Thursday Thirteen

 13 Sure Signs

 
  1. That dry cough

  2. First frost

  3. All those empty bottles

  4. Unanswered calls

  5. Final Notice

  6. Dead silence

  7. Excessive anything

  8. Audience clockwatchers

  9. Wheeze

  10. Flag worship

  11. Battle Hymns

  12. Socks with sandals

  13. Smirk

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You’ve got a cool list.  Share it at: THURSDAY THIRTEEN

Tang and Velcro

Everyone was screaming for Tang and Velcro, but fewer than half of them had ever been to the moon. Most of those who had been there, had been there only once and, of those, only a small handful had returned alive to tell the tale. Those who survive the arduous voyage are generally rewarded with more Tang and Velcro than most humans require or, for that matter, can easily tolerate.

Occasionally, there is a rumor about an impending shortage of Tang, or an actual shortage. In the event of a rumored shortage, everyone is expected to file slowly past the Tang locker, chanting, “We don’t need it / We don’t need it / We don’t need no stinking Tang!”

Although it has never happened, everyone is acutely aware that there would be no good outcome if ever there was a Velcro shortage.  Shortages of Velcro, in the past, have always proven to be catastrophic.

Six Word Saturday (x3)

Today, Two Facts And A Question:

Here’s Our Tax Dollars At Work:

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Here Are Our Taxes, Not Working:

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What Should We Spend Taxes On?

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 [|||]——— Show your face to Call Me Cate at: SHOW MY FACE. ———[|||]

 

Writing On The Wall

          He hopes his red Ford Ranger will make it another thirty thousand miles so he can tell people he’s driven it to the moon, but the transmission’s been slipping pretty badly, the clutch seems totally fed up with all the downshifting he’s been doing to save the brakes, and the brakes themselves gave up squeaking in favor of a deeper, more ominous grind almost a month ago.

          It’s not like he’s in love with it or anything like that. The rig’s been a pain in his ass since he bought it almost fourteen years ago. But he hangs on to it because he dreads the rigmarole of shopping around, the hassle of all that paperwork, loosening up the tightwad bankers and dealing with the dealers who don’t know him from Adam and don’t really care about anything except jacking up the price with a lot of options only a richer, fatter, and lazier man might want.

          Even though his father turns over in his grave whenever he tells anyone he’s driving a Ford, after the first few years he’d formed an uneasy truce with both the truck and his conscience, driving back and forth to the landfill, the Saturday morning coffee shop and, once, halfway across the continent just to make sure the old man was still in the ground where he’d planted him more than a decade before.

          And, to be fair, for a vehicle that only received sporadic and minimum maintenance and had never seen the inside of a carwash, it had served him well; had left the road only twice—once because of ice, and once because of alcohol.  It had only failed to start one time: at 3 AM and thirty below.  But he knew this much: if you ever needed a truck to start at 3 AM and thirty below, you really needed it start. It was because of this particular failure he knew that—whether he made it to the moon or not—the Ranger was going to have to go.  Soon.

Thursday Thirteen

Thirteen Odd Jobs

  1. Pylonmeister
  2. Rainyologist
  3. Eye Catcher
  4. Peanut Butter
  5. Olive Oiler
  6. Eggonomist
  7. Mooniac
  8. Antiaquarian
  9. Knickertwister
  10. Monkey Shiner
  11. Corner
  12. Bubbleheader
  13. Excessiviser

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Lots of other wondodderful stuff at: THURSDAY THIRTEEN. 

After The Fact

At times like this, he thinks, it’s best to write things down; so he does, and then he goes inside with all the other strangers to view the body.  Some of the strangers seem vaguely familiar, predictably ill-at-ease, and he notes that his reception among them, like the weather, is cold.

Inside, music.  Roses never fade.  We meet again on some fabulous shore.  We never grow old.  Jesus loves us.  Everybody sits and everybody stands.  Everybody sits and pretends to be listening.  No one listens.  Everyone is lost.

Comrades In Black (OSI)

Comrades In Black

If this were more than ordinary ink upon a page
would I have given, then, more than others gave
who (not being given, themselves, to outright rages)
left no more than merely ink, or less, upon a page?
No. We are but those who strut and fret on stages,
seek a lasting voice with which to voice a rant or rave
in common ink, no more, upon an ordinary page.
Oh, would that I have given as much as others gave.

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(An old triolet, dredged up and revised for this week’s prompt–Black And White–at One Single Impression)