Chicken bags are heavy this year, with multiple ramifications to their expressions. A last minute gift to the chicken bag time riser thought by grander schematics. Any type of chicken bag can be relisted or removed, it’s all theoretical. What happens to the soft touch?

Does a mouth need lifting? Does a time frame need space jumping? Not likely. Why then would a chicken bag need satiating? It’s the kind of question that raps again and again at heaven’s door. Who is the maximum thinker? Most people think it’s Johnny. But the real soft touch is larthis angel fire.

In closing, I’d just like to make a few new allusions to the chicken bag market, and the types of demographics likely to use them. It’s all siftable in the time to listen, learn, and regroup. Drive strong principles. Make interesting decisions. These are the best influencers of new thinking.

I don’t care what anybody says, I’m voting for Fart Romney.

Some people think that Ron Paul or Rick Perry are good. Others like Obama. But the truth is that nobody else out there is capable of speaking to America like Fart.

Look at the facts: All the republican candidates are ridiculous this year. Newt Gingrich is a lunatic. Nobody knows what Michelle Bachman is saying. Even Jon Huntsman is a bad bet.

But Fart Romney is a born statesman. He was raised in the tradition of Jefferson, Madison, and Lincoln. He wants what’s best for America, and he’s not afraid to say it. We need somebody with brains, strength, and smartness. That somebody is Mr. Romney.

So come November, remember to do you part. For Fart.

Git ‘em, Buck! AHAHAHhaha. Hyahah.

Runnim’ down! Git ‘em! Hahahah. HAHAH. Ahaha. AH.

Git ‘em, boy. Go git em. Heheheh. You gonna git em? Ahaha. Yeah, lookit ‘im go. Dey runnin. That’s right, RUN AWAY PECKERHEADS! Buck done gonna git youu.

Lemme tell y’all, last Friday Bill come up here wanna know where he can borrow my brush hog for next day he gonna turn out the back five an’ he got a possum carcass back of his truck an’ thing done been there four days now startin’ smell purdy strong and Buck up under dat porch leastways I thoughts where he was and Bill talkin’ bout I watch Dog the Bounty Hunter lassnight and I lookatim like he lost all sense he know I watchat damn show everrnight and he’s sayin its all fake since its on USA an I say don’t matter none what channel its on that man is a certified badass and I stand by my statement and Bill’s done stepped in horseshit whut Raisins my ol’ nag done shat not one hour prior and I git ta laughin and then next thing ya know Bills cussin me GIT EM BUCK!! AHAHAHAHAHAH.

AHahahah. AHHHA. Ha. Lookitim. He gittin ‘em. He gonna git ‘em. Little peckerheads. You git ‘em. Yeah.

Hahahaaha. Git ‘em. Good boy. Done got ‘em that time. Yessir. AHAHHHAahah hehehehee.

Yessir.

Mmmmuh! Y’all like Sauteed Onions?

Ooooh wee. Y’all come down hyah and have some of these onions.

I do declare that smell which does currently happen to be permeating mah kitchen is deevine.

mmm MMM, y’all. Mama, come git some. You do not wanna know what I am fryin up in heeyah. OnYONS! Mmmmyess. I do believe this smell gonna wake up the whole neighborhood, even them ol’ hounddogs down yondah. Yesmmm. Uh huh. Sauteed Onions!!

Miz Eliza LaFontaine Thibedeaux huhself was here not one hour ago and she proclaimed with great vim and vigah that mah sauteed onions was ‘certifiably mouth-waterin’ to use her words.

Yessiree, I fail to see how any right thinkin’ man or woman could do much better than to heap theyselves a generous portion of my fancified, electrifyin’, undeniable, formidable and fantastical SAUTEED ONIONNNNS!

OOOhwee.

There’s too much blubber in your heart. Your aorta is full of lard and cheese. Your ventricles bulge with creamy alfredo sauce and cheese. We can’t save you.

You might be thinkin’ that it’s unhealthy that I’m just havin’ some cornchips I found on a park bench in a zip lock bag. But I got news for you: These are mine from Thursday. I left them here and forgot about them and I thought they were gone forever. But I just sat down here to stare at children and voila. There’s my cornchips. My cornchips. My cornchips.

Fine, Susan, go tell your mommy. Brian, you stay here and have a cornchip and a cigarette and the rest of this Mountain Dew. Nothing goes with cornchips cornchips corchips like a cigarette!

Harney, give me that turkey leg. The glistening, greasy leg of a well-cooked turkey, the meat juice literally sweating out of its turkey pores! Yea, GOD IS GOOD. The dripping gravy sensuously slathered across the golden brown skin of the turkey, a translucent shimmer of oil flitting across its surface, tiny bubbles, crystal spheres in the gravy… I gaze deep into its depths and scrying like Nostradamus I see the face of Jesus, he looks out upon me from the gravy world he inhabits, where there is no fear or death, only the warm, womb-like floating-in-gravy-forever sensation of eternity. Mmmmmmandthecranberrysauce…

I chant these sacred words: cranberra sauce, cranberra sauce. Nourishing fruit of life, a jellied preparation which trembles as the earth breathes, each motion of each supplicant sending shivers of delight through the sliced medallion cranberry lenses. I look upon you all through these lenses and see my cranberry family, here at the table, as we prepare to transubstantiate this turkey and wine into that which gives us life, power… the strength of A THOUSAND TURKEYS.

