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Out of time again. “Robot Mask Scarier After Trespassing Incident.”
*pop-eek
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“GuardianOfTheGateOfOz”
http://i1067.photobucket.com/albums/u438/jamais5/2015hm/HerrD-GuardianOfTheGateOfOZ_zpssdivg4h9.png
*Oz
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The yellowsleigh flower requires a tall gardener, or a stepladder, to properly water the top leaves and ensure plant health. Maude grew one by accident. She’s the only old lady on the block who has a beet box.
*OPMC
“No One Suspects A Thing, Keep Going”
You know how sometimes jack-o-lanterns keep getting moved around from house to house as a prank? Well . . . sometimes it’s not just a prank . . .
*pop-jack
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Shown here with alter ego.
*Britannia
Mr. Bobby “Babyface” McInarry, his wife Clara “Scary Clara,” and Junior or “Dozen” all arrived for consideration at circus tryouts being held at the Wassupwidalladis County fairground. They were selected second, but the cameraman fainted when asked to capture a likeness of the first selected family.
*sepia
*
‘hitler’s rex’ is a designation given to an unnamed character. I’ve dubbed it ‘Das Maschine’ for the ‘Big Time’ contest. Here we have it catching a rocket fired at it.
*big time
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This one is called ‘Multitasker,’ a shout-out to all of us who don’t have time but somehow find a way . . .
*opmc
Back in the corner of the last storeroom in the second Gimble’s re-opened store is the sweater that Myrna quit over. She said it was in poor taste. She’d been looking for an excuse to quit. Thankfully the 9-volt battery that powered the sweater and attached straw-and-star wig wore out that March.
http://i1067.photobucket.com/albums/u438/jamais5/2015hm/HerrD-UglyChristmasSweater_zpspkhmkezt.png
*uCs
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Set in hover mode here during an ill-advised base jump to deliver presents onto a trans-Atlantic flight on a commercial airliner, Santa’s other ride has a warp coil. It also has matching repeater snow gun and chocolate gun for those especially un-Christmassy places. It’s tricked out with VTOL gear for those hard-to-maneuver situations.
*pimpmysleigh
*
Moderately laryngitic, but I’m outta time: “Scream Attempt.”
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‘RoboSwami’ is a fakir, not a faker. It appeared one day over a war-torn city in the Middle East. No gunfire or explosions outside of the workings of an internal combustion engine have been possible since. Scientists have, by analyzing the data available, determined that it is made of reforged shrapnel. Local metallurgist and inventor, Muhammed Rahs-Sabine, has declared that it hovers by no known energy signature, and that it has saved the city. http://i1067.photobucket.com/albums/u438/jamais5/2017hm/HerrD-RoboSwami_zpsyjxxl2hr.png
*3p — braid as a rug edge, ‘pizza cutter’ as eyes and in mouth and nose ring, the top? . . . Head, shoulders, knees, and trunk, knees and trunk; head, shoulders, knees, and trunk, knees, and trunk! Then there’s cheeks, and jaw, and nose; head, shoulders, knees, and trunk!
“With A Tap, Kvar Fails Stealth Training.”
*opmc
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“What Do You Mean My Warranty Expired”
Sam had a bit of trouble yesterday . . .
*bionicchar
“Inukshuk Eavesdrops” Just a comics page.
*ILJInukshuk
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“Dearest Randine,
I sold our wyrmhide to John Forgetaylor, best armorer in the land. I stood at the edge of his shoppe watching him work his hides with hammer, fang-awl, and tempered curve-needels. His smiths make the frames, of course, and his hot-sawyers remove the fangs and claws to save him time. I had only missed the careful butchery of a wain-sized mother and colt-sized hatchlings by a day, my luck. But with the ev’n came free heat for the township, as the smiths and hot-sawyers had broken open her heart the reste of the way, and the grinders had already begun the final shaping of the egg-shelle fragments. Forgive me, Randine, as I will no doubt be a full two days late returning. I will, however, return with the shaped plates for our engraver personally, and so we will save enough on the shipping that we can have our whole wedding party dine upon our new dish pattern.
All My Love,
Mychall”
*val
[The three Fates moan backup as zombies do beat-box . . . ]
It’s a quarter till YOU in the afternoon,
So doncha go makin’ static–
Or me & mah combine will see ya real SOON!
Ah call it mah ‘sickle-matic.’
At the end of the plague, Ah almost got demoted!
My old blade could compete,
But the world population’s done gone and exploded.
Oh, Ah need a FASTER beat!
Yo!
Pimp out mah combine!
Pimp out mah combine!
Pimp out mah combine!
Dance; dance!
*death
Thanx, man! I was actually surprised to find out the shadows of the fingers are part of the hand bone item–difficult to customize. –I haven’t rapped very often. Hairy helped out with that part.
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Olga stood out when she applied to the old bindery. Russian accent, punk haircut, biceps bigger than Dave’s–not to mention first female mechanic we ever had. Mike gave her the usual tests, including the mystery gear. She was holding it, looking confused at it, when the greeting card spinner started burying her in those stupid art prints from the Widow Jefferies. He laughed about it and said she wouldn’t last when she didn’t give up on it after a month. Six months later, she figured out it wasn’t ours at all. It wasn’t. It came from an antique meat grinder that Sal’s Deli uses to hold up the corner of their shed roof.
She was so mad! Yelled at Mike in Russian while he stood there stunned for a minute. Then went dead quiet as he held out his hand to shake hers in admiration. He told her then, that no other mechanic had ever figured it out, and that she was ready to work unsupervised. You’ve never seen such a smile!
*OPMC
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The Pinkerton detective was about to scream. Five of the seven of the old Madsen gang were dead, shot to pieces as they’d tried to gallop out of town with the bank bags. The sixth was in irons, awaiting trial, only because he’d forgotten to load his guns.
WHERE WAS THE YOUNGEST?
Neil Madsen had escaped before. Quick thinker, very dangerous. Somehow, in all the commotion, he’d gotten out of town with TWELVE BAGS OF GOLD. “It’s not like the man’s invisible!” said the detective. “He’s got bright red hair. Bright green eyes. Buck teeth big as your fingernails. He’s got six fingers on his right hand. He’s humpbacked, he walks with a limp, and he can barely lift ONE bag of gold. He can shoot, but he left his guns in the bank. He’s good on a horse, but none have been stolen. Doesn’t ANYBODY have ANY idea where he could’ve gone?”
Little Jimmy raised his hand.
“We’re not in your schoolhouse, boy; spit it out!”
“The photographer had me call a carter to put his cases on the stage. He said he had to get to the next town in a hurry. He was wearing spurs, sir. And then there’s the man in the saloon. He’s pretty drunk.”
“What are you saying, boy?”
“Jimmy! The man in the saloon. He said he started drinkin’ when somebody stole his camera and everything he owned at the point of a big Bowie knife and threw him into a horse trough. Said the sheriff was too busy with the bank bein’ robbed to talk to him.”
The Pinkerton detective spun on his heel, slapped the sheriff right across his face, and ran out of the building. The penny he’d thrown into the air landed at Jimmy’s feet.
*western
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