Olly Olly Oxen free! If You Don’t Come Now, You’ll be I-T!

"Meeow, meeow, meeow, now we shall have no pie."
–The Three Little Kittens, Only True Mother Goose Melodies (1843).

THIS IS SPARKLEFARKLE, coming to you live from my ransacked house, where, taking a break from my frazzled hunt, I bring to you my installment number fifteen of ABC Wednesday Round Six, a weekly look at what’s on my mind, this "go," beginning with the letter "O." (For other participating bloggers’ wassups, just give the alphabet soup eater a "click." She's over there in the passenger’s seat -->)

is for...

one is the loneliest number
that you’ll ever do

BECAUSE I HAVE the hardest time
attaching myself to the idea that

snow

isn’t going to be happening again until next winter, I am first now packing away all the warmers and woolies that kept me cozy during the arctic months that I love so much. *presses the button labeled "Distraught* So, it was only minutes ago that I discovered

(Come out, come out, wherever you are, d*** it.)
one of the mittens
from my favorite and ONLY pair has

GONE MISSING!!!

I CAN ONLY hope it will soon tire of playing its spirited, little game of hide-and-seek, reappearing quicker than a rogue sock lost in

The Bermuda Triangle.

IN THE MEANTIME, I will continue The Search because this story just has to have a happy ending, as I am desperate for a

TEN WORDS:

"Meeow, meeow, meeow!
Now let us have some pie" moment.

SparkleFarkle~~~~~*

Rest in peace, my Mollo and ZuZu.

Image Credits:
Three Little Kittens illustrations: Garth Willaims
Number One: FreeFoto.comMitten: Cosymakes
Lost: ABC/Florian Schneider/Bob D’Amico D'AMICO
Dryer: ADCLassicx.com

There’s More Than a Good Chance That This Will Get Your Goat

HAPPY HELLOAGAIN to you,

my first-day-of-the-work-week-meme bud,

and welcome to another episode of

Microfiction Monday,
where the fun is all about a picture painting
a betweenable 140 characters, or even fewer!

THERE IT goes.
*offering hand mirror*
Have yourself a looksee:

Your head, it’s getting pointy.

I’M NOT SURPRISED, though, because that’s what can happen if your interest is being peaked piqued. And I know yours is doing just that, because seconds after me saying the "where the fun is all about a picture painting 140 characters" part, your forehead started to get cone-waddy and more toward the ceiling-ish. It's right where I want you, to further explain the Microfiction Monday gist!

EVERY SUNDAY evening, Miss Susan over at Stony River posts a photo or illustration and her own "microfiction" inspired by it, then she happily invites you to do the same! (REMINDER: The 140 or less-count should include spaces and punctuation, too.) But hold on to your pointed, little "hat," because, respectfully and at the same time, maybe not so much, this week’s installment comes with a

“Warning, Will Robinson!” –Robot, Lost in Space (1965-1968)
Warning!

EIGHT WORDS:
The word “blasphemy” should pretty much cover it.

HERE’S THIS WEEK’S picture and my take on it (Get ready to duck, as the Heavens might open to hurl a lightening bolt in this blog’s direction as you read it.):

“LOOK! I CAN SEE your house from here!" said the goat, irreverently reenacting a Jesus-on-the-cross-talking-to-Peter moment. --124 characters

Oh, GREAT.

(handbasket)
My ride is here.

I know, I KNOW. On that microfiction note alone, I’m probably going directly to Hell. Go ahead, you can say it: I’m despicable, insensitive and downright shameless. I apologise. Truly, I do. But given the crazy goings-on Christ had to put up with while He was on Earth, you’d be nuts to think He DIDN’T come equipt with a GIANT sense of humor (<-– especially about Himself). For cripes sake, His dad invented the platypus, didn’t He?

AND

the first Peter Pan collar,
TOO.

YOU CAN’T TELL me that’s not funny stuff. My point being: the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. (Come on, Jesus, tell me you’re laughing. At least the corners of Your mouth have to be going Up a smitch, right? That’s it... That’s it... THERE YOU GO! Told you so!)

