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No need to pout – let’s get out
and parrot the Green New Deal.
On that topic, not so myopic,
here’s what Davey thinks:
would the deal be comprised
of things privatized?
Well, therefore, it STINKS!
Thus, should we heed
the new deal of greed
until the point that we’re hurtin’?
We’d be up to the hilt as soon as it’s built
by our friends Bechtel, Halliburton.
With said New Deal to close
we’ll see how it goes,
in a script we’ve already seen;
the BIG profit off it, as everyone knows,
and that’s why the Deal is called Green!
So thank you for calling, not stubbornly stalling or letting much time sadly pass.
We know what you mean
that our planet is green
and Co2 is just a gas.
Scorching sun appeared right on schedule as Davey H and an undisclosed companion belonging to one of the many presently extant genders set out on an insouciant excursion.
The trip began in urban congestion on Route (censored), and shunted onto Interstate (censored), where thankfully the 3rd or 4th exit brought them out into open country. As per his usual state of affairs,
Davey H became drowsy, in case anybody cares.
It is due to this phenomenon that
the grate Davey H
would never make it as a long haul trucker
but in his chosen line of work
he’s a hard workin’ f**ker.
Then, HARK! On a lark, we had a place to park!
While getting our tans we thought of Afghans
who would never have made such a mark.
Cars? Hah! A totally foreign concept to the rural Afghan. Davey recalls reading an article regarding Afghans who made a 30+ mile trek to the UK through some friggin’ tunnel. When asked how they could endure such a grueling undertaking,
one Afghan gent quipped, “for Afghans, that’s just exercise.” Meaning: those salubrious sun-baked desert denizens walk far, far more than that – in any given situation.
So much for that, as that was way back when, say 15 years, after the US military had dropped many tons of ordinance on a bunch of sand dunes in the hopes of smokin’ out Osama.
But the news today wasn’t all bad. As Mary read the paper – occasionally vocalizing a few of the lines that jumped out at her – it became apparent that the economy was indeed improving and China was looming.
[Insert patriotic flag wave here^.] Sorry; in his throwin’ down zeal, Davey H almost forgot that yesterday was July 4th.
Anyway, as per the previous post, of course China was pegged as the instigator. At this semi-revelation, Davey H wondered aloud: had they completed that Panama Canal widening project? Because last he heard, that massive excavation was a GO. Because today’s tankers and freighters were massive, you know?
The largest container ships ever built
could be packed right to the hilt.
In raw numbers, that could mean 18,999 containers onboard. Suddenly, this series of wretched verses popped into Davey’s head:
When you and yours get older,
no matter how hard you try;
though you may think that you’ll be bolder,
when the time comes you’re going to CRY.
Thus, rolling over that sentiment
and continuing undaunted,
Davey H did not lament
and would not with grief be haunted.
After all, without any tears,
it was good to help
and not to yelp
as seniors got up in years.
For truth be told, oh, blus’try youth
though presently bold and sometimes uncouth:
life will pass fast, ‘oer soon as you blink,
and it sure won’t last as long as you think!
These and other revelations coursed through Davey H’s addled gray mater on a near constant basis, and his volition was such that
he wished to better serve senior citizens and offer them the purest respect and reverence. Opportunities would surely abound
now that the boomers were still around.
Slightly inspired by seasoned citizens and the ongoing urge to help them, Davey H thought up a kick-in-the-ass motivational mantra that went like this:
'Do not go crazily into that blazing day,
for in the sun you must foray.’
Not to be a second guesser,
but, you see that an air compressor
in addition to a tractor
is the only missing factor.
Now Davey H could not object
that Bob charged him with this project.
Now we plow and with some luck
we’ll work – and how – with our friend Buck.
We’ll rip and dig and slice the soil
and with Buck’s rig make swift the toil.
As an aside, Davey H had recently run into Buck (Censored) at the (Censored) grocery store. In a rare moment in which the ever-industrious Buckster was NOT at work, Davey H was able to hit him with some light banter. That happenstance meeting was rare indeed;
a moment so fleeting as per the Buck’s creed.
