Crap is ill; that’s me, and I craps ill, or at least I used to. G, I am nil ill scrap, in my fullness; and I limp in slag, Carl. Larry says he doesn’t want to know who Carl is. I say he’s my back-door man. Poor Carl. Well, we don’t have a back door anyway, and Carl is merely four rearranged letters out of fifteen.
But I really am a small, ailing crip. That discovery made my day. I just had to share it.
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Are you staying on creative track this month?
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Here at Sustainably Creative, staying on creative track is as much about
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9 years ago
'Scilla:
ReplyDeleteThis post was a fabulously light but nonetheless enigmatic doorway for me into your quirky, quick-witted and, dare I say it, slightly queer baby blogorama. I love this site, and love you for rolling mine! I shall return the favor PDQ!
"I craps ill"? "Small, ailing crip"?
ReplyDeleteSounds like you're going gangsta on us, homegirl!!! :D
Long time no see! Have a wonderful Christmas!
- Thomas Overbeck
www.TimesLikeThis.com (yes, I FINALLY have a comic strip going)