Let's Go To The Desert!

Have you ever played a video game? Have you ever had bottled water? When did you start noticing bottled water? How do you feel about water for sale? Do you like video stores? Do you own a calculator? Do you think it’s cool to own a calculator? Do you like the town of Chowchilla? Have you ever buried a penny there? You know, pushed one down into the grass somewhere, like outside of a McDonald’s or something. Do you use a card or tokens? Have you ever made a gardening journal? What style or look do you prefer? How do you know that you are bored? Tell me how you have suffered, and I will do my best to draw a picture of it for you. Your pain, I mean. Have you ever had a paper route? Would you want one? How about now? Is now the time? Could now be the time for one? A paper route? How do you feel about push-button technology? Have you ever played with fire? You know, just fooling around? Have you ever been into chemistry sets or rocketry? Did you ever dig holes? Why? How did you cope with the fear of Black Holes? How does snow make you feel? Are you satiated? Did you ever have much sass in your style? It has been proven scientifically that you can make a plant grow greener. Right? Imagine what this can do for a person, for their feelings. To have done this thing. Don’t smoke.

The Bush-Tailed Ringer depends upon his balance, the opossum and the cat and yes, even nature’s best kept secret, the little tan dog, need their tail. As for me, I bust my tail. I lost the entry form for a soup recipe contest. The last thing I want to do is wash more dishes. Sixteen hours a week of steam and grease is plenty for me.

Salt peter is dried up urine that they save up and then send up to the front lines. So each shot fired reminds them of the love back at home.

Don told me about a guy near where they live who bought two retro-rocket boosters and attached them to the back of his 1958 something or other, and drove it out to the desert and ignited the rockets, which within thirty seconds accelerated him to approximately one thousand miles per hour, which launched him into the air, in a kind of wavy arc, sending him into a melted wreck onto the side of a mountain. They could tell by the direction of the melted tire marks that he had somehow managed to keep the thing on the road. Partly. But from the wreckage, all that was left of him was bits of fingernail embedded into what had been the steering wheel. The whole ride in that old car took just thirty seconds.