For seldom did idle moments lurk
for Buck who needed to constantly work!
Now as to Davey H’s considerably less prolific work ethic, at times he is extolling
that often he doesn’t get to work
‘til schools buses start rolling.
[Return trip, that is.]
So how much GRAB is in your bag?
Hah! Davey might have you beat!
Sloppy tools in the shed was such a drag,
at times he wished the mess was neat.
But that’s okay; the sun today
really brought out the canoeists and white water rafting wannabes.
But it was far too late
for a spate of grafting apple trees.
Days were longer, roads were paved;
and to grow stronger, Davey H craved.
But it was now Memorial Day weekend, and Davey H still hadn’t rotated his (censored year, make and model)’s tires. That chore would be put off – as so many others – for such time as was appropriate for odds and ends.
Today the conundrum was: how to move trees safely and effectively plucked from their places of establishment and into new spots. The hotter, dryer and windier it became, the less optimistic we were.
Ironically, the next day after the move
brought a soaking rain to the groove.
The groove, however, was a full day off for a beleaguered Davey H who had sustained a borderline sunburn. But as per the old adage
“to every thing turn turn turn,”
he still had a lot to learn.
As of the 24 hour point since the transplanting, Davey H had not been back to inspect the trees or adjust the partially functional splitter on the hoses that fed them the requisite life sustaining H2O. This was to be yet another wrinkle in the ongoing transplant saga.
Things appeared to be fine,
and at times that was how it did feel;
but we felt temperamental
about that damn rental
that was an Achilles heel. For real?
Yep. The rental shyster got us for almost 5 hundred bucks for 5 days on the air compressor. And damned if we barely used it. Worse yet, said shyster had tacked on a not-so-trivial ‘damage waiver’, which, when Davey protested loudly as to its existence, still seemed to make no sense. After all, despite the thinly veiled opportunistic profiteering passed off with a half-assed explanation, it still didn’t seem quite right.
THE BOLTON BOONOGGLE
They’ll tell similar lies like we heard in ‘03
from the then Cheney administration;
this is no surprise to you, us, or me
as we wait for “our” Corporatocracy
and its war making masturbation.
Oh, he’d love to impale a fair Venezuela,
an option that would make them shiver;
then roil and boil at the prospect of oil
like an arrow stuffed in the war quiver.
Will they sing out loud of a mushroom cloud
which means “we” will need to step in?
Or hem and haw and repeat the old saw
of a ‘dictator’s chemical weapon’?
If the Bolt In man should attack Iran
with warmonger’s gears well greased,
and more dominoes fell
could well rule the whole Middle East!
Thus ends the Bolt In expositions.
Whew! What an e-blast!
Davey H will cease rants for now,
with Memorial Day having just passed.
But he cannot resist throwing rocks
at those Bolt In hawks that are NOT heroes.
Now on to the tasks at hand;
none at sea and all on land:
tooling up old Apiary Road, Davey H was reminded how awful it had been when he moved to (censored) County years ago.
Yes, Apiary Road, he’ll have you know
in pothole mode was NO place to go.
Once atop Apiary Road hill,
land was spacious,
but, if you will,
gnats were voracious!
Davey had to go work for Bob Vitulo,
an affable gent; and what do you know?
Seven hours were spent.
The weather so perfectly calm
and Davey’s well leathered palm
was not the least flaccid.
So Davey headed out on June 1st,
not pausing to pout or fearing the worst.
He had had the foresight – if not the foreskin – to bring along trusty allies in the quest for
severance of cellulosic plant material:
the bevy of machine-soldiers was: the 371, 254, CS-355t, and CS-341.
What to do?
Davey H was heading into the abyss,
and he could tell you this:
at times he felt lost
while breathing exhaust
at a cost
that could make him piss.
The next day was a truly shitty one.
