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The next day shall we say
the panoramic scene
was dank and dull
with cold to cull
and anything but green.
Churning and tossing,
we traversed a grade crossing
enroute to coming clean.
Then it was up a steep hill
as ‘steep’ did fit the bill
where we then summarily parked;
it would be a good day
for a walk and some play
with the dog that rarely barked.
Warmed-over day-old ginger tea
made the day go by just that little bit better
as old Davey did pry off that drowsiness fetter. Oh, and he thought himself pretty darn handy,
as from the shelf he pulled boxed candy.
Then Davey H passed the tow truck guy
who looked so unforgiving,
but no matter, he had to fly,
his truck still among the living.
What’s your preference?
Make a reference.
Hone it to a ‘T’.
For the difference ‘twixt preference,
and if you will, reference,
is just quite simply ‘P’.
So Davey asked his friends up north
some info thus to usher forth.
One replied, not to be snide
“Ode To Snows Off.”
With the tagline:
“They did their task,
that much is clear,
now let them bask
until next year.”
To wit: many northern drivers keep two fully booted sets of wheels on hand.
This, friends, was the shortest day of the year, historically speaking – or was it? Did we have our calendar ass-backwards – of just off by a month?
No matter. For those gnashing gnomes who toiled outdoors – with Davey H among them – the pressure was ON. It got dark quickly, and that meant less got accomplished.
After what seemed like 24 hours of rain,
Davey had a chat with Jane,
whereby it appeared
that much mud they both feared
sure hit home that the rain was a pain.
For the next night, Jane had a plan;
as she was white, no travel ban.
She needed to get going on a short hop,
and so they met at the fab coffee shop.
As per the need Jane’s miles to log,
Davey agreed to board her old dog.
Too much sugar to begin the day
meant Davey H would so poorly foray.
And so it is and so it was; he would sow and reap piss poor outcomes as the day wore on,
but he and an industrious coworker
did muddle through,
as so very much they needed to do.
Big D noted and was quoted
“full moon last night;
sure was bright, an eerie white
to our delight.”
“In fact, the moonlight made me smile
and helped us find the old woodpile.”
Sadness calls: we lost another hen today,
not so hard to believe;
and we’re not shittin’
as this is written
on a dreary Christmas Eve.
Such a frail winged waif,
but we kept her safe
from the jagged jaws of harm;
now needless to say
it was a sad day
at Don’t Laugh It’s Paid For Farm.
Davey and spousester had noticed that the hen in question
had been flagging two months earlier when, after a particularly nasty mite infestation, she began to lose weight and had gurgling sounds when breathing.
After her inevitable demise, she stayed ‘in state’ – wrapped in a plastic bag and placed in the outdoor freezer until such time as her cremation could take place.
Next, whilst greatly saddened,
Davey wrote some thoughts he had
from his quivering throat to a legal pad.
Then, once it became time to wrench free from such sedentary activities, it was red oak, black birch, and river birch, or Quercus rubrum, Betula lenta and Betula nigra respectively.
Davey H intoned while NOT stoned
“I’ve got a ton of work and will not shirk.
Yes, a ton,
and it will get done
whether competitors like it or not.”
So everything that day
went the correct way
and somewhat according to plan.
Meanwhile, everyone continues to criticize the Chump for sly crimes and misdemeanors, leveling accusations on each topic they broach and letting us know he’s not beyond reproach.
Today, Davey H started out with a slight bit of consternation, having thought it unwise to initiate any significant projects. Towering overhead in the imaginary ether of duties and responsibilities
was the Damoclese Sword® of aggravation, replete with fear relate to gadgets,
many essential to daily operations.
These concerns were not entirely unwarranted; after all, everything, both animate and inanimate, had a useful, or if you will, functional life span.
Oh, how wet weather threatens all machinery of the metallic persuasion!
The evening of the day that post was written, a quote was heard above the din at Don’t Laugh It’s Paid For Farm® prior to supper. “This makes two smorgasbords in a row!” Davey chirped.
It would be another couple of months until winter unleashed its ridiculously short days,
but winter in those parts wasn’t so bad.
