I heard my wife on the phone with our insurance agent, saying, “A nut fell out of a tree and broke my windshield.”
“So this nut climbs up a tree and falls…”
“Was he hurt?”
We had a storm the other day, and we have black walnut trees with walnuts as big as baseballs. You don’t want to be under one when it falls. They’re all over the place, making footing very difficult. Anyhow, one of these black walnuts fell on Patty’s windshield and cracked it.
You have to say “black walnut” or it just sounds loopy. A nut fell out of the tree. Well, what was he doing up there?
We’re supposed to have more bad weather all week long, which is going to make it harder and harder for me to finish writing The Witch Box. At least I haven’t been beaned by a black walnut.
And it isn’t raining yet, so I’d better get out there and start writing.
I only heard of this for the first time yesterday: “phrogging,” the practice of sneaking or breaking into someone else’s home and hiding out there for some days without their knowing it.
It started out as an urban legend, then somebody made a movie out of it, and now jidrools are actually doing it. They call it “phrogging” because that “ph” instead of “f” is so computery! So urban, so hip! And also because they “hop from pad to pad.”
Often phroggers will film their adventures so they can be on social media. Master criminals don’t do that. But phools do.
Somehow Social Media encourages stupid people to do stupid things to get the admiration of other stupid people. Someday some phrogger is going to get shot by an irate or terrified homeowner.
Senators represent the huge and powerful special interests that fund their campaigns and get them elected. If it comes down to a conflict between a senator’s home state and the National “Education” Assn., whose side do you think he’ll take?
If you guessed “the people’s,” you are probably from another planet.
The remedy, of course, is to repeal the 17th amendment and go back to having senators appointed by their state legislatures. Honk if you think that’ll ever be allowed to happen.
I guess no one’s escaped from the local chain gang lately, because here’s a bloodhound with nothing to do. In an attempt to occupy himself constructively, he unrolls toilet paper and tries to operate appliances.
But never mind him–what gives with the guy who’s filming all this naughtiness?
Please, everybody, join in prayer for our sister, Ina, whose husband has come down with pneumonia.
O Lord our God, merciful and good, have mercy on your servant, Ina, and heal her husband: please, Lord, take away his pneumonia and restore his health: be swift to help him. In Jesus’ name and by the power of Jesus’ name, Amen.
Today I offer up one of my own favorite series by Edgar Rice Burroughs, and a reader recommendation for a fantasy novel by George MacDonald from 1872.
For ages 12 and under–or over
A Princess of Mars and its sequels, by ERB–his justly famous novels of earthman John Carter’s adventures on Barsoom, the planet that we know as Mars.
These ignited my imagination as a teenager, and I still enjoy them today. My favorite is No. 5, The Chessmen of Mars, in which a barbaric nation devotes itself to a game of Martian chess played with real warriors who have to battle it out on the chessboard. This weird creation is simply fantastic; but all ten novels in the series are good.
Recommended by Heidi (I haven’t read them yet, but I can’t wait to do so, once my own book is finished), The Princess and the Goblin by George MacDonald, and other works by him–these sound like real winners. MacDonald was a huge influence on a lot of fantasy writers–and not just fantasy writers, either. G.K. Chesterton had very high praise for The Princess and the Goblin. It sounds like a work of truly unfettered imagination.
Introducing Chapter CDL of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney, Violet Crepuscular writes, “Now that the vicar has been cured of his conniptions–”
Whoa! Just a cotton-pickin’ minute, Violet! He should’ve been cured in Chapter CDXLIX–or not cured, as the case may be. You can’t get away with this. I know where your publisher lives! If he doesn’t bring you to heel, I’ll threaten to tell you where he lives.
[Grumbling, she returns to writing Chapter CDXLIX. This would be a stage direction, if this were a play.]
“You may recall,” she addresses her readers, “that the plan was to read aloud to the vicar the entire 900-plus pages of Mopey Dick, or, The Depressed White Whale, reputed to be the funniest book in the world. Lord Jeremy Coldsore and his fiancee, the wealthy Lady Margo Cargo, take turns reading. And when they reach Page 468…”
With a horripilating scream, the vicar leaps from his bed, seizes a handy butcher knife that happened to be lying on the quilt, grabs Lady Margo, and with a single sweep of the knife, scalps her!
Well, sort of scalps her. He never knew she was as bald as a cue-ball, owing to a childhood fixation on click beetles. So what he actually has now is her wig, which he brandishes exultantly, whooping like a greater hornbill.
“Give that back, you confounded lunatic vicar!” she fasculates. “Jeremy, make him give me back my wig–it’s cold in here!”
But the vicar dives out the window and dances about the yard. Very fortunately indeed, before he can be sucked under the wading pool, a passing cowboy manages to lasso him–
Oh, forsooth. A passing cowboy? Who just happens to have his lasso handy–in Victorian Scurveyshire?
Here’s one suggested by Erlene–Through It All, by Jentezen Franklin, singing and playing the saxophone (but not at the same time!). My computer conked out halfway through putting up this post, but I plugged it in and no harm seems to have been done.