Davey was all thumbs it seemed, tripping over the tiniest obstructions at every turn. Of course it was a Monday – pure, unadulterated misery, made to order.
He’s not complaining and not feigning,
so please understand;
the day was tough; he’d had enough. . .
Things did not go as planned.
So without sorrow on the morrow
it will come to pass;
he’ll hop back on his horse, of course,
then go out and kick some ass!
So before the next day’s battle cry
arises from a groan,
he’ll let some torrid sawdust fly
from saw teeth he did hone!
Farmers, however, were going through hell;
and altogether were not doing well.
All that rain was a bane
but it finally stopped;
time to bail without fail
all that hay closely cropped!
The next day was like a torrid sauna and Davey H wilted quickly.
Today, across the so-called ‘Pond’, the slightly wifty, withering Queen of England read from a script honoring those brave unfortunate souls who breathed their last on D-Day 75 years ago.
Yes, long ago; so what this means
is we all know that kings and queens
will never go and fight in war;
no, that’s what they have peasants for!
Any tall tale is not complete
if Davey doesn’t tell you this:
anything crossing (censored)Road is dead meat
just as surely as taking a piss.
Indeed, the body count is mounting,
but per this screed, who the hell is counting?
Meanwhile, a thoughtful Brit has written a book about navigators. Good. Davey H is glad. In the bland scheme of things, Davey H salutes navigators for knowing what they know, and like many, he’s grateful for GPS.
Because although the navigator author expressed the sentiment that “GPS is turning us into navigational idiots,” Davey H is inclined to admit defeat in many of his forays and needs electronic assistance.
Readers may say that it’s not so absurd
that yesterday Davey wrote not a word.
No matter, no worries – two hundred today,
if he hustles and hurries with the word play.
Saddling up his rusty old truck,
he heads out and about to temper his luck.
A whiff of cigarette smoke wafted in the window, acridly slapping Davey H with a grim reminder that he was ensconced in what passed for ‘civilization’, like it or not.
No resentment expressed or implied,
and to that smoker he won’t be snide.
With much tolerance he’ll abide
whilst taking insults and slaps in stride.
So civilization notwithstanding,
Davey H is not glad handing.
But what more can he say?
This is Mrs. Tee’s birthday.
One big mistake:
he forgot to get her a cake!
This failing could be fate,
as she needs to put on weight.
Davey wrote nary a word today
whilst out on an absurd foray.
Loading up the car-top rack,
taking stuff out, putting it back. . .
Feelin’ okay and whistlin’ a tune
on this the tenth day of June.
Though he may have been whistling, he sure wasn’t whistlin’ Dixie, as he felt pangs of sorrow for his neighbors in Missouri and Nebraska who likely would not see a crop of anything this year. And that means a crop of NOTHING.
Hell, those farmers won’t even be able to grow marigolds.
At home in his anonymous locale, Davey H ponders the fate of corn growers, some of whom may be in debt up to their tonsils. The most popular local corn stand is still closed with no plans afoot to plant.
So a flood of sorrow,
theirs, ours, yours,
it was like no tomorrow;
when it rains, it pours.
But we make an economy
and hey, wait a minute:
we either are or are not in it.
Then it becomes the rich and the rest of us;
at the realization we bitch and fuss.
So where you fall should hardly matter;
contentedly climbing the income ladder.
Case closed. Davey dozed.
With some difficulty, of course, as the feral din of Route (censored) penetrated the tightly closed hotel room windows virtually all night. Oh, but ‘night’ is a term applied loosely; Davey and spousester had rolled in after 2:30 am. So much for actual REST.
And then, upon exiting the concrete Methuselah of a hotel, it was disheartening to note the array of cell towers atop the roof. That meant Davey & spousester were not only sleep starved but also irradiated. This is the insidious and unfortunately inevitable spreading cancer in our midst,
and more of us are unwittingly being exposed to this scourge on a 24/7 basis.