Although it should be noted and perhaps quoted that whether one lived in Essington, Pennsylvania, Jamestown, Virginia, or Lubec, Maine, one would have to contend with a bit of winter each year.
But Davey H has digressed.
Anyway, this particular meal was a fine spread consisting of vegan macaroni & cheese, steamed kale with white beets and portabella mushroom shreds along with mixed tomato purees – some from jars and the rest from frozen homegrown tomatoes courtesy of Don’t Laugh It’s Paid For Farm©.
Not that you, the reader, would give a flying flip.
That evening, Davey and spousester watched ‘Topper Returns’, having downloaded the entire flick from Archive.org – formerly known as the Internet Movie Archive. Downloading it, while a decidedly interminable process, was the only option, as slow Internet speeds made streaming next to impossible.
The end result meant that resolution was reasonable [for a black & white movie] and at 540 megs, the file size doable. Other high-res options would have pegged the download at over 1 gigabyte, which for a crackly black & white flick, was wholly unnecessary.
The film is highly entertaining and comes heartily recommended by the grate Davey H and kin.
The next day,
this verse was culled from thin air:
Trees were bare
and thus did share
the sunlight passing through;
would Davey care
to outward fare
and see what he could do?
Yes, with a smile,
he hit the pile,
with a heavy splittin’ maul;
then brought wood in
whilst sporting a grin,
quipped: “g’night, folks – that’s all.”
Chronicling the rustic rural events at Don’t Laugh It’s Paid For Farm© has peppered Davey H’s posts, and he hopes he hasn’t bored his hosts. And speaking of hosts, 100Words.com’s progenitors appear to have assigned all perfunctory maintenance duties to robots.
But this is of little consequence when Steely Dan’s ‘Gaucho’ was playing. On the ‘Glamor Profession track’, what jumps out most prominently? The steady, solid Steve Gadd percussion licks. Indeed, his impeccable rhythm is the spine from which the tune’s bone structure hangs. Gadd needn’t slam those skins to get his point across; no, his complete confidence and gentle persuasion can tease chest-thumping potential out of even the most subtle brush strokes. Moreover, his metronome-like precision is the essential, smoothly beveled cog in that stellar band.
[Note to shelf: GET THE BOOK entitled ‘Deal Breaker’ by Scott Ritter] [Mar 12]
Davey H headed out
on the last gloomy day of the year
to exercise clout
and expunge all doubt
and quell working class fear.
But the worst of the pain
had yet to rescind,
as first came the rain
soon followed by wind.
So much for gatherin’ gear.
He grew used to the pattern – it wasn’t so hard – to pick up the scattered stuff
slopped in the yard.
Determined, though, to keep chugging on,
Davey did know he’d best get up at dawn.
Then, moving along, it was pitchforkin’ dark,
at a quarter past dawn – and the dog didn’t bark.
Out on the ‘prairie’ – the beloved backyard,
just to be fair, he thought ‘life’s not so hard.’
Nose to the grindstone, old Davey did scoff;
but in such a tone not to piss people off.
Outward and onward he’d thrust without fright, propelled justly froward into that still night.
This draws to a close the opening blast
from a typical day at this ‘farm’ in days past.
Oh, well, you know Davey could have blogged about it, but realized in a very lucid manner that activity was a waste of time.
This was not a conclusion arrived at lightly;
Davey had seen with his own dithering eyeballs what an exercise in frivolity it was sitting on his duff reading blogs and grimacing at the race to the bottom portrayed in most comment sections. But to WRITE blogs? Horrors! Nothing but SPAM or snide comments would be forthcoming – a spurious and scummy reward for one’s literary efforts, however strenuous or heartfelt.
Besides, it’s what writers give away for free.
So Davey continued to write in cursive, culling and saving up enough verbiage to transfer onto various electronic media for the purpose of posting insouciantly on the decidedly insecure, certificate-less 100Words.com.
