Vertical Articulation While Face Walking

Oh yeah!?  Launch me from the jurisdiction of this gravity vortex, grant me a thick scarf to serve as clean socks and combat boots, play the moonwalk, and you just watch me walk my talk!!  Or talk my walk, or whateveh ya wanna callit, but if it really helps anyone splatter phree from the Macon bacon pan, I would gladly dance on my phace for you!  Anything phor phree rides in a sardine can.

This may sound a little upside down and backwards, but unless you know anyone who actually escaped orbit with whatever hot air they might manufacture (only c. 2100 dreamers), or stand above the crowd without first stepping on them (only c. 1904 Stanley steamers, my favorite automobiles, but only lost dreamers from lots of Wisconsin winters can stand waiting for them to ever grind up a good head of steam), okay then people…  Now that the parabolic ice has been sufficiently vaporized, ancient Babylon was built by brick bakers who (or what could walk such talk) eagerly climb up the man made mountain in order to ride upon their compatriots, which is you and me both (steamed or not steamed).

The only language any Pharoah ever understood is an Egyptian equivalent of yes, boss, and it can only even be spoken by producing many more bricks, with much less straw, and maybe even launching them in the right direction to help thicken the walls of silence between the terminator and his otherwise more vociferous companions.  Now, even back here in Wonderful Wisconsin, if the “shrubby” little monsters from either little stepping stone had ever questioned why they would even admit what sort of nation-state they originated from, much less fail to take over the lead with pride from their progenitor, they’d be more tongue tied than Moses.

photocredit(x4): ChristArt.com

Even at eighty, after four decades adopted into the palace-temple of an unrelated sun god, and four more (otherwise unrelated) decades adopted into the desert with dumb sheep, he still needed an even older bio-brother who had never done anything but dig ditches to speak for him unto the next unrelated sun god of the hour.  When even the dumb sheep are smarter than both of them brothers put together, you already knew they were “venisons of some Sirius buck passing,” and the gravity puddle was unanimously elected, unopposed.

Bringing this home (where it belongs), neither my daddy (past) nor my (future) kids, nor even the governator’s gardener, the true sun gods of Wisconsin (and his worst enemy, at least compared with cheeseheads like me), will ever have much to say about whatever great wisdom would enter my own ears from any other source(s), nor echo through the empty spaces in between.  Nor speak lightly unto the dirty devil of light who only wants to drown us in his darkness.

This is Wisconsin, where the poor kids are punching pedestrians instead of the one who took away their teachers.  Before you hang up on me, some of those same teachers are paid almost as much (or more) than the rest of the overpaid frauds on both sides of the aisle in the rotunda, and we are the ones who punch the buttons on the voting machines, but unless we lower the voting age enough to keep them interested in their overpriced civics classes, it’s either us or the one we pay to save the day.

Thugs should flunk out of either earthly institution, or worse, but Bucky Badger should probably still pass with a golden star.  Yet only if we vote for whomever can actually face the same little shrubs as his overworked underlings.

rediscovering our heavenly navigation plans

(Addendum: Voting Age has been adopted as the third central category, after primary Alpha English and Gladvertising cats)

(Comment suggestions for this post:  Lowering the voting age to fifteen)