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Meanwhile, out on the plain
with so little to gain,
the grate Davey H curses incessant rain.
And when things dry out
will the battle be won?
No, this is a ROUT,
and the fight’s just begun.
Now then: Davey’s insights
are few and far between,
as some, by rights,
have been already seen.
He does fail to grasp all this tariff stuff
and would like to see someone
just call da Chump’s bluff.
Davey pauses now, briefly
just to gripe chiefly
regarding those newfangled headlights:
we can go blind
in front not behind,
when somebody flicks on their brights.
Continuing on with this pattern of distracted dysfunctional driving-directed didactic dredge:
he was up, out and about
yet wanting to shout
and not only just to be crass;
for as you will see
it then came to be
that other scamps rode his ass.
So Davey did scoff
as he hastily pulled off,
not wanting one second to linger;
and as he did,
his sentiments not hid,
whilst he brandished a stiff middle finger.
It was the (censored) of (censored)and that meant it was once again time to commemorate Seve non-Bellasteros’s (censored)th birthday. Hardly a cause de celebré.
Davey knew however, that placing an acknowledgment call to Seve was of paramount importance. An unpleasant interaction had resulted years ago when Davey H, true to form, had offered said birthday salutations a day late. Now whether or not the attendant proverbial dollar was short is irrelevant; Seve sort of melted down, chastising Davey for his tardiness as well as lambasting Davey’s endorsement of Single Payer sick-care. As a result of this interaction, Seve didn’t speak to Davey for over a year!
Meanwhile, back at the ever-proverbial ranch, suet in the feeder
and birds are looking spry;
as Davey tells
the fair reader
he awaits the carpenter guy.
Paper caper, place to park,
dwindling kindling; walnut bark.
We ventured to the great outdoors;
in front of wood stove old dog snores.
An SSD not optimized,
mere 60 gigs now circumcised.
It had its day
and has its place,
but to our dismay
it’s low on space.
Davey hopped just like a toad
then rolled on down Oil Spillage road.
Savoring a favored break in the weather,
he hoped that he could make it together.
He knew the rules
and had the tools
for work that was light as a feather.
Then, tooling through the village of (Censored),
he nevertheless to dullness ventured.
Today no one chided the grate Davey H for reeking of garlic at the (censored) meeting.
He didn’t even notice any turning heads, furrowed brows or wrinkled noses. So maybe no garlic effluvium was extant. The potential for offense via stinking rose fumes arose from a minor mishap which saw a garlic clove inadvertently slipped into Davey’s tea flask the day before. Upon sipping the results, Davey quipped “Dayum! That ain’t half bad!”
It was a sad day, oh glory be;
yes, we must say, for Mrs. T.
It was as if while she had dozed,
the mighty Sears mall store had closed.
And she missed out on deals galore,
then walked in that near-empty store.
Yes, indeed, as you have guessed,
Mrs. T was quite depressed.
Post Sears depression aside, on yet another mundane work day,
let’s just say
it would be part work and a little play.
One thing this day would not entail
was meeting someone who’s only email.
With frustration, Davey wasn’t alone
in his first preference to use the phone.
Then, on an entirely unrelated note,
Rick said he’d check the price. Nice.
The Buddha stated that lust spoils all beings
just as weeds spoil a garden.
Well, this is AMERICA, we beg your pardon!
It’s LUST or BUST.
All else is dust,
so let the hard-ons harden!
That’s Buttwiper ® America for ya.
Football spittle, grease on griddle.
Crud Lite, no fight.
We have the noisiest crowds on the planet.
Hey, you! Lower your CO2!
That can’t happen – or can it?
The debate rages on, Don;
latter and former,
and when we are gone,
it’s bound to get warmer.
As noted in previous posts,
Davey H may or may not live in Florida.
In fact, he might not even be north of the equator, alligator.
But one thing stands clear, dear:
he’ll be there sooner or later.
On the shortest day of the year,
Davey did play with a bit of fear
that he had not rehearsed.
He had espirit de corps with the rest of them,
but ‘twas damn near dark by 4 pm.
And just as a a child should not train a bull,
those short days made work pretty dull.
It was Thanksgiving and Davey H (and his spouse of 20+ years) was celebrating 28 years of vegetarianism
while not otherwise making a big deal out of the traditional holiday. Thanksgiving was not a ‘turkey day’ for Davey and his immediate co-inhabitants here at their not-so-fashionable upper east side pad. No, it was a plant-based day off for Davey H. No worries: he wouldn’t die of a protein deficiency. Quite the contrary; “if you’re going to pig out,” he said, “you might as well not contribute to the slaughter.”
Davey was determined to strive
out in this world
where noxious weeds thrive
but good plants curled.
Thus, with some fuss,
he hastened to cuss,
but nevertheless stayed alive.
And he was alone
but that’s okay; because it
was bad to the bone
with two checks to deposit.
