O Ceallaigh's Felloffatruck Publications

My "farewell to Bloggerparty" post.

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“Woooo hoooo!!!”

“Not right in my ear, dude! I can hear you already! Or, I could, once.”

“Sorry, dude. I kinda lost it for a second. But look at this, you’ll see why.”

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Weekdays until 14 December, I'll be subbing for Doug Pascover, the Meister of Waking Ambrose, a pastiche of Ambrose Bierce's Devil's Dictionary (just like NMDD), and an excellent hangout for curmudgeons of all ages and states of training.

Recent entries are Legacy, Mad,and Reflection. C'mon over and check them out.

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Weekdays for the next two weeks (from 1 - 14 December), I'll be subbing for Doug Pascover, the Meister of Waking Ambrose, a pastiche of Ambrose Bierce's Devil's Dictionary (just like NMDD), and an excellent hangout for curmudgeons of all ages and states of training.

Today's words are Mammon and Molecule. C'mon over and check them out.

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Listen up, people. I am going to use words of one syllable here.

I DO NOT WANT TO HEAR ANYTHING MORE ABOUT RUSSIAN BRIDES!!

Read this. Right Now.

By promoting the Russian Brides crap, you Blogitive types are likely promoting the international sex trade, once known as "white slavery". A trade that can and has led to the death, maiming, and torturing of women throughout the world.

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For a number of years, the great American state of Maine sold itself with the slogan “The Way Life Should Be”. It’s changed now, the tourism board’s using “It Must Be Maine”. I wonder if they’ve replaced the signs at the state border crossings yet.

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Weekdays for the next two weeks (from 1 - 14 December), I'll be subbing for Doug Pascover, the Meister of Waking Ambrose, a pastiche of Ambrose Bierce's Devil's Dictionary (just like NMDD), and an excellent hangout for curmudgeons of all ages and states of training.

Today's word is Confidant. C'mon over and check it out.

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I begin to wonder if it's time when I see, here on Bloggerparty, the seventh iteration of the "Russian wives" post in a week. If ever there was an excuse for Polonium 210 ...

I begin to wonder if it's time when I reach for the "flag" utility here on Bloggerparty to drive off the seventeenth plagiarized post today. And find that the utility is gone. Guess that means plagiarism is ok, if it gets hits.

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Weekdays for the next two weeks (from 1 - 14 December), I'll be subbing for Doug Pascover, the Meister of Waking Ambrose, a pastiche of Ambrose Bierce's Devil's Dictionary (just like NMDD), and an excellent hangout for curmudgeons of all ages and states of training.

Today's word is Mace. C'mon over and check it out.

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The news roared through the city like Superman out to crush a Playstation baddie. Cell phones flipped open everywhere, shouting their confusion, outrage, and apologies for being late to the world. Palms, Blackberries, and notebooks pounded the Internet, while their batteries lasted, with frustration and demands for explanations.

Rush hour traffic in the Metropolis had been a one-way ticket to Hell for as long as anyone could remember. But on this Monday morning, the jams surpassed the maddest imaginings of the darkest pessimist. Lines of stopped vehicles stretched deep into the suburbs. Freeway ramps 100 miles from the city center were strewn with broken glass from the cars that had sped onto them, expecting the usual clear sailing, only to ram into the backs of the queues that had formed. Many a half-asleep creature of commuter habit was jolted awake, not by the morning's Starbucks, but by the frantic squeal of brakes and the fury of raised voices, yelling at each other and, above all, at the lack of motion.

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Here are the latest entries posted in the Sunday Diabolical Lexicographer (chronological order, oldest first).

Meeting.

Veteran.

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selah

in maine’s late november,
the asters are straw,
the comfrey has fallen.
they have entered into his gates with thanksgiving.

          she sits in a desert with the cactus flowers
          and dreams of green grass

the pasture glints frosted
beside the salt river,

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"C'mon, dude, you ready yet?"

" ... huuunngghh ..."

"Look, dude. It's not my fault you spent three days in line waitin' to blow your blog profits plus half the rent money on one of those goddam PS3s, then stayed up all night figuring out that your PS2 disks don't work in it. Now, we gotta roll!"

"Roll what, dude? I could use a toke ..."

"You're S.O.L., dude. It's not a what, it's a where. O Ceallaigh's got a family besides us, y'know. And we're goin' to go see 'em."

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Last night, while I was supposed to be doing something constructive - sleeping would have been good - I was touring blogs. And came across this item by a 5th grade teacher from Las Vegas, who calls herself "Quilldancer". Her write is an op-ed on the state of teaching in these United States, a topic I've been guilty of writing about a few times myself. Like here, and here, and here.

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As regular readers of this blog have noticed, no doubt, there hasn’t been much posted here lately. It’s not like I haven’t been writing. But it’s been stuff that has a chance of paying the bills. Google AdSenseLess doesn’t qualify. Good thing I never believed in it. I blog here ‘cause I choose to, not ‘cause I expect it to pay the rent. And I chose not to write any blow-by-[hair-torn-out-in-frustration]-blow accounts of my struggles to complete the latest scientific grant proposal.

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when you took my arm
the very first time,
that night on the waterfront,
our closeness effortless,
our steps seamless -
how could you have been here all along,
and i never knew? -
and you nattered away with our companions
like it was the most natural thing in the world,

i wanted to summon an old jack tar
from the ghosts of the tall ships,
and, with calloused hands and hempen rope,

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