WHAT’S THAT you say? You don’t know the joke my goat is referencing? Well, since you insist (Once, again, watch out for any bolts of lightening.):

JESUS is hanging on the cross. His disciple Peter, down the hill comforting Mary Magdalene, hears Jesus' faint voice, "Peter. . . Peter. . ."

"I MUST GO and help my Savior," Peter says and heads up the hill, only to be beaten and kicked back down by the Roman centurions guarding the cross. Again, he hears, "Peter. . . Peter," in even fainter tones, but he cannot ignore the call. Peter limps up the hill, leans a ladder against the cross, and gets halfway up, when the merciless guards knock over the ladder, beat him brutally, and toss him back down the hill.

AGAIN HE hears, "Peter. . . Peter. . ." ever fainter, and again, he cannot refuse his Lord. In pain, he slowly staggers up the hill, props up the ladder and drags himself, rung by rung, until he is finally even with Christ's face. Jesus says, "Peter. . . Peter. . . Look! I can see your house from here!"

I will go stand in the corner nowly,
SparkleFarkle~~~~~*

Rest in peace, my Mollo and ZuZu.

Photo Credits:
Laughing Jesus: Artist Ralph Kozack at JesusLaughing.com
Robot: imageyenation

Start Dropping Bread Crumbs, We Gotta Get This Guy Out of the Woods

Good morning, SIX WORD Saturdayers! Here’s what’s going on in my neck of the woods, serious notey-sentenced in six words. (For a looksee at what others are sixily up to as well, "click" the SWS button right over there —>)

Let’s hope the news remains positive.

IF YOU HAVEN’T ALREADY HEARD, Bret Michaels' health has taken a turn for the worse. The hair-metal Poison front man has been hospitalized after suffering a subarachnoid hemorrhage (which means bad news in the area between the brain and the thin tissues that cover the brain).

AFTER AN UNBEARABLE headache late Thursday night, the rocker was rushed to an undisclosed hospital where doctors discovered bleeding at the base of his brain stem.(<-- Definitely NOT good.) Although music man and reality TV star, great father and all-around good guy (who sometimes makes colorful choices, but, COME On, don't we all?) Michaels is “stabilized” (also conscious, able to talk and is upbeat– maybe not yet up to telling My Bandana’s Too Tight jokes, but nevertheless, upbeat), which is very encouraging considering the seriousness of his health situation, he is in critical condition in the ICU. Testing will continue to determine the cause. This is scary, as it is imperative Bret does NOT experience another bleed, if you know what I mean. <-- Like I said: SCARY. EDIT: Earlier today (Saturday), false reports surfaced that Bret Michaels’ condition had stabilized. An update was posted on Michael’s website saying that even reports made by his own father, Wally Sychak, were inaccurate (Contrary to him saying his son was upbeat and talking, Mr. Michaels is heavily sedated and has not yet spoken.). According to Bret’s publicist, Joann Mignano, Michaels remains in critical condition. The type of brain hemorrhage that he suffered is extremely dangerous. It is not an understatement to say that Bret Michaels is in a life and death situation. Health care workers are monitoring his condition and will observe him carefully for the next 24-48 hours. It is unclear what triggered Bret’s brain hemorrhage as he is diabetic, was recovering from an appendectomy (just last week, April 12), and suffered a head injury in November of 2009 (<– As he exited the stage after performing with his band Poison at the Tony Awards ceremony, Michaels was knocked off his feet by a descending piece of the set. Instead of a Tony, he took home a broken nose, assorted bruises and three stitches in his lip. In addition, he received CAT scans to make sure he hadn't suffer permanent injuries.<– Whoa!)

I HATE THAT Bret Michaels has been dealt a bottom-of-the-deck card labeled "Touch and Go-y." He and his family truly need our support, especially during the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours.

ONE WORD:
Pray

Fingers crossedly, SparkleFarkle~~~~~*

Rest peacefully, my Mollo and ZuZu.

Image Credits:

Hansel and Gretel: Boriss/Illustrator
Bret Michaels: TheHollywoodGossip.com

By George, I Think I’ve Got IT, and You Can, Too!

HAPPY
Saint George’s Day!

