?
64 oz, they’ll have you know!
That means this: a whole lotta piss,
‘cause man, you WILL have to GO!
Davey set out to see
what he could learn
whilst listening with glee
to the Seventh Sojourn.
Then off to work, no shirk and no bull;
thanks to the tank that’s damn near full.
But going down Old Georgia Road,
you stand on the brakes until you are slowed,
then to the crest, careen and veer;
just give it your best; HEY, watch that deer!
Then a foray and a tinge of fear
that this thunderstorm could be severe.
With Mother Nature true to form
she did bring on a thunderstorm.
But that was okay with this workin’ fool;
at this time of day it was nice to get cool!
Having pondered the insanity and outrage that human warfare truly is, not a day goes by that Davey H doesn’t ponder whether his cohorts with 401Ks are inadvertently profiting from the war machine industry.
Have you heard much about the bombing of Yemen lately? YOU could be benefitting financially from the dropping of those bombs on the poorest nation in the middle east.
Moreover, do you wonder why the MANTRA of ‘preventing Iran from obtaining nuclear weapons’ is so pervasive?
What if you discovered that you got a bump in your portfolio when Ghaddafi was MURDERED? Stay aloof, oh hapless pawn;
you have a roof from dusk to dawn!
Enough depressing drivel.
Let’s move on to more innocent stuff.
Davey would ask that farmer guy
why the corn was not knee high
by the fourth of July.
And what would be his reply?
“Why, it was damn dry
with no rain from the sky,
so the corn didn’t try
to get very high.”
On Site; Poor Sight:
Davey doesn’t argue with facts,
but he suspects his cheap camera has cataracts.
Not sure why but he thinks it’s forgetting
to let more light in when in ‘low light’ setting.
He doesn’t know quite what to think
when folks in the pictures have faces so pink.
Of course this only applies to those whites;
especially in stark florescent lights.
But it sports an equal opportunity:
taking lousy pictures with impunity.
Such bad of this camera old Davey is speaking,
the story is told: it’s time for some tweaking.
is no swap for replacement.
How utterly pusillanimous of Davey H to complain so bitterly about trivial matters when over a billion people don’t get a meal every day.
Davey H needs to get serious about WHAT? Well, the old tractor’s starter, for starters. Since the tractor won’t start, it stands to reason that the starter could possibly be the culprit.
He could ask Alexa☺ to play repair instructions, right?
Today’s CSA grab: two kinds of kale, a bunch of collards, young celery and a host of root vegetables. Not a bad haul for this far into the season. How does it feel?
Well, for starters, it’s REAL. Of course it’s hickish but that’s real, too, and better than a bunch of city slickers.
Of course you will almost always have corny banjo playing, the stench of roasting animal carcasses and kids running around – all par for the course at this farmstand you found.
So you grab your bag and stuff it full;
don’t gripe or rag; give it a pull
then part the crowd, “y’all stand clear!”
Yup, sing it loud: “I’M OUTTA HERE!”
Thus back to the woods went this old geezer
to stuff all those fresh goods into the freezer.
He relished the quiet and freedom from want,
and craved to try it: that damn city jaunt.
“We’ll sleep in tomorrow,” old Newton did say,
but added with sorrow, “uh, later today.”
Well, *AHEM* the problem was
It was near 2 am, and he bitched because:
“Enough of this infernal nocturnal proclivity;
it leads to a decrease in productivity!”
But you see the impact was not very big,
as that fella Newton was merely a FIG.
Later that sleep deprived Sunday, after taking the otherwise indefatigable Newton’s admonitions under advisement, Davey H set out on a southward jaunt, shunning any
hint of an advertisement.
According to the oft-errant GPS, it would be a 3 hour venture comprised of mostly highway miles. With a $708.+ wheel bearing job and oil change under her belt, the car they named Bluebird was rolling down the highway just as the Doobie Brothers said she would.
As a passenger on this excursion, Davey H could be a spectator and chronicle his own version of events and scenery that whizzed by the right side window.
Passing the cutoff for Interstate I-[censored], welcome sun poked through cumulonimbus cloud cover. This wasn’t England or Norway, mind you, but
the weather up ‘til now
had been Norway or England-like,
so it was nice to have a temperature spike.
Eventually, Bluebird transported her passengers around the hell curve near Stinkfield, passing under butt-ugly rust coated overpasses, emerging to a clearing dotted with eyesores politely known as billboards. The boards’ messages were blunted by sheer ugliness – or maybe just their superfluousness.
Yet somebody pays to splash their blustery ejaculations on these rectangular roadside behemoths.
And for prime billboard real estate – where lots of rubber meets the road – prices range upward of $4000.00 per month.
So they make sure no trees intervene
betwixt eyeballs and swillboards.
Then Bluebird hit a patch or rain
and traffic slowed to a crawl;
so for a bit it was a pain,
and that just wasn’t all.
That not-so-great fair Interstate
was all backed up to boot;
‘cause everyone and their brother, son
had chosen the same damn route!
Then, Davey, when listening to news, he
heard of the screws being tightened on Turkey.
Folks seemed to care if a tariff on steel
would be over there if it was all for real.
For the global elite,
that’s a part of the game;
their job is complete
as it speaks to their shame.
Pawns on the chess board, 1,2,3'
Turkey gets gored so easily.
Chris beat cancer – that’s a fact;
he told a friend and didn’t retract.
And what do you know?
The friend didn’t show
any interest to wit.
So in other words,
the friend sans turds
just didn’t give a sh**.
Today: It was once again the great Ed-Z Walter’s birthday anniversary and Davey H had planned to commemorate the occasion by sending an essay to all who knew Walter. Sadly, time slipped away from this effort. So maybe a series could still be penned,
as good a series as any;
for Ed-Z Walter was brother and friend
to almost all and the many.
And so to all who knew his ways
and honored the day of his birth;
they could remit for the rest of their days
some Ed-Z Walter mirth!
Then inserted into the din,
rodent-ish aroma slithered in:
The smell of piss was not so nice,
and that meant this: the presence of MICE.
See the trail and where it leads
peppered with opened sunflower seeds.
Oh yeah play. They make you shout;
but no freakin’ way will you keep them out.
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