Merry Christmas!!
On Christmas Day—blog?
I’d rather have grog,
Or maybe eggnog,
Then go walk the dog.
Or watch a Yule Log,
And eat like a hog,
Then go for a jog.
Blogging’s a bog.
My mind’s in a fog,
Or maybe agog
From much dialogue.
I’ll return to the slog
Tomorrow, and blog.
This is another recycled poetic effort. Be sure to click on the links to get the full flavor. By the way, the link for “the dog” goes to a photo of a dog almost exactly like my dog, who’s been gone about 10 years now. One Christmas we spent the entire day at a dog hospital having his stomach pumped (or charcoaled, or something like that) because he’d eaten some chocolate (minus the wrappers) that was inadvertently left within reach. He was a wonderful wonderful dog nevertheless.
Merry Christmas! Hope you’re all having a great one!
So hop over there and blog like a frog.
In comments like this where the past is prolog.
Pretty good Christmas day, actually – we did walk the dogs – on the path which runs to the top of the tallest (or maybe the second tallest) hill in Bexar County.
And tonight we will have roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. Cherry pie for afters.
Sit back and have a nice hot cup of mulled wine… blogging can look after itself today.
To returning gifts got from Amazon’s catalogue.
And booking a long needed vacation in Prague.
And writing this, the last line, of my rhymed epilogue.
With no thanks to Sgt. Mom who broke up my….
Monologue.
vandeleun:
How do frogs blog?
Very very carefully.
Nope. They just get in front of a keyboard and let fly with their tongues.
Merry Christmas, Everyone!
Merry Christmas and a Great and Happy New Year to you Neo.
Thanks for your tremendous Blog Site.
Vanderlegume, you ain’t nothin but a blog hog.
“Lance! Hie thee hence to the presence.”
[Oh, Jeez, now what the %$@ what?]
“Yes, Lucretia, my grizzled leach.”
“What did you say?”
“I said, ‘Yes, my little peach.”
“Well, that’s alright. Would you like your annual Christmas treat?”
[About as much as I’d like a colonoscopy.]
“Oh, I’d love it… [Not that I remember it—I seem to recall a species of Greco-Roman wrestling accompanied by hideous barnyard imitations.] Just give me a minute to prepare.”
[Let’s see. Pitons. Check. Rope. Check. Miner’s helmet. Check. Galoshes, in case of sloppy weather. Check. Canary alert and chirpy. Check.] Okay, here I come.” [A coupla phenobarbs ought to make this bearable.]