Two nights ago, Davey – along with inhabitants of his less-than-luxurious abode – started to watch ‘The truth About The Iraq War’. Yes, finally, after 15 years from that fiasco’s inception, it was nigh time to glean the lies and corrupt aberrant practices that led to it. As the old adage goes ‘it’s never too late to moisten your toes’.
A half-assed veteran himself, the grate Davey H now fell on the left of the political spectrum, concurring with IVAW in trilling (proudly):
“Operation Iraqi Illegal Invasion
was NOT done in our name.”
The documentary lucidly lays out how full of shit the Cheney administration was in huffing and puffing the fallacious case for preemptive war. ‘Nuff said for now.
Piano virtuoso slickly fingered;
on that note the dull mind lingered.
We must prepare for mud today,
but at the pump, please don’t pre-pay.
Oh, sleepy little village
nestled under hills!
Are your fields for tillage
with rivers for your mills?
Yet such sullen skies prevail
‘oer village in the trees;
dank dampened quilt ‘tis Nature’s veil
to sully the best of these.
Yes, folks the foregoing soliloquy was a foregone exclusion of all things urban.
And in this setting is no jet-setting.
Come winter, smoke curls from many a chimney.
Bristle on chin, better strap yourself in.
It will be one hell of a winter;
because, well, you know,
that it’s just like Juneau:
get your wood right down to the splinter!
With a little dull-assed pencil
and memories so fleeting,
would Davey have a stencil
of what happened in the meeting?
As it turned out, with a newsletter headline only days away,
Davey wouldn’t mind if he didn’t have a say.
4 U C Davey cited his ‘sieve-like’ memory banks when explaining that, at best, he could only summon a splintered synopsis of what transpired during the aforementioned meeting.
Not that it was earthshattering.
This was not the first time he had gotten caught with his notepad garbled, and it likely wouldn’t be the last.
As Davey H wanted to say,
“look, I’m already on the hook,
so pressure – go away!”
The days go by and he clears his throat;
he is no longer spry, lest he should gloat.
So he whips out yet another rhyme:
adjunct clips of wasted time.
Then he wanted to bring his car
but didn’t think it would pass;
so ergo, to deal with the thought of rejection,
all he could say was “alas.”
So then it was time
to go have some fun
in a shop so sublime
with the pop rivet gun.
Oh, so much for that;
it’s not where it’s at,
‘cause in 2 seconds flat,
Davey had dropped the bat.
Not to be further hornswoggled* by continuing wretched weather,
he had to confess
it was not time to guess,
but rather to keep it together.
*[Yes, ‘hornswoggled IS a word.]
So Davey prowled
as the wheel bearings growled
and he clung like a leech to his sanity;
not being a coward,
preferring Clark Howard
over the ranting of Hannity.
For this boy: no Thanksgiving hams
or ‘lower your interest rate’ scams.
Slush and mud, such crap not chosen;
don’t bust your pud. . .the ground’s not frozen.
Then, HOLY SH**!
They had closed Waverly Road!
Another day, another blast;
blood sport foray and victims aghast.
What more can we tell you man?
Unsettled score in Afghanistan.
So let’s hearken back to 2002
when US did attwack as it wanted to do.
(As the CHENEY administration wanted to).
Now as for the Afghans, they might have feared
“our” empire-building as bombing time neared.
In the sun their faces
shriveled like prunes
as “we” bombed without traces
a bunch of sand dunes.
Have at it, US War Machine.
It’s understandable, this veisceral need for revenge. But the enemy in this case was mercurial, transient and at times virtually invisible. Besides, they had friggin’ camels.
Have things turned out the way the Cheney administration had envisioned? Their neo-liberal libertarian desert paradise wet dream has yet to come to fruition after 17 years.
Meanwhile, back at the so-called shack,
it was 42° Fahrenheit – a temperature most Florida wimps would consider bone-chillingly cold – and Davey H was thrilled to report the acquisition of yet another freebarrow©™, or free wheelbarrow.
This Jackson® M6 was the best one yet.
Time to get out and roll it.
So with quality pants
and waterproof boots,
for good work perchance
we are in cahoots.
‘Twas the first of December,
the worst to remember:
the year that he sent all those faxes;
and that year, oh, dear,
it was perfectly clear
that he would owe a whole bunch of taxes.
He hated to fritter
that dough down the shitter,
as it wasn’t part of his plan;
for he needed a breather
and didn’t like this either:
funding war in Afghanistan.
This is the next official entry in a somewhat discontinuous, disjointed, dysfunctional series: Davey H exclaimed that he couldn’t complain, being free of the pain
of that wretched campaign.
He has not served,
but rather had swerved
and the vets who did? They said “never again!”
Meanwhile, out back, the chickens squawked, chirped and cooed, apparently unaware of how short their lives were.
It should here be noted without delay
that their lives would NOT be cut short by even a day – at least not on Davey H’s watch.
In fact, every minute of their simple existence was precious – both to them AND Davey & spouse.
How fulfilling it was to hear their soft peeps first thing in the morning punctuated by the rooster’s strident roar! And their repertoire of sounds – over 100 separate and distinct utterances by some estimates – filled any given spring day with a delicate tapestry to accentuate the revolving door of nearby songbirds.
