Holyfuck, Lonnie Holley, what a voice. ALSO! Deactivating the Napoleon Alert System. Freaking uncanny. Earthgirl can vouch. God Cat demands an immediate Woot the Fuck post, new here, not the tribute to God Cat, the unabashed Woot.
Also, Seneca today:
1:9 = 433343333
10:18 = 343334333
19:27 = 353343333
Mind, every basket in 1:18 was in A, but since Seneca went from 18 to 27 baskets I have never broke 90. Missed one putt all day. I should not play for weeks at a time more often. Having never broke 90 at Seneca before I never thought to offer wootribute to God Disc, but for those putts that clanged down and not out? I don't know if demands an immediate Woot the Fuck post but it's getting one now and from now on.
A vagabond is a newcomer
in a heap of trouble.
He’s an eyeball at a peephole
that should be electrocuted.
He’s a leper in a textile mill
and likely to be beheaded, I mean,
given a liverwurst sandwich
on the break by the brook
where the loaves are sliced.
But he oughtn’t meddle
with the powder puffs on the golf links—
they have their own goats to tame,
dirigibles to situate.
He can act like an imbecile
if the climate is propitious,
a magnate of kidnap
paradising around the oily depot,
or a speck from a distant nebula
wishing to purchase a certain skyscraper ....
Well, if it’s permitted, then
let’s regulate him, let’s testify
against his thimble, and moderate his gloves
before they sew an apron.
The local minister is thinking
of moving to Holland, exchanging
his old ballads for some lingerie.
“Zatso!” says the vagabond.
Homeless, like wheat that tattletales
on the sermon, like wages swigged.
“Zatso, zatso, zatso!” cries the vagabond.
The minister reels under the weight
of his thumbs, the vagabond seems to have
jutted into his kernel, disturbed
his terminal core. Slowly, and with
trifling dignity, the minister removes
from his lapel his last campaign button:
Don’t Mess with Raymond, New Hampshire.