It’s Tuesday and we all know what that means. It’s time to take our elderly relatives down to the river to examine the swans, to see if any of them look familiar.
It’s been years since the river spirits turned some of the village’s biggest jerks into swans and it doesn’t seem like we’re getting any better at recognizing a regular swan from a transformed swan who has “learned their lesson.”
But the old folks get some sun, seeing if any swans respond to their former names.
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If you got yourself a witchfinder problem, do what we did. We had all the young ladies tell the witchfinder that our witches could turn into toads, sent’m down to the toad pond. Spent weeks down there demanding the toads change back to face Christ’s judgment.
Next witchfinder comes along, we say “we’ve just got the one witch, they hang out at the pond yelling at toads.”
Cancels out.
Guys, is there such a thing as the Curse of the Tomb of Bigfoot?
I thought it was an Egyptian thing, or was just made up for pulp fiction adventure, but this dead sasquatch is telling me it’s real and unless I pay them twenty bucks, I… am…. hosed.
I don’t mind being waylaid by highwaymen when journeying by carriage. I always carry a silk purse of the King’s coin on me, but there’s more where that came from, and I come away with both my life and a story.
But lately the highwaymen have been asking me to rate and review them saying “it helps the forest’s algorithm” and I must say, I’m at a loss. Where does everyone else stand on this question? And does anyone know anything about how to safely remove a crossbow quarrel from one’s leg?
my buddy watts: i got so many regrets… so many things I want to forget
me: you don’t have an amnesia guy? i’ve got a guy. you want me to make an introduction?
my buddy watts: sounds like a plan
me [dialing my friend luce]: yo luce you still got that comically big hammer and impeccable aim?
luce: [the sound of reckless hammering]
When I first logged into the internet, you had to fast for 48 hours, then drink a bitter tea that made you throw up. They’d roll you up next to a fire and behind your eyelids, the tumbling world, the bottomless sky and the the internet would talk to you.
It would tell you that your concerns were so small and the universe so large. It would tell you of a thing called a Bonzi Buddy (a kind of mechanical elf made of higher dimensions).
And you never wanted (or needed) to go online again.
Please, this year for your RPG holiday parties, do not Drink a Yard of Dice out of a Glass Boot.
Yes, the various shapes will feel delightful dancing across your tongue and tumbling down your open throat, but the human body is a terrible dice tower.
Since reintroducing wolves to the American mall ecosystem, we’ve seen an amazing turnaround.
Foot Lockers are springing up near babbling brooks. B. Dalton’s erupt, selling paperbacks and providing warm dens for pups.
Do not drink from the fountain, there’s a dead elk in it.
Looking forward to the holidays and baking my classic Hand Squash. It’s easy: wash the skin, put in the oven whole at 350 for 40 min. Then when it’s cool enough to touch, cut it open at the table to reveal a human hand inside, palm up.
Everyone at the feast gets to compare prints and palm lines to find out whose hand it matches and in the coming year, they will be Chosen By The Fields. But the real secret ingredient is to melt on more butter than feels safe, plus some cinnamon.