My Grandfather’s Deathbed Confession (An Unedited Transcript)

December 20, 2011

Standing fellow-keep. Shoes for shotguns. Windlass? Cutting spy? Aaron Tippin memorial grouse toss.

Rainy boots and my last two fishing lures? Haversack. Wigwam.

 Jump-start the hide-a-bed.

 Jersey Shore my Alice Munro Wall clock.

 Hasselhoff in Dusseldorf. Black smoke sunshine. Ain’t no beauty pageant for groundhogs, gophers, or rain gauges. Pray for me Mary Kate.

 No habla Malt-o-Meal in Caracas. Dowsing El Camino. Don’t shak-o my Baco’s, and never in my shako. Shankguard. Satchel Paige. Hoodwillie.

 Molly Jean dishwater handprints. Nine times out of cattails. Nein, nein, cat o’teen wolf got them eating window sill slumgullion. Step it, upsale.

 Take me back to the good old all singing, all dancing, all cat production of The Miracle Worker.

The meerkats, working, are categorically ambivalent.

 Ambi-valent. Categorically.

 Mallard duck greens akimbo. Rainslice?

 Freeway your forward press, jump to bickle-back. Knock ‘em all to.

Faceplant, doubletime, march.

 Mango hatband ribbanding artifice. Filet o’shoesole blues. Two taps on the steampipe. Hangman tripwire for the flensers on backup flounderfeet.

 Mahjonged Waylon Jennings in Steamboat Springs. Tritophan Pete. Torkelshed and village square. Magadelana fall down on a wayward stay-bosomed Lancome of Paris raft. Flaycation over Michaelmas.

 Extend your pacifier, Deuteronomy. Allez, Allez, alien mercy.

 Junebugs can’t do squat-thrust.


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