Sunday, May 23, 2010

Rose-Garden Funeral of Sores

Dennis hated long weekends. "We should do something as a family," Uncle Bill would inevitably say. "Let's all go camping together, that'll be fun," Janice would say. And they'd meet at the camping site, and EVERY SODDING TIME they'd find out that Ken had forgotten half the supplies, and everyone would get shitfaced on gin during the ensuing family argument. Leaving him to stand outside the locked gate of the walled garden of alchemical secrets hoping to borrow some tea-bags, while they lay around on Mount Parnassus reciting The Ball of Kirriemuir.

And he never knew whether he had no feet -- which would make him a liminal, transcendental figure on a par with Oedipus -- or he was just ankle-deep in mud.

The gardeners really should fix that leak.


ifthethunderdontgetya™³²®© said...

Perhaps Dennis has bird feet, buried in the mud?

Big Bad Bald Bastard said...

Perhaps Dennis has bird feet, buried in the mud?

Well, if he has bloody baby birdy feet, it would stand to reason that he has great green gobs of greasy, grimy, gopher guts as well.

It's axiomatic!

mikey said...

And fer crissakes, Dennis, if you're cold put on your freakin cloak. I mean, slave to fashion and all is fine, but at some point you gotta think in practical terms.

Another Kiwi said...

Dennis is Andrew Breitbart, look at the face. This explains everything, especially the ankle deep in cowshed runoff.

Substance McGravitas said...

Climbing over the wall: just not done.

Smut Clyde said...

Just not safe. Philosopher-Gardeners defend their property rights, and they could be armed.