You ask for it. You need to wear coveralls, disposable gloves, long pants, a cup, long sleeved shirt, or, if wearing a skirt,--skin-tight, blank tights. You need to wear a Mesopotamian veil like the modest ladies wear in the Middle East, or a pair of dark-shade wrap around sunglasses like your government pals. Don't carry a 242-romps-away, retaliation defense, ask a porcupine or a crocodile for a tough skin Punch and ask the ladies to let their hair hang down behind closed doors? I am never certain, my advise does Not work for me, most days.

My sensitive feeling get hurt too. I'm one of those sensitive kinda 21st century guys, like most letter writers here convey.

Once my son ( and we really have fun saying nothing? ), and also I have a 'other' friend, who says, "You don't know what your talking about!" I say, Help me then!

Then: I say, "O, smarty--pants, You trying to wear the tight-pants in the community...Ah! Yea?...And-You think You know what your talkin' about, smarty-brainy?" huh?

Then: I have to listen to this 'crispy-toast' about WHO makes more sense...You/Me? I say, me...But, never a last word,...

..."bebopo-o, NO! I make more sense than you! But (here we go again),...if you dare have the audacity to doubt what I say has NO veracity, and if your diminutive mind is so puny , THAT my my flow of lingo is too pugnacious or copious for bebopo'o's audacious and ignorant arrogance unprepared capacity to communicate, Well, just Listen, and my dear friend says I'll try to explain myself more explicitly"...

Shooter242, you need a short course on the backlash painful-sting about the birds, butterflies, neocons, and remember the bees-veil must be Worn all the time.

If you don't Want to get stung-bad by a honey bee- Bee Prepared!?;~...I'm trying to say...

You need to wear appropriate white over-coverall clothing. That's if your salaried-paid to attack open-minds in a court-yard flower-garden at the Salon. You act like a DoJ's swarm of loose-killer-bees, that lost 'her' 'stinger?' It's just a innocent thought. And sometimes, after a long day sipping-nectar from Spring blossoms, wear No clothing?

It's a vicious world. Don't rouse a black wasp-nest or accept a pay-stub by a neocon. They are a disgrace. I'd rather have my 'stinger' put on a Blacksmith's anvil and forged into a garden hoe or rake than get betrayed down the road. A bad heart becomes dead, if they stay on a vicious course, and the heart-stimulus's withers and shrivels...

But, after scrolling down the crystal river, I'm speechless, thirsty, and famished also.

My vim and vigor has a nsa spy inside my tummy?

So, when my growling rutabaga sits beside and leaches the chewing gum flavor from the shelac on the bed post all night, I wake up and agree that it's about time for a rut'abagel. It's a 'sin' to not be honest and speak of the parsnips and parsley's left on the plate...is all evil. Look up what ingredients Nature puts inside green parsley. You may bee-sorry?

Good grub can make you snippy-doodaodooda'each dood-'da day. It's the essence or something that's not too bad or evil. So, it's best be cautious what you/me gulp down in the shack for a midnight snack too.

You may AL unyon, be Jungians? Or, plain Parmesan egged plant lavage bunches of green liberals? You'd love to put loco-weed seeds on the bagel's roebuck's top-side toasty bun? Be careful.

On the slow boat to Jamestown's harbor, when the Indians begged to tell Anglo's what was good to eat, the passengers who wanted to steal Trees to make wood boats and Imperial cannon balls...The weary passengers blew Loco Greens into the air, became sea-ill, and pawed at imaginary lovers they thought were sitting besides them, THEN. True.

It's a 21-cent-dot-com day now, and we are innocent turniping one and 'thee' into a boo-kook-dinky-doll? A good kind 'goof.' Bimbo dinker bingo, I hope. Yes.

When those neocon rotten tomatoes begin to wing via the air 'round Agost, just tell 'um stinky red balls to swerve toward the kitchen to see what's cookin' there. And hey, who's lookin' now-wow. Be 'nice.' And hey, how 'bout commune-over to your/my house, or even invite some open-mind liberals over to OUR White House to lobby for a kitchen cabinet? We can have a meeting where we serve to drink a fermented wine, or 5-th of rye with you?

It's a Sikander of the Persian banquet-festival-season, I believe, or it's a banquet-bazaar, and real-real soon, admit it. Same-same as in days of Viking lore...So, put the smutty pot on a slow-simmer, pinch each other, and dose a sprinkle or two of some Jamison-loco-seed...To put on the baker's doz-en's tops of a big-box of NYC bagels?

Hey guy's and girl's? Sip a cough-of-cuppa, or swig some tea down with with two. Have some good pudding-pun with The Whole Wide World of Winny and Willy, and all the gang of good Pooh's.

This Salon Place reminds me of the House at Pooh Corner.

It breaths new life in Pooh, and whatever comes forth upon the scroll is dedicated to yogi Berra's. If we can tolerate each-other's oddities, we could meet you some Place real? I'd be there in a hop, and we could sip, even romp, maybe my sweet, and you'd be a gift? I come humming and homing back here too....You are breath-sweet and full of enthusiasm of what Life is all about, and if our ears be too filled with beeswax, it's still a hungry yummy-tummy place. sing.

If I'm never here, it's because those little gov-mint paddies, those after-dinner mints, are melting inside my steaming strange, eccentric, computer. okay. Forgive. But say sorry, datafirst. okay?

And for 'others,' Never say you sorry!