Day #32

Dowager sent me up some schemes for installing a bathtub in his veranda. I call his veranda the "verand-oo". Anyways, the plans were going for a sort of Thompsonian spigot and a Rustic basin, so I bet him I could design a better tub while piloting a rocket ship. Let's just say he owes me a buffet.

Shaved finally, feels good to get the grime off of my back.
Oh, that reminds me, call my monkey friends down in East Repfearia and have them drop propaganda for the impending Reconquest - I'm thinking of the spooky flier of Lou on Lime Green, folded in camisoles... too much?

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Day #29

Some kid called 'Josh' came to camp this morning to give a presentation on the future of the SoCal punk scene. His talk was titled, "So Cal, Where Do We Go From Here?". I told everyone he probably has scabies. What a prick.
Really though, it smells so good around here, and I can't figure it out. I mean, let's be Frank. We charred most of the countryside last week in the toast flinging campaign against the Rebrians, and this town appeals to my nose like a hollow populated by pretty, pretty ponies. Maybe Anne is using some new body wash? I should ask her doctor, see if it would be suitable for me as well.

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Day #10

Very interesting experiment today. Had the team construct a rainbow inside of Chiefly Anne's heart. Olivier wielded the scalpel, he's got such delicate hands, you know? I was in charge of spraying the food dyes of various colors into the chestral cavity (Lou had mixed the colors himself), and I got a lot of confidence from doing that.
Towards the end of the process, Olivier piped in about a gallon of sherbet to make everything congeal and cleanse the immune system's palette. It was pretty beautiful, Anne looked like a living, breathing profiterole.
Actually I tried to eat her, and my guys, bless their hearts, held me back. With the reflux I've been having, I wouldn't have been able to sleep at all tonight.

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Day #41

Inconsistency is most vexing. I went to my glamour consultants this morning and asked, "What sort of product ought I be purchasing these days?" Some casual conversation followed, and my consultants connived me into acquiring "The Blond Mont", a product for the geologist on the go. This afternoon, I went back to try to get an appraisal for this Nom D'oil, but no one was in the saloon. Some trifle about being "jacked" or something, I really don't understand people much anymore. And besides, how can a guy make a buck when he's got to spend all his time carrying around a tectonic suppressant? Gosh.

Hey, got some slides back. Guess who's looking forward to the next pool party?

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Day #6

It's hard to know exactly when you've reconquered a thing. Medicine Lou and I were arguing just a bit ago about whether or not that lower bit of the far peninsula was ours, whether it had been ours, if we'd in fact carpet-bombed it, or if it was where Lou's sister lived. As you might imagine, this caused a bit of temerity among some of the men-folk, so much so that Jerry and Ron plum lept into a boat, which was on some water.
Ha. Boy, their faces were red. You can imagine.

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Day #3

Had Lee page Mr. Remington from the office today. Was very pessimistic, as previous encounters had led to seizures on part of Secretary Mme. Barkleton. This time, turned out okay, even with esteemed colleague, Dr. H Barklesworth on hand. He recalled, "Harkenbak, I shot you during FDR's third term, but you still crack me up, you son of a bitch."
I then commissioned Oslon to fix us some cool drinks. Suspecting tamping/tampering and shot him with a golf gun. Turned out he'd been hired by Truman to spy for Misters Heath & Blair. Those scamps.

Send congratulatory bouquets to each of them tomorrow, maybe that'll get me in one of their wives' pantaloons.
Anyways, Remington agreed I'm one sexy devil and I swore at his reverend. Boy, did I give it to him.

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Day #22

Came up with a bold new Jethro Tull drill this evening. It came to me when the dusky light hit my eye, just there, like so. I was so moved that I threw down the bird I was choking and yelled, er, exclaimed,

"Dowager! My sketchpad!"

which of course meant that he pulled of his dinner jacket and shirt and handed me a Sharpie with which I could doodle all over his back.
This new drill though, it's dynamite, and I'm trying to get Ian Anderson himself to be the drum majorette. Imagine the faces of those scampish Rebrians as we shoot past them with a flute-laden "Don't cha wish your girlfriend were bad like me?"!!

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Day #38

Invented snow dancing. Sort of a cross between steamy ice dancing and a cool water ballet. Will have Oscar and Chiefly Anne try it out next week, out beyond the tarmac. Best to get them a little liquored up before and after so that they don't leak my moves to anybody else, particularly that crazy ol' Medicine Lou. He's taken to riding around on his helmet and calling out Bingo numbers as a way to scare up the young ones. There isn't a round singing about dogs for miles. I'd have to take a train to hear a nice, staggered "ruff" chorus. Anywho, my big move is the "toejammer", in which Anne goes on one knee past the edge and Oscar comes back home. I see a great future for these endeavors.

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Day #13

Blogged well today. Threw up, got up, got down. Took of my pants. Did a dance. Hoo-ee.
It was late when I went to bed last night. I debated dropping some more pronouns, but decided I was too tired. At some instead.

So Big Tom and Chiefly Anne sauntered in to camp this afternoon, arms locked, smiles up, I think you know what I mean. I did what any right-minded reconquerer would do and escorted them to the paddle-tennis facility. They played a fine few rounds. That Anne's back/forehand is a Tom-crusher for sure.
Reconquered Lower Sandwichshire.

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