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Pistol Pete's Blog @ Bressler.org

Twilight's First Gleaming

While mesmerized with the lunar eclipse the other night, we were kidnapped by Nubians dressed as KISS, but they let us go after the second act of Henry V because they ran out of chocolate pudding. Quite civilized for a group of weight-watcher cannibals, don't ya think?
I told a friend that we are in good health. I inadvertently lied. I'm now convinced I'm getting a cold or possibly an unknown strain of plague because I've been coughing since last night. It's one of those throat tickle coughs that keeps coming back every few minutes and hurts and you have to cough whether you like it or not. My wife has been coughing too. We ignore the bits of lungs on the floor, but the cats seem to like the snacks. A full night's sleep is now but a distant memory with dreams involving naked people I don't know. It has to be a plot to deprive me of semi-conscientiousness so I don't know when to get up and pee. Then again, maybe it was the pudding.
Big X, the ferret, escaped her cell nights ago, though the dogs and guards were never alerted. Through intense interrogation among the barracks prisoners, no one else was implicated in this caper. She got out of a bedroom using two boxes and a folding table which were put in place to prevent her escaping. Devious little weasel. My wife found her coming out of our bedroom the next morning and nabbed her. Apparently she spent the night under our bed (the weasel, not my wife, though I was asleep so it could have been the other way around). This constant getting into everything has to stop, so we have to bring in experts on this one. I placed a call to a couple of guys who used to design Soviet gulags and have some knowledge of thwarting the departure of disgruntled guests. One of the cats has accepted her, so that could mean even more trouble considering cats have little thumbs enabling them to toss ropes over the wire. I wonder if she was whistling the theme to "The Great Escape" while making her great escape.
As I scribe here in the dank catacombs, wearing fingerless burlap gloves and illuminated by the din of screen light, I'm huddled next to an electron-induced heated device on one side and frigid cold on the other creeping through a supposedly covered window. Down the hallway, passed the real remains of Richard II, I can hear the kitchen staff rooting around for coffee while cats look on in anticipation of food. Cats have three basic reasons they exist: Sleep; eat; make more of their kind. Come to think of it, that's what we do. I feel another hair ball on its way. Another hand-rolled fag is torched and I feel my stomach demanding acceptable sustenance. The cabinets and fridge have near endless varieties of pre-processed food-like indulgences -  even the chicken eggs are genetically corrupted. It would be really cool if you could crack open an egg and an entire, singing, ready-to-fry miniature chicken popped out. I may go fight the cats for their Meow-REs.
The morning sky has turned from overcast dark gray to overcast brighter gray as the sun creeps over the unseen horizon. That should be the first line in a really crappy novel written by a six-toed, plaid-headed, junkie car hop. No matter the weather, it's the same every day: Light - dark - light - dark, etc. I want a matinee where the light goes backwards at noon causing the birds to go "WTF?!" You would think that since we are 4-million miles closer to the sun this time of year, we would be warmer in the Northern Hemisphere. It's one of those cruel astronomical physics jokes put upon us dealing with declinations and other meaningless crap we were told in school we would need to know about every stinkin' day of our lives. No, wait...that was diagramming a sentence and who won the Civil War. Be that as it may, and it may be, the answer to life; the universe; and everything, is of course, "42".

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