Meanwhile, on the so-called home front, the binge and purge lifestyle needed to be seriously examined. Like, hey – was that bread machine that hadn’t been touched in 10 years REALLY necessary? Paper of various stripes was an ongoing scourge as well. For the ‘purge’ phase, as he recalled, would most days be pretty well stalled. Thumbing through each paper sheaf, Davey would feel pangs of grief:
purging them would bring relief,
but with time crunch he had a beef.
The very next day, Davey noted
no water on the floor of the car
and quipped, “well, so good so far.”
Then the day’s drizzle
meant hopes would sure fizzle
and definitely lower the bar.
For over a year,
although he did seek,
he couldn’t come near
that damn windshield leak.
Worse yet, the wipers appeared
to be eliciting death throes
as they groaned and veered
across windshield of those.
And on the next day,
while heading toward fun,
Davey did say
“we have no friggin’ sun.”
His breath said it under
then said it again;
it was no wonder:
we had so much rain!
Then, whilst listening to the Handyman Show, Davey heard something he just didn’t know:
that in order for mortar not to freeze,
you can bet it won’t set under 40 degrees.
Actually, in summation,
‘freeze’ constituted exaggeration.
Davey glanced at his watch,
on the stove spilled a splotch,
and then with the greatest of ease;
his bootstraps did tuck
as he loaded the truck
under quivering naked oak trees.
Then he did craze
as if popping a pimple
and longed for the days
when things were more simple.
But then in a slump
Davey H had to frown,
because of Herr Chump
and his federal shutdown.
With workforce, of course,
Davey may have objected,
as he, among others might have been affected.
Yet in the long run
it there was to be one,
had Davey his ‘druthers
he won’t be dejected.
Moving on to the next gaggle of distractions, Davey H wistfully reports illustrious coworker Challie Mensch’s temporary relocation.
It seems Challie sought greener pastures than those inhabited by the grate Davey H, Whupsteen, [unfortunately], Challie’s longtime confidante and mentor, Charlie Grey, and a small but competent constituency of cohorts close by.
Of course, to be clear, dear,
any environ to which Whupsteen did adhere
was a place away from which most would steer.
But that wasn’t the nagging issue in Challie’s predicament: he rarely had contact with Whupsteen.
The back story behind Challie’s abrupt exodus was a sobering one. He was off to the heartland, he said, as he ‘had family in the region’. But to Challie’s immediate circle of companions, that seemed a pretty thin excuse. After all, why would he just desert the pastoral property into which, over the years, he had invested so much time, sweat and treasure?
Well, the root cause of Challie’s sudden change would come to light in a discussion Davey had with Charlie Grey one afternoon.
Things were worse than Challie had let on, Charlie said. As it turned out, Challie had been silently suffering with moderate to severe depression and had even teetered over the bleak precipice of considering ending his own precious country bumpkin life!
That revelation shocked Davey H, who considered himself a confidante of sorts.
This sad state of affairs could be partially understandable given the seemingly self-imposed isolation Challie’s residence afforded, it being situated on a long uphill stretch of woods leading to [censored] township. He had virtually zero neighbors on either side, and pure sticks – thick-assed woods front and back.
Initially off-grid, in woods he hid;
he purchased the land
in a deal so grand
for a phenomenal lowball bid.
On a hill, not on top,
he had set up shop
and worked like hell
to drill a well
for water – much more than a drop.
Then he added some sheds
and built an outhouse;
and in winter did battle with many a mouse.
He bought a small stove and saw that was good;
then saw a saw and then did saw some wood.
‘So far, so good’,
thus the reader has guessed;
so puzzling how Challie could be depressed.
Friends should have come callin’
not at his behest;
fate wouldn’t have befallen
had he a nice guest!
So where does good Challie go from here?
Not off any ‘deep end’ – oh, no we fear!
Davey, for one, ponder’s Challie’s fate;
his journey begun, now we’ll only wait.
Challie’s life goes much slower in 3rd gear,
though not much from him did we all hear.
With curiosity his friends are burning;
when will Challie be returning?
Thus ends the Challie exodus expositions.
Onto this: open borders,
open to suggestion;
have a good question:
when down & downward markets go
who’s around to guard all our dough?
