Fate was all the rage in the age of horseshoes and hand maidens flying not close enough to the sum of all fears.
Ginger said I am not Georgette, though as for that the turnips there had worn them really about the same, not alike at all in bearing or fortune. And I am not George, as they say, as it were when we weren’t kings or minor deities. Needles needle the gesundheit out of the last remaining shoe on the turnstile, while Ginger studied the lines of George’s face and Georgette flicked the fly off my eyelid with a gentle swat of her non-linear hand–along with the skillet of cast iron, not seasoned properly–although she would say the same about me, but that’s the kind of matter she could take up with herself.
The rages of horseshoes showed Ginger the fate of all ages where the fear of flying handmaidens manifest themselves as cold black-iron skillets.
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Very nice
Feeds my hunger for word riffs this morning.
Bon appetite! 😀
See what you made me do? Now I’m riffing on cleaning the refrigerator!
That’s better than actually cleaning the refrigerator!
Well, um, it’s actually a cheap trick to get me to ACTUALLY clean the refrigerator . . .
😂
Say goodnight, Georgette.
I thought so too!
Feeling the Burns
George, where were you? I was looking all over for you. I even called down to the butchers. G: Why would I be at the butchers? G: That’s what I would have asked you if I’d found you there.
Nature in it’s true set up is more enchanting than our imagination.
Nature is our real mother