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Crimea River

To: Dear Commissariat Vlad Impaler
Date: 16 March 2014
Re: Crimea River

After the Put-in, your currency Russian down rapidly past international banks where you missed your Chinese takeout.  Better to practice in the kiddy Simferopool.  No one likes usury; neither a USSRer nor borrower be.  With whom are you in streambed with anyway?  We have tried to brook our differences and open up diplomatic channels, but your runoff from the mouth is constrainer.  A ledge ally, you think we are keeper you from this sticky business?  That’s a dam lie!  But let us broach diplomacy, lest we sandbar each other from the water table; our communiqués have eroded enough, wouldn’t you say?  For far too long have we been bogged down in cold shoulder politics.  This said, do not think for one moment we will merely roller over like bump on logjam, even during this your watershed moment on the wave of so much popularity.  If Ukraine your neck high enough to the sky you will see we have the Kiev to your lock.  Like your Lada to our Ford, Leda to a swan, your Mother Russia-of-pearl before swine purloined is beyond riparian.  Do you have any eddy how bad you look?  First your attack on our gay brothers and sisters.  (How do you expect to harness hydroelectricity without dykes anyhow?)  Now you’re back in the land grab saddle like a Cossack on horseback.  Then again, why buy the Moscow oligarchs, when you get bilk for free?  Paddle do, you might say.  But Huron the wrong side of history, my friend.  Let’s let bygones be, and our past troubled water under the bridge, no?  True, you drove me nearly drove me out of my head when you said you told me love was too plea bargain.  I assumed the interpreter meant to say proletariat.  And now you say you love me again, and ask me to dance the hedgehog and fox Trotsky.  That’s your come-on: Crimea River.  I cried driver, how you say shotgun in your country.  In Putin Empire, Helen of Troika comes to you.

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A Case for Cold Season Paddling

A Case for Cold Season Paddling

Yes, it’s chilly.  And yes the ground is brown, the leaves long gone.  You might say it’s desolate, even depressing.  Death it seems is all-surrounding and conspiring against you.  It’s taken over the air, the ground, the sun and the trees.  The birds have flown off somewhere sensible, and the hunting season dictates that just about anything on four legs flee for dear life away from the awful crack of a rifle – deer especially.  This is the entrance to the outdoor world, a kingdom that basically looks like the ruins of something since abandoned.
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Posted by on December 5, 2012 in Environment, Pretty Damn Random

 

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