St. George,
the Patron Saint of England,

who in times of great peril is called upon to help save the country from its enemies, because he was a brave Roman soldier who protested against the Romans' torture of Christians and died for his beliefs, is always depicted as a Crusadey knight carrying a shield with a red cross (or a banner with a red cross), generally sitting upon a horse and always killing a dragon. But it is highly unlikely that he ever fought a dragon, and even more unlikely that he ever actually visited England. Despite this, St. George is known throughout the world as the dragon-slaying patron saint of England.

TWO WORDS (proceeded by directive):
Shhhh! Mums the!

Just for fun and because I like you, I’m going to let you in on a centuries-old, well-guarded secret about George: he was a big fan of

Milano cookies.

YEAH, it’s true. He never went anywhere or slew anything without a stash of them either in his mouth, or a doilyful of them tucked into his tunic pocket. <– In my book, another perfect reason why he was declared a saint.

TRADITIONALLY on April 23rd (St. George’s Day),

a symbolic red rose
(England’s national flower)

rides in your buttonhole all the live long. But since a lot of people don’t do that, not even the Brits, might I suggest you grab a couple of Milanos on your way out the blog?

MAKE IT

a handful.
You’ll be glad you did.
(Geōrgios wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.)

Getting my Pepperidge Farm on-ly,
SparkleFarkle~~~~~*

Milano-sweet dreams, my Mollo and ZuZu.

Illustration of St. George and the Dragon by Trina Schart Hyman originally downloaded HERE.
Red rose: www.blossomweddingflowers.com

Orange You Glad I Didn’t Say Banana?

With Chad and Niecy sitting this one out, Evan, Nicole, Jake, Erin, Pam and a few of their fading dance partners prepare to go on stage.

"THE LAND that had nourished him and had borne him fruit now turned against him and called him a fruit. Man, I hate land like that." –Jack Handey

HAPPY
Jack Handey
FRIDAY!
(On a Thursday, no less. Early birding, I guess.)

WHILE TAKING a Televisionland tour the other night, I couldn’t help but notice how insanely orange you have to be in order to compete on

I’m dead serious when I say slapping a lower case "m" on one side of two of the non-professional hoofers in particular, would definitely spell

"second income"
for the both of them.

AND SPEAKING of "second," I say 'yep' to spray tanning on DWTS being "that" (<-- second) only to a good Viennese waltz, with that certain orange they aim for each week having me thinking not so much with the

EIGHT WORDS:

"melt in your mouth, not in your hand,"

but about who might be

the perfect person
to join the Dancing with the Stars dance parade,
come Season 11.

AND


WOULD YOU BELIEVE

a Foxtrotting, radioactive Valentino
as the new Buzzzzzzzz Aldrin?

To anyone who can give me a word that rhymes with orange, a prizely,
SparkleFarkle~~~~~*

Rest in peace,my Mollo, ZuZu, and Kate Gosselin’s dance career.

Photo Credits:
Oompa Loompa: Stuff.co.nz
Maxwell Smart: originally downloaded at Fred Sez
Famous Orange Italian: Zimbio

Swallowing It Hook, Line, Sinker AND Mystery Meat

(Definitely NOT my sister-in-law)

HEY, HEY, good lookin', whatcha cookin'? How's about cookin' somethin' up with me? Namely, my installment number fourteen of ABC Wednesday Round Six (that of which I always seem to post on Tuesday instead of Wednesday, blaming my happy trigger happyness on Mr. MckLinky's urging), a weekly look at what’s on my mind, this "go", beginning with the letter "N." (For other participating bloggers’ wassups, just give the alphabet soup eater a "click," right over there in the passenger’s seat -->)

is for...

non-edibles.

The "here's what," if Joanne’s meals were shoes,
and even this is being generous.

BEING MARRIED to my husband means a lifetime of "dinners-in-law": mandatory dinners prepared by his sister, that we are obliged to gag down eat. (But there is a God, in that, these days, they are scheduled few and far between.) Unfortunately for all palates involved, though, there is one such engagement circled on the calendar for this week–> which means, come Thursday evening, I will be toting my BIG purse, as

FIVE WORDS:

everything tastes better with ketchup.

