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Monthly Archives: March 2015

SEA CZAR CITY, THE DIARIES, PAGE 32, SUNDAY MARCH 19 CONTINUED

I told Maggie I’d be in the office bright and surly Monday morning and get write on it.

Not two minutes after Maggie’s hang-up, Willet Fly jingles the candlestick to tell me that Stephen Faster, his singing mechanical man hasn’t been to see the dock since Friday.

The rowbot paddles people along the shore.

Some even go out in his boat.

“Hatrack” said Willet, “if Stephen doesn’t get an oil change in the next twenty-four hours, it could be rust to rust!”

Well it didn’t take an Agate Crystal to deduce that the only competition Crab Carp”s Lovecraft Tours has is a modest little skiff and a warbling hunk of tin.

I jumped in my Keister, tuned the key and listened to it sputter and lie.

I called Piston Pete to pick it up and give me a drive out to the Notell Motel.

“Swampy, How I love Ya, How i Love Ya, My Clear Old Swampy”

 

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SEA CZAR CITY, THE DIARIES, PAGE 31, SUNDAY, MARCH 19

They buried Foggy in Longview Cemetery today.

No one  was at the Reverent  Amos Rant’s service except mortician, Edgar Allen Plotts, Donny, Shelay Lee and me.

It was soggy for Foggy, what with all the rain.

I went back to the Harbour House Hotel.

I turned on “Sargent Singer Of The Mounted”.

The announcer was saying:”Brought to you by Old King’s Coal.

Now it’s time for that chilling cry from the snow show  of the north: ‘Lets Go Mukluk!

Step On It Boy!'”

Just then the phone rang.

It was Maggie Carp.

She writes the complaint column in the Bench Press.

She is married to Crab Carp.

He captains The Lovecraft.

He does tours for the gents to the Mermaid Races and for the ladies, visits to Cory Gillman, the Teacher of Hack Lagoon.

For the rheumatic, there are cruises to Honeysoon Falls.

“Packit”, said Maggie “Crab is no where to be drown.

You’ve got to find him!”

The Lovecraft

The Lovecraft

 
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Posted by on March 19, 2015 in Diary, Graphic Novel, Humour, Parody, Puns

 

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SEA CZAR CITY, THE DIARIES, PAGE 30, THE TIDES OF MARCH CONTINUE

Foggy began to scratch himself as though he had to flea.

That must have been why he went for the chaffing dish and removed the lid.

Instead of fried chicken, he found a very sober Phantom Rooster.

The Rooster was winging it, gesture-wise, in Foggy’s general direction.

“Sock-A-Boodle-You…Sock-A-Boodle-You!’ the Rooster cried fowel.

Slabby the Dead Clown began to translate the bird’s doodles.

“He says your one bad egg and that’s no yolk.

He was there.

He saw you lay one on the lady that plucked her for good!”

Foggy became as unmanned as a spinster and began gerbaling like a rodent.

Without an “Ouvrir la porte”, Foggy crashed, headfirst, through the French doors.

We could see him staggering through the stormy light, up to the tree where his sister-in-law had barked her last.

It was at that moment the old crap shooter disproved the adage: “Lightening never strikes dice!’

The Fine Fickle Feather Of Fate

The Fine Fickle Feather Of Fate

 

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SEA CZAR CITY, THE DIARIES, THE TIDES OF MARCH, PAGE 29

It was a stark and wormy dusk when I pulled my Keister up to Heatcliff Manor.

The Headless Oarsman.Oslo sans Ego,myself, Donny, Shelay Lee and of course Elizabeth Bareit Browntea were all tabled by the time Foggy drifted through the door.

At that precise moment, Aerial announce Lady McDoom.

Foggy visibly paled like a small bucket at the sight of her.

Why Uncle”, said Donny, “you look as if you’ve seen the host”

Not A Ghost Of A  Dance

Seance On A Met Afternoon

 
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Posted by on March 9, 2015 in Diary, Ghost Story

 

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