Quote:
Originally Posted by Ashes, Ashes
[snip]
And chocolate bits of any quality can ruin a perfectly good bra if they tumble down into, well, you know.
Well sure, as long as you’ve got a happy-time chocolate-fishing buddy to help you out. Otherwise it’s just laundry, sigh…
And earthpuppy, I had a canary named Basil! Well, Basilio, actually, 'cause he was a veddy fawncy Spanish Timbrado canary. His teeth did not grow very large. In fact, I’m pretty sure he had no teeth to speak of. Though I never checked, respecting his privacy as I did. My first canary was named Pinkie. What can I say? I was three and Pinkie seemed an excellent name for a yellow canary.
Also, those little bantam roosters fly pretty darned fast. Though never having seen a woodcock fly, I couldn’t say for sure who’d win a race. Either way, I’d never be able to shoot 'em. Poor ickle birdies. Don’t you know it makes me cry to see you dead, unless you’re decently wrapped in a plastic shroud on your little styrofoam bier?
Ashes, Ashes, they all fall down. You, of all people, should be keenly aware of that. Stuff can’t fall up unless you’re on the space station or something. Then it can fall whichever which way it wishes.
Now if you’re looking for a chocolate hunting buddy I’m just going to quietly line up in the applicants (or supplicants, if you prefer) queue over here.
Whoa! Cool! (Assuming, of course they had the proper permits). What kind of falcon, didja know? My friend had a peregrine, as well as a peregrine X gyrfalcon cross (big-assed scary bird, could put the fear of GAWD into an agnostic with one glance). My favorite of his was the Harris Hawk (aka Bay-winged Hawk - special permit for those, since they are not native to Florida). But the best was the female Red-tailed Hawk. She was notorious for taking out miniature poodles that were off their leash - one screech, an abbreviated yelp, and “bud-da-bud-da-bud-da-th-th-th-that’s all, folks!”. Female and hawks are bigger than the males (by about 1/3 body weight and size), but this one was BIG, even as females go: talons the size of a basketball player’s handspan. We’re talking BIG-footed bird here. She almost took out the falconer when she caught the top of his head and his jaw in one claw and squ-e-e-e-ezed. Not a pretty sight: luckily, his apprentice managed to distract her by slamming her lure (a rabbit fur-covered chunk of leather used in training) onto the ground and running away with it. “Hey, that’s mine!” and away she went, releasing my friend from her grasp - he only needed a couple dozen stitches in his forehead and cheek - you hardly notice the scar.
So what kind of falcon? Birds of prey know they’re cool. (from a “Far Side” cartoon)
I don’t recall all the details. I do remember the story of how he decided to make a hood for the falcon. He told me that tale before we married. I laughed so hard, it hurt. But I can’t just tell the story - he’s got to act out the falcon part.
Once upon a time, long long ago, some college age friends bought 3 miniture lope-earred rabbits. These cute little bunnies lived in nice clean cages in a house rented by the college age friends. The cute little bunnies never went outside their nice clean cages unless the college age friends were there with them.
One day, the mean landlord stopped by, and let himself into the house. Bad landlord, bad. None of the college age friends were home. This is an illegal action. Now in the past, the mean landlord had decreed that there would be no pets in his houses. So when the mean landlord saw the 3 cute little bunnies, he issued a new decree, stating how he had saved the world from the 3 cute little bunnies, by chasing them down, wrestling them into submission, and returning them to the nice clean cages (which they never left). Then the mean landlord huffed, and he puffed, and he threw the college age friends out. And the college age friends, and the 3 cute little bunnies found a much nicer home, and lived happily ever after.
How do I know all this? Because the college age friends are all friends of mine, AND because the next year, I rented an apartment from the mean landlord, who was apparently telling all of his new tenants about his adventures with the 3 cute little bunnies.
Moral of the story?? It’s much easier to rent a new apartment if you don’t laugh at the landlord when he is showing you around the place.
If the individual steps are anything like a cross between the solemnity of a Native American Rain Dance and my first boyfriend trying to disco dance at his junior prom (certainly not as solemnious, as I was a stern disbeliever in disco), yes, I would personally ask for a rib and internal organ transplant, just from the pain itself from laughing at the visuals.
