Ginger

Reading Ulysses in Montana #448

Delving Yardbarker7 Comments

Suggestions be not proud of carping to the end of the dock of the bay in dungarees of gray and crayfish of Dungeness mauve.

Located exactly 50 miles to the south, forbidden to travel any farther north, Gilligan’s enclosure retreated when the bank of the north foreclosed on his general location, sending him on a three-day tour of television studios and production offices. Castaway on location, the number of episodes boggled his mind even more than the fact that he still could not find his way any farther north. Ginger had something to do with that, but Gilligan keeps his lips sealed in that regard, because Ginger still had not gotten to the bottom of how Gilligan ended up with three clear references in James Joyce’s Ulysses (under cover of “Phillip Gilligan”) so long before the television set was even a glimmer in the eye of the beholder that Rod Serling made so famous.

Ginger vehemently defended Gilligan’s acting chops in Ulysses–but Mary Ann could only laugh. Ginger said that’s why she’s mentioned last in the opening credits. Mary Ann said take a long walk off the end of the dock of the bay. Ginger said that’s what got us into this mess in the first place, and besides I don’t have any dungarees of gray and crayfish of Dungeness mauve.

The argument prattled on thusly, but Gilligan says we should just end our story here because once those two get started…

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Reading Ulysses in Montana #559

Delving Yardbarker8 Comments

Coining a new oath every other fortnight or so, the gallant whisperer thrilled the cistern with a folly of fables unknown to humankind before or since.

Having severed all ties with Severin, Ginger felt the lash of a fortune of augmented specimens, unleashed to dash the myriad dreams of sailors and tailors against the Once by the Pacific. Frosted flakes had little appeal to stimulate the buttresses of peculiar fences whether they made good neighbors or not. Britches of birchbark filled the apple barrel of ice and fire, quenched by the forge’s bellows below. A peculiar retrospective staunched the flow of cudgels assembled from strudel, but cudgeling no one on the sconce, they purloined the few scones here and there that fell through the cracks in the cellar door.

Proclaiming Ginger’s favorite pastime from the past obsolete, she absconded with the funds and made her way to Trinidad and Tobago–both at once as befit her bifurcated personality.

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