Switching from blue to the reddest of ink
Davey tells you what he starts to think:
‘said dough, you know,
is actually FAKE;
and where does it go?
To those on the take.
Leaning into this financial hairpin turn,
brother, we all have a lot to learn.
While the FBI continues its probe
of the master negotiator,
the Oval Office xenophobe
will go down sooner or later.
Not to be too reticent,
but Davey H went incandescent!
Bye bye swirly florescent lights
whose cheesy glow was on most nights.
That alone was a
move so shitty
all in the name of saving electricity.
Now Davey H has a plan:
throwing those stupid-assed bulbs in the can.
Oh, but wait: you can’t just toss twirlies away,
because, boys and girlies
– they contain mercury!
So let’s make one thing perfectly clear:
those mercury bulbs were a really bad idear.
But stupidity it seems, arises in droves.
Such is the stain
and the bane
it is plain
that in this thick and burgeoning mass of our supposedly intelligent race of mistake makers; things that start out as good ideas eventually get perverted and off-course.
Get away, away!
No more objects to ferret;
and the news of the day?
Such bull-dreck – can’t bear it.
That in itself is an event so telling
as news off the shelf
is not quite so compelling.
Then later on, Davey, down on his luck
and feeling a sense of dejection:
the sad truth would dawn that his rusty truck
might well not get through its inspection.
So when things got slow
to work he would go
in the hopes productivity renders;
he’d dig him a divet,
then pop many a rivet
and get right to work on those fenders.
NEWS FLASH !!
from Don’t Laugh It’s Paid For Farm:
Davey recently exhumed boxes and bags of scribbled writings, notes, articles, quips, quotes, anecdotes, and snippets of incomplete marginally comprehensible material, much of it from his former caffeinated days. So that alone means little, if any of it will be worth transposing on to the flagrantly insecure 100Words.com.
Listening to some truth telling
about the rank, uncouth and yes, foul-smelling
led Davey to be put to the test;
not riding a wave or getting depressed.
Further along, as one might have guessed,
that truth telling throng was on a stark quest
to inform all as it’s worthy of mention regardless of whether they expect a pension
at Uncle Sam’s behest.
Another day, another tune;
today, says they, will be a ‘blood moon’.
That night, old Davey must confide
that though uptight, he went outside.
A lunar glimpse he then did steal,
and thus did wince “it’s no big deal.”
But this year the lunar eclipse held sway
on Martin Luther King Day.
A lunar eclipse was nothing new,
but folks pursed their lips, nothing better to do
than go outside and get into strictures
as some tried to take eclipse pictures.
Davey thought it would be fun
to take a potshot at the sun.
But only in theory he did say
‘cause the sun was millions of miles away. According to scientific fact:
93 million to be exact.
With regard to the sun, son,
it seems at every turn you
treat it with respect
‘cause that thing can BURN you!
Later, after the boringly mundane lunar event had elapsed, Davey pondered other syllogisms as he wound his way back from a walk with the pack where one dog was no longer ‘fine’,
for as fate would have it, he found porcupine.
But that was yesterday,
quite well past dawn,
and as they say
well, ‘yesterday’s gone’.
Now today reared its nondescript head
and Davey to the nutriment trip was led,
whereby he would be hastily fed.
Yet before he could put on his working mitts,
he needed to deal with a case of the sh**s.
Thus with the morning’s remains in the toilet,
he smiles and hap’ly deigns not to spoil it.
The next day he saw plenty of trouble-a-comin’ and on the double would energy summon?
Regardless of foibles,
Davey’s not bummin’,
but clamors ‘oer obstacles,
keeping things hummin’.
With his old car, he’s still in cahoots,
but would it go far with 2 torn rack boots?
Worry and hurry to bury the cost; uh-oh - now it has leaky exhaust!
He could fret, you bet, about other things, but could not forget about one broken strut. Troubles in doubles
that couldn’t be clearer;
as glue oozes in bubbles
from the buggered right mirror.
Would the death of this car be the only answer
as he hadn’t gotten rid of its body cancer?
Issues: Davey decided which tools he would use.
A plan was rehearsed
and with tools well versed,
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