FALCON: Is that for me? is THAT THING for ME? Are REALLY you thinkin’ to put that on ME?! Let’s get one thing staight buddy, you just AIN’T puttin’ that on ME. See this beak? Look close. Nah, closer. Closer, yeah, that’s close enough. See, right here. These teeny scratches? That’s yer name. Yeah, you got that right. Your name, my beak. And I AIN’T kiddin’…
<sounds of mayhem ensue>
Been there, ALMOST done that (left it to the professionals…)
Here are two recent threads on this same topic. It’s a fair topic to warn people about I think. The link titles aren’t the thread titles just so you know.
I had a bunny named Fletcher. He lived ina big hutch under a black walnut tree. He was very good at tipping over his food dishes, even when they were attached to the side of the hutch. Fletch got to be very big. He loved to be held, and very rarely tried to disembowel you while you were holding him. He’d snuggle close and give you kisses. You could let him loose in the yard and he’d come when he was called, and he’d hop right up to my afghan hound, Siddartha. (Sid was a pacifist and wouldn’t harm him). One day, about two days before Thanksgiving, he disappeared. My whole family believes he was eaten my the red-neck neighbors on teh next block, as he tipped the scales at 23 lbs. He was sadly missed.
I had a bunny sugar cookie during a meeting today. I ate her/his ass off first. Cause you know how bunnies leave those small pebbles behind them wherever they go, can’t have that in a meeting. Then I went for the ears cause we were talkin about company biznes and can’t have s/he hearing all of that stuff. Then I slowly nibbled her/him to the end of his/her life. Mmmmm good.
Baby bumnies look like large baby rats. No hair, all pink, eye closed. Ugly ugly babies look like Winston Churchill. If you touch them, their mother will usually kill them. You have to wait a couple of weeks until they get their hair on before you can play with them. (then they are killed and eaten at 6 months old, but to mention that would just be cruel).
Baby geese are cute, grown geese are mean and attack you and flog you. ::deb find the happy place Pant, Pant.:: Ok they also lay huge eggs anywhere, no real nest, just plop that egg out while walking and there it is. If you don’t pick it up they will then sit on the egg in a nest, don’t know how it got there but it was as big a mystery as the Easter bunny.
FCM, Lissla Lissar, I’m just trying to uphold the great traditions of these threads. I don’t want anyone to think I’m padding my replies, I couldn’t bear the weight of that kind of false front. I have to restrain myself as it is, and move seamlessly on to another topic.
I had my post funnyfied by Rue himself. Step right up, sir! You too, ma’am, step right up! You too can have your post funnyfied by Rue De Day. Or maybe welby. He’s just as good, if you live in some sort of alternate universe. He’s pretty funny, anyway.*
On a more serious note, thanks to Shibb for preemptively de-girlifying the thread. Yes, I would love your sister’s place. Just stepping off the porch and blasting dinner, that’s just heaven. When those damned deer trot through my yard my trigger finger gets itchy. The friggin’ grouse tease me too. I’ve heard of a thing called “hunting season” but it seems to apply to cops from New York City. When they come up here everybody stays inside. And we make sure the livestock is in the barn, too. I swear I’m not making this up, one of those morons shot a jackass a couple of years ago. Better safe than sorry.
I had something else, but I got distracted by the bras and the boobies and the dancing and the bunnies and the marshmallows and the chocolate on the boobies and the glavin.
*I realize I just volunteered a couple of guys for some extra work. You didn’t expect me to do it, did you?
[QUOTE=ShibbOleth
Now if you’re looking for a chocolate hunting buddy I’m just going to quietly line up in the applicants (or supplicants, if you prefer) queue over here.[/QUOTE]
Note to self: if ever in Florida and in possession of a choclatey bra, ShibbOleth seems to be a helpful sort…
And I very nearly had a choclatey bra yesterday, in fact. One of my friend’s brothers is back from Russia and brought me chocolate. It was okay. Russia is better at vodka, is my impression. But don’t take my word for it, since I don’t like vodka. Not after the Fuzzy Navel Fiasco back in college. I have reached the stage of recovery where I dare to eat a peach, but prefer nectarines. Ah, spring, when nectarines with a bit of cinnamon and vanilla yoghurt are just a few weeks away.
