At vespers last eve I shoulda' 'shad up' and hit the sack instead of rudely interrupting. As some dead pope with no good conscience, I should have beat my mild fatty breast with zest and zeal and bowed my lowly head to whisper Ema cuppa.

The garb the people you are talking about is hurlyburly clatter of tongues in empty heads. Some of us visit here from a poor peoples mansion, while they eat alfalfa sprouts in sheds I call hunting fox dens.

What is the sound of an uplifted spirit that makes a person feel as if one rolled down a snow avalanche and landed in a huckleberry patch? There are no stupid questions except the ones not asked. What is the sound of a scent of purple violets? It may be the same as the blast of powerful drooping blue blossoms in the sunny air, shot via a breeze that smacks one down on the green grass to think...

The helter-skeeter crowd seems near dead as a spysprog hammering a door-bell. Others tease they like to attend their feast at the billion dollar's barn? They nail antlers from a dead buck road-kill. They feed off blood, gore, and animal fur. It's the chosen meal for chicken-hawk birds of prey. It's useless to try and figure out, WHY!

Ask them and they sneer and hiss as any 'ole poison snake on the slippery river bank. A human swine is ill-refuse, and a Rigg Bank is no place for a cleaner sort to wish to enter. I'd be apart of the human race kin, anytime and anywhere. That free.

A gluttonous neocon will eat any 'ole road-kill s/he deems edible. Carnivore's chow down with a non-nourishment tin-cup of blood at the first slit from the hog-kill slaughter-house. War-profit is grime and tough to swallow and grizzle gives the bowels painful cramps. It's pointless to point them toward a more natural menstrual Life. A better life is within one's reach.

You'd think if we'd ask them why they deem to remain murderous is a good sport...IMHO, it's a hopeless unclean existence of the dead reprobates choice.

Anyway, I woke up at sunrise, gonked-out, slept in late, and smelled some outdoor scents in the air that made me feel like a good sop. Maybe I'll be back to say, "h/t to all," if not, have a good time today and Me-gulp for allowing me to 'chat' with a purple tongue from eating frozen blueberry's here.

I'm sorry, but are we permitted to say those who visit this Salon are at a shrine? Or, am I just a Kitt my self. h/t to Spring bluebirds on our morning shoulders. Delightful sounds that leave me speechless too.

I feel like making a avian screech racket. Or, shoot bows and arrows at white ping-pong balls. Or, fly into a barn with the bird swallows at nesting time. Or, round up some splattered woodchucks around rural roads for the needy rich. There are squirrels, skunks, and many other mischief-maker's who have connived to fight and be at odds against Nature and were deemed a real Fool. Spysprog can saw off antlers and nail 'um big -cash-buck trophies on the wall dens. They eat road-kill doe? Why they love to stack cash up and brawl?

People who say they know don't know. People who don't know know. We all got a nose to sniff the good or evil that's in the air. What a good broth of ideas are here. And if something is worth repeating and do-inf a billion times, I wish to "h/t" all day. I never know so much until I come to this shrine to feast. Spectacular little m! and Scientist and everybody's nose all smelling good broths of simmering soups. And more that that, h/a all day to yuze. yuze all nail on my door-bell any day you wish...okay data data dats all folks? hugs bunny has a cute sniffer nose? Hats off to bugs bunny and where the road meets amidst the shadowy bend, go the narrow road way and don't get squashed by a bad sop, in-insured, neocon. You'll have an appointment at the mortuary. Stay at the right shrine. huh?

If we could all settle the disputes with naked wrestle contest and stop competing to get a bunch of filthy smelling lucre stuffed up noses?