As Sparky already mentioned in a previous post, President Puddin’ Pop is planning on sending teams out to call on those of us who are not yet vaccinated, in a feeble attempt to encourage us to take the shot. Some of you are planning on putting up “No Trespassing” signs, but for those who can’t (if you have an HOA, it won’t fly), here are some suggestions on how to respond if the Vax Police come a-knockin’…
New Jersey: Whaddayu want? Get off my lawn!!
New York: Take your guns, leave the cannoli, and GTFO.
Southern: Bless your heart…have a cookie. Now leave. Have a nice day, y’heah?
Minnesota: Uff da…here, have some lutefisk…did you know you’re trespassing?.
Religious: Come on in, fellas. You want some iced tea? Before you begin, may I have a word with you about your relationship with our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ?
Arizona: You’re on tribal land. You have no sovereignty here. Please visit our gift shop on your way out.
Bee Keeper: Sure, you can talk to me…out by my hives.
Classic: Fuck off.
You get the drift. Have fun with the Feds!!
Beginning with just three words. Just like a box of chocolates, you never know what you’re gonna get. 😁
Once upon a time in the far reaches of Gitchi Goomi’s shores, beyond humanity’s reach, lived three wise men who didn’t give a damn. Or so it seemed at first, until God sent nine apathetic old fools who could skip the rope, assemble flatpack furniture and boil eggs. They felt empty and somewhat underutilized. They decided underwear worn shorter than Mrs. Murphy’s apron would eventually lead to redemption of their sins of eating spaghetti with bare hands. Furthermore, it seemed more and more that the natives dressed in little penguin outfits munching Mentos under a palm leaf isolated the food source and were behaving like little children on adhd medication. The broken down boats by rocks covered in moss, get away vehicles, and nasty little munchkins who chew on coca leaves, giving cooties to any smiling passer-by. Ordinary circumstances dictate that Her Royal highness would change her knickers thrice on Thursdays and once every other day to save anyone the sight of angled leprechauns. Or so the lost pocket watch did say to the lost grandfather who seemed somewhat surprised and perplexed with curtain rods. However, all is left in the fridge for two months of peace and molding spiritual reintegration. That takes us beyond the reach of porcupine quills melding with glowing iron butterflies and pink flamingo lawn embellishments standing starkly to royal attention. Daffodils sprayed with smelly cockroach extract lend a putrescent wisdom of woe. The wise men shared their disappointment with much gusto behind the barn, flailing their shillelaghs laughing chillingly at the old fools on the hill. Meanwhile, back at the ranch where men were manly and women were boyish, the cattle wore diapers and teat gloves. Mrs. Murphy’s chowder gave everyone explosive diarrhea, uncontrollable it seemed as if it were just another Monday in the Catskills, or Tuesday Weld’s boyfriend’s next puppy would be rolling and frolicking in the shit. Thirty days later Wednesday Addams crept into the purple rain and twisty cavern of molten rock from Thursday’s freaky Friday anticipation. Across the field the sun was rising faster than my blood pressure at the sight of that zombie dribbling his Wheaties, whilst Mother Nature and Father Time cavorted atop the mountain, naked to Saturday’s weekly gathering in the glen, as Sunday loomed larger than life on a bicycle. The circus clown pulled my finger and nothing happened until he rotated his red nose. He began to shell peanuts by somersaulting through the circles of fire, gargling peanut butter and ostrich dreams, then the epiphany began and all day long the captured fallen angel recited bawdy prose.