Yesterday, it was clean up or BUST.
No more decorating with mud and sawdust.
First order of biz – just like before
was to get one’s ass peeled up off the floor.
That said and done,
though not very much fun,
we were finally out the damn door.
Once on the road, air whipped and whistled through the tines of Davey’s manure rake that was strapped on top of the car.
Then, once on the job, the rake got its kicks;
it helped old Davey with pickin’ up sticks.
Then Davey thought he’d take a look
at Matt Taibbi’s brand new book.
That fella Matt does make you think:
the book is entitled ‘Hate INC’.
As an aside – one of many in Davey H’s posts – Dierdre floated a query on the status of meeting minutes, which let some gas out of his balloon, to say the least. Head down, he replied that his keyboard had not been too well greased.
Speaking of non-industrial [or perhaps better yet, ‘metaphorical’ gasses], it was at around this time that Davey H was heard to howl:
It has come to pass:
the holy Dow
has let off hot gas!”
Thus the market and bonds
with their assets absconds.
Into the fray one tosses some paper, then Voila!
One day, losses come from this caper.
Yet the savvy investor
so rarely frowns;
her/his worries won’t fester
‘oer those ups and downs.
The direction is UP, yes, eventually,
whilst investing, yup, in the Corporatocracy.
To the common man – which Davey H considers himself – the ‘holy’ DOW has little to do with much of anything.
So he just keeps-a-workin’.
Ergo, a nagging backlog of work
and a vehicle that would need replacing;
‘round the next curve would trouble lurk?
Would this worker be self-effacing?
So anyway, this old horn won’t toot,
for out in the work-fray the point is moot.
Enough of this attempted financial B.S.
Today saw the first of several sprout-dotted mature apple trees into which Davey threw his efforts.
It was one day after Pearl Harbor Day and few of the new generation knew or cared, it seemed.
If they did care – or care to know
it sure didn’t seem to show.
But the preceding week
those who profits seek
just had to say ‘Wow!’
at the slip-sliding Dow.
Elsewhere in non-cyberspace
[meaning: one invariably messy desk],
a small slip of paper earned its place,
having been rescued at the last minute
from a nearby wood stove.
The slip in question was a JUMBLE.© – the moniker wholly apropos, to say the least.
Not one, but TWO stumpers remained unsolved by the grate Davey H – otherwise known as Davey Queenpuzzler. They were, in order of difficulty, the following: NOPHOC and NALHED.
Yes, Davey did stumble
‘oer many a Jumble ©
and fretted that they didn’t rhyme;
it seemed so absurd
that each puzzling word
would be such a sucker of time!
Anyway, after the workday had expired,
Davey bore dismay, as he was ‘friggin’ tired’.
Then, Davey asked his friends up north
of what portends: did snow spring forth?
With scarves wrapped ‘round
each neck and nape,
would some of them to the south escape?
Davey H now interrupts this piffle with a spate of diversionary tactics:
RE: dogs: Hear the rattle of kibble
that falls in the bowl;
No need to quibble,
coax or cajole.
It’s feeding time, sublime, and complete;
my oh, my, how those dawgs love to eat!
It should be duly noted that Davey was NOT thrown to the dogs. But he had read of how Christopher Columbus – the world’s first known trans Atlantic slave trader – was perhaps instrumental in that canine carnage expression’s coining.
For historical accounts reveal that Columbus and his murderous lackeys threw the babies of ‘Hispañola’[apparently the precursor, or rather akin to modern day Haiti/Dominican Republic] to hungry mastiffs. And to think that today, Davey and all other descendants of so-called ‘settlers’ are essentially living, working, eating, shitting and lurking and bleating on expropriated land wrested from natives.
As the true Columbus tale is told,
he couldn’t be prosecuted
for his crimes against humanity,
‘cause he was bringin’ back the gold.
These gory unpleasant thoughts
can tie one up in knots.
Yes, ‘tis no mystery, our sordid history.
Back to the present, or something like it:
So Sears was toast,
shed tears the most;
no one hears that talk show host.
Yes, one thing that Davey fears:
he won’t find bling like he did at Sears.
Well, it was a long rid for the ‘giant retailer’.
As Davey was born last century, he recalls a time when the local Sears was a fave go-to shopping spot. It was of a genus of large beasts known as ‘department’ with the specific epithet ‘stores’. Online shopping was not yet even a sniveling drop of semen in a technocrat’s wet dream,
and malls were coming into their own. So Sears and its ilk would often be referred to as ‘anchor’ stores once the malls came up.
They could perhaps be considered the large dangling testicles underneath the rock hard mall in question; always there to supply the necessary support and fertility. After all, as per each mall, stores come and go, and we know that’s not all.
So? Hey, did we go – to Sears, you know
with the ebb and flow?
Did we pull out real slow
and show our mojo?
With a hue and sigh
now we bid Sears goodbye.
The Tip Jar