And lest we forget, God has GIVEN US STUFFING AS WELL. Through his most beloved disciple, Abraham Stouffer, he communicated the secret potency resultant in the alchemical combination of breadcrumbs with Lipton’s Onion Soup Mix. Great and powerful Lord who doth preside over us in heaven, we say unto thee: YUMMY! YUMMY! AMEN.

Salutations, Old Sport. It’s your old pal Gatsby here with another tip to keep your anus in tip-top condition. As you know, I’m something of an expert on the subject. Today’s tip is primarily focused on keeping an itchy dog’s anus well-abraded and the necessary commensurate tactics.

What I’ve found is that a vigorous dragging motion is the key – place the bulk of your weight directly on your rectum and lift your hind legs skyward. You’re in the correct position, now. Begin by using your front paws to drag yourself across the carpet… by George, you’re getting it! This is how we keep the dreaded “3 D’s” at bay (dandruff, detritus, and dingleberries.)

Feels great, doesn’t it? And hygiene is key for the modern canine-on-the-go. Let’s not mince words: The riff-raff are content to let all sorts of foreign satellites orbit around Uranus, if you catch my drift. That’s why it’s so key that we indulge ourselves now and again with an old fashioned carpet drag.

Sure, some carpets are better suited than others, but we take what we can get. I, for instance, find that the living room with its luxurious snow white berber offers a delightful rasping sensation for my perineum and surrounding areas. The trade-off is a gradual striping coloration. C’est La Vie!

I hope you’ve found my tips for anal care useful, as always. Until next time, keep your head up and your anus down, Old Sport!

Hey there slugger. Granny needs a hug. Granny so lonely. Granny live all alone. You never call Granny. Why you never call Granny?

Ouch. My dentures hurt. I was told I could eat an apple and corn on the cob. But that is a dagblaggit lie.

You know Granny won’t be around forever. Granny gonna die someday. So think about that, and give Granny a hug. Not a long hug. Not a big hug. Just come here and put your arms around Granny. Share a little body heat. Granny so cold. Granny veins are vericosed and the blood don’t flow like it used to. Circulation is slowing down these days. It’s getting dark, so dark. Granny can see God.

Granny needs a hug.
Granny needs a hug.

Hey! Remember Bonkers Candy?! That candy from the 80s? With the commercials? Where the lady was like a dessicated old hag who probably hadn’t gotten laid in fifty years and she comes on and she’s like, “I’m a grumpy old lady but then she gets all excited about the fucking bonkers and pisses her pants!?”

Well, guess what?

So do I! That’s right! The marketing was so successful that, years later, we still can’t rid ourselves of the memory. It’s like those scars that our parents had from their smallpox inoculations on their arms, you know the ones… big, ugly, round.

And remember how they would “Bonk you out?” B-b-b-b-Bonkers mania!! Let’s be Bonkers for Halloween. Let’s bonk ourselves until we bonk.

And remember all the other candies? Like chewels and cheese yums and hot potato patties? Oh my goodness I do too. Those were some yummy days, you and I sitting in the sun and living and loving and the crisp spring air blowing through your hair, blonde, upon a hilltop just before noon with a picnic basket, just under the old tree.

We sat and lived and loved and drank each other in, you wearing gingham and having a great time with vintage candies like sweetums and we thought of those days when sugar was spun into a taffy, sold at fairs and convenience store counters, cheap in those years, the 1980s, though the sticks of bubble gum included with baseball cards were brittle and flavorless, the bazooka joe comics never very funny. All the Archies and Veronicas and our senses were heightened, our attention more focused, the commercials for toys came to life and dazzled and we without a trace of cynicism dreamt of nothing greater than for G.I. Joe to vanquish Cobra and celebrate with some bonkers candy, paradise lost.

Look upon the red hot dogs. This is the natural casing color of a hot dog. It’s the color of Satan’s leathery-goat hide. The color of a raw, infected anus. It’s the color of a sunburned albino.

That’s right. That ugly flaccid weiner color? The natural color we all know? That’s the fake. The real thing is much, much worse. Look upon the eye of madness, the gaze as blank and pitiless as the sun. And what rough beast, its hour come at last, slouches toward Brendan’s 8th birthday party to be born?

Look, I’m as free thinking as the next guy. More so, maybe. For instance sometimes the Mrs. puts hot sauce in my underpants. But there’s one thing that I just don’t cotton to: Lassos.

I’ve chewed a rubber hose. I’ve been electrified all up. I’ve even been a member of the studio audience at a live taping of Montel. But I have never, ever, been roped, and never will nor I shall be roped. I am no doe-gee. I am not a buckin’ bronco. I am a quality assurance manager for a local gasket producer. Ropin’, rustlin’ and ridin’ have no place in my life.

What I want to be very clear about is that I will never even think about being a cowboy, or a ranch-hand, or a roughneck. Yes, I am as susceptible as the next guy to the deep appeal of a fine whirling tossing ropity-doo. But this is America and we must fight the good fight. We must not succumb to our deepest temptations. We must not allow lassos.

So on November 12, do the right thing. Say no to lassos. No rope you. No rope you, ma’am.

Stoopid. Even if it did work, which it don’t, my dog is afraid of them noises from the vacuum sweeper. He run away. I cain’t catch him.