My Beanie cat loved—appropriately—my L. L. Bean camp mocs, and would sleep with his head buried inside one. When I’d go out of town I had to leave them behind so my little pal would have something of mine to give him a sense of security, like Linus’ blanket in “Peanuts.”
I’m waiting for the gray school bus to the reeducation camp if the election turns out the way I’m afraid it might.
You can expect the black Suburban to pull up in your driveway any time now.
Ouch! Oh, the humanity.
I’m with you, Earl. I never could stand that gluey slop. The Scots apparently eat it every morning, but their saving grace is that they drink their magnificent whisky every evening. If not right after that loathsome oatmeal, that is.
If so, we know two things about him now: He’s acquired a family but still doesn’t have a career. And somewhere along the way he learned a form of pidgin English written in lower case.
One of these days, like maybe when Dagwood gets a raise and Sally Forth gets a job and when cancer is eradicated in Westview, OH, there’ll be a new cartoon from Mr. Turnbloom. I’ll wait, but I won’t live forever.
The Guinness slogan may be the only one that’s true. At least I subscribe to it—by the pint.
Likely so. I must have taken him literally. . .
You seem to be saying we have no right to talk about Corona virus et al. unless we’ve had it, or about the president because we haven’t met him in person. Not sure what your point is.