Mister Scribbles

This is Stiches.  The alert reader will notice the hole in his pouch.  One of our pelis died today, and it's eyes were gone when we found him.  Certainly a rat attack, I have now be-trapped the Hell out of this pen.  We think the poor thing died of natural causes, the rats have had a nest under the pool you see here.  I found them and slaughtered them last year, but they are a force of nature. I have a healing scar on my bicep courtesy of Stiches, and now we get along like a house on fire. Me love you long time!   https://www.facebook.com/groups/WingsRescueCenter/   God sure loved weird looking animals, he made enough of them.  

https://youtu.be/GHf7TD4qwjk or- https://youtu.be/khf3t1GQZMw I don't care if it rains or freezes. This picture may be the property of Lana Del Ray, I got it off Pinterest, Eric Cooley's page.

The sandcar moved smoothly over the rolling dunes, its six fat wheels rising and falling like the ponderous rumps of tandem elephants. The hidden sun beat down from a dead-white sky, pouring heat into the canvas top, reflecting heat back from the parched sand. "Stay awake," Morrison told himself, pulling the sandcar back to its compass course. It was his twenty-first day on Venus's Scorpion Desert, his twenty-first day of fighting sleep while the sandcar rocked across the dunes, forging over humpbacked little waves. Night travel would have been easier, but there were too many steep ravines to avoid, too many house-sized boulders to dodge. Now he knew why men went into the desert in teams; one man drove while the other kept shaking him awake. "But it's better alone," Morrison reminded himself. "Half the supplies and no accidental murders." His head was beginning to droop; he snapped himself erect. In front of him, the landscape shimmered and da...

  https://youtu.be/LoHP1VbPJCY The Bremen musicians.  I'm at my translating bitter end so I just am going to present this without any attribution or further effort on my part.  Только могила может исправить горбуна   The Bremen Town Musicians are without doubt the pride and joy of the Hanseatic city. A bronze statue created by Gerhard Marcks in 1953 stands in the heart of Bremen as a tribute to the popular fairytale by the Brothers Grimm. According to the story, a donkey, a dog, a cat and a rooster set off on a journey to Bremen in search of a better life. https://www.bremen.eu/tale-of-the-bremen-town-musicians  

 Franz Sedlacek, Ghosts on a Tree . 1933.

The game, the game: here we go again. All glory to it, all things I am and own because of Roller Ball Murder. Our team stands in a row, twenty of us in salute as the corporation hymn is played by the band. We view the hardwood oval track which offers us the bumps and rewards of mayhem: fifty yards long, thirty yards across the ends, high banked, and at the top of the walls the cannons which fire those frenzied twenty-pound balls-similar to bowling balls, made of ebonite-at velocities over three hundred miles an hour. The balls careen around the track, eventually slowing and falling with diminishing centrifugal force, and as they go to ground or strike a player another volley fires. Here we are, our team: ten roller skaters, five motorbike riders, five runners (or clubbers). As the hymn plays, we stand erect and tough; eighty thousand sit watching in the stands and another two billion viewers around the world inspect the set of our jaws on .multivision. The runners, those bastards...