You won’t hear this hue and cry
from the average cell phone guy
who likes to connect without having to try
and who won’t object will rather buy
the wireless industry’s line of b.s,
but that’s par for the course as you might guess.
Now, not to change the subject,
but it was June 12th,
and Davey H was off the shelf
and off the wall,
wanting to calm be;
that wasn’t all
– for all to see –
he just wanted to NOT be a zombie.
It would be a long hard slog (apologies, Donald Rumsfeld0, to recover from the other slog: a drive across (censored) bridge that took over an hour. Said slog was a relative shock
for Davey H the erstwhile jock;
it seemed that on each thoroughfare,
accidents, accidents on every block. . .
Now here in the middle of June
without fear we play a tune.
He said, she said:
“I need to move my feet,
lest bowel movements be incomplete.”
She said, “you have a way of doing things
and I have my ways of doing things.”
Just hang tough.
But her reactions had pissed him off to the point of no longer being pointed.
It would be a short jaunt up to Aniken’s well shaded pad, and Davey hotly anticipated ogling the oak grove in her front yard.
“There. You see that?” she asked. “The old Acme. It’s still sitting, having rotted all these years. Oh, but the Live Nude Shows shack has persevered.”
Aniken’s neighbors had sawn down all their oaks due to installation of solar panels. Her hubby Ron had shrewdly scarfed up all the free wood, which was good, but was all oak, so Davey spoke:
“That stuff will take two years to season,
‘cause hey, it’s oak, for no other reason.”
The next day was a getaway
where Davey and Tee got together;
a river they plied
with canoes outside
and it was perfect weather.
They had done this two years before, and it was great to feel like kids again. But some of this river’s bends were seriously challenging.
It keeps the ardent paddler on her/his toes.
To the sonorous accompaniment
of catbird song,
they oared and roared and floated along.
Yes, these canoeists had done this before,
but not on the same river.
Tee suddenly waxed incredulous: “how many years ago was our last canoe trip?”
A damn good question.
Davey promptly prodded his foggy cerebral cortex for some kind of cogent answer.
Finding none, he took a wild flippin’ guess. “Maybe 2015 or 16.”
He had done his best.
The canoe was aluminum,
the current less than swift;
mosquitoes? None of them.
Wow! What a gift!
In some stretches of (censored) river,
they plied patches of reeds;
at times just a sliver – that’s all a canoe needs.
Davey and Tee cherished peace and quiet;
canoeing, you see, is cool – so try it!
The day after that memorable canoe float, Tee sported a pretty hefty burn on both cheeks – facial ones.
Davey H, on the other hand,
had worn a hat but felt a burn on his buns. (Gluteus maximus to the uninitiated.)
“Just couldn’t find a comfortable position,”
he moaned, as it was something
for which he had been wishin’.
And now, twenty four hours hence,
Davey H is on the fence,
having slept in
that wasn’t a skin
now his butt pain’s a little less tense.
He squints as he chronicles these events
under ‘Edison’ light bulbs that make little sense.
They make decent light, of course, and better yet, emit negligible electromagnetic fields.
Next, once again this was the day
that we lost our best friend who couldn’t stay.
It was his end, so sad to say,
and now we wend along grief’s way.
As the grate Davey H has so incessantly memorialized his beloved Dookie’s passing on these pages, this will be yet another leaf on that tree of verbosity. Expressing one’s grief
– a catharsis of sorts –
is due relief to which Davey resorts.
So drink up a toast; no need to re-post,
as you’ve seen it all before;
he oozes veneration
for that DIY cremation
of the Dookie he did adore.
Now with the passage of 19+ years,
the Don’t Laugh It’s Paid For Farm hands
have dried all their tears,
and though Davey H so incessantly rails,
he will cease and desist with the sordid details.
Now on to the next detraction:
even the county cops were speeding today,
winding past Millsteak Road,
over the tracks on a busy thruway,
they hastened to lighten their load.
This was a somewhat idyllic place with a shuttered GM plant, pin oaks, lots of asphalt, lawns, and many placid suburbs.
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