a third rate, fourth place, tenuous at best, unabridged yet oft-truncated collection of calumny & travails from the last manfish standing, husophonic orator & chronic fumbler, his nipples (minus 3), Crank Sturgeon
They let us pick our own strawberries at the farm today, gratis. Hurriedly, Huso & I packed in a pint before this bad boy arrived. As we were leaving and driving up the dirt road past the farm, I decided (rather stupidly) to pull over and take a photo. What ensued was pretty incredible: the wind picked up suddenly and I realized that I was facing one mother humper of a squall line. Looking down the road towards the farm and the valley I could see the dust picking up, swirling actually, and coming right at me. And it did just that. As a few branches flew by from a nearby tree (fortunately missing me and the car), a whorl of dust hit me full on. I got into the car before the bulk of the storm hit, and intoxicatedly -- adrenaline has that effect -- whizzed home to where, only a mere handful of miles away, it's now presently calm and sunny. Whew. I might still be chewing on the dust, but, as a silly human, I can say that this: the last-of-the-season strawberries are delicious.
Angered by his upbringing, the dander-coated man flung sprinkles of sprain and lanolin at each passing hux. Lamps would bough, fleas would clamp up, and dates would do sea cucumber routines and become soft like fresh bowls of curd, or so he would imagine. Instead, really, the map led nowhere but a HI-point. Glissando tipping and fifteen percentage poises latter, the former abatement of ladder-balm and shiv cloister meant liters at the podium, ugly bags of water atop each ankle, dancing the hugging whole and replacing images with more advanced options. And you?