Wishing my SIL would make TUMS her after dinner mint offering,
SparkleFarkle~~~~~*

Rest in peace, my Mollo and ZuZu, but hopefully NOT us Joanne-food eaters, because sooner or later-- I’m just saying, by this time, chances are, something’s gotta give!

Photo Credits:
Julia Child: originally downloaded by audiciousink
Slop oil: Bry Studio
Not so tootsieweet-wear: Shoewawa

I Will Chop the Broccoli, But I Refuse to Cut the Crap

Ron Popeil following in his ancestors’ footsteps. (OH, GOOD GOD, please
don’t tell me he was related to Lizzie Borden, too!? To that, I say NO dice.)

"GOOD MORNING GOOD MORNING, everybody, in the blogs this morning, good morning!"

THAT WAS MY

Ann Curry

impersonation. How do you like me so far? I may not be ready to go on the road with it quite yet, but you have to admit, it wasn’t half-bad, was it? LOL! (<– And, YES, it’s true. Sometimes, I actually DO make myself sick.) NEVER MIND. Let’s get on with it:

WELCOME TO

Microfiction Monday,
where the fun is all about a picture painting
a betweenable 140 characters, or even fewer.

HMM. IT’S DOING "it," again.
Your head, it’s getting–-

YUP, it’s definitely pointy,

all right.

IT’LL DO THAT, you know, if your interest has been peaked piqued. Yeah, I had a sneaking suspicion something was up, when, shortly after you read the "where the fun is all about a picture painting 140 characters" part, your forehead started to narrow. *looking up, WAAAY up* Since you’re just about to topknotty-puncture the ceiling, I guess it’s safe to assume I’ve got your "undivided." *giving an I’ve-got-you-right-where-I-want-you look* Allow me, then, to further explain the Microfiction Monday gist:

EVERY SUNDAY evening, Miss Susan over at Stony River, posts a photo or illustration and her own "microfiction" inspired by it, then she happily invites you to do the same! (REMINDER: The 140 or less-count should include spaces and punctuation, too.)

HERE’S THIS WEEK’S picture
and my take on it:

"IT SLICES! It dices! It even juliennes!" Popeilius Ronia delighted in having to explain her shower gift to the bride-to-be. –124 characters

ONE WORD:

Vega-o-Matic!

. . . . . . .

A RANDOM THOUGHT, BUT NOT really:

Remember Saturday Night Live favourite

Dana Carvey,
who later costarred on Sex in the City,

saying, "All comedians want to be rock stars because they are incredibly cool." Have I jarred your memory? Do you know what that line’s a lead-in to? No? Then, I will happily refresh –> He goes on to say, "They always look like they're about to vomit. They have the rap before the song that makes no sense: ‘You know, ladies and gentleman, a long time ago, there were lots of people... but that was a long time ago.’ Then they start to sing these incredibly trite lyrics. Don't you feel like a lot of balladeers– it's like they're making them up as they go along. Okay, it's like anyone could make up these lyrics."

ENTREZ DANS le stade quitté:
Carvey’s fabulous, but washed-up Brit songster,

Derek Stevens,
singing his "work in progress":

(HAVE A HILARIOUS look-see at the video, HERE. "Derek’s" face, as he struggles to find the next line, and then lights up when he does, makes it well-worth the download wait, which is only momentary, so, be honest with me, is it really going to kill you have to watch it? WHAT? I thought this was suppose to be fun. You don’t wanna have fun??? I thought so. Then, "click" HERE.)

"The Lady I Know"

There's a lady I know...

If I didn't know her...

She'd be the lay-tee... I didn't know.

And my lady, she went downtown...

She bought some broc-co-li...

She brought it ho-ome...

She's choppin' broccoli

Choppin’ broccoli

She’s choppin’ brocco-leh

She’s choppin’ brocco-leh-heh

She's choppin’ brocco-lay

She’s choppin’ brocco-lay

She's chop-uhhn!

Sheschoppinbrocco-lay-heh-heh-heh-eee!

A complementary
Leave It to 'Cleaver' T-shirt
on your way out?

I thought so-ly,
SparkleFarkle~~~~~*

Rest in peace, my Mollo, Zuzu, and Derek Stevens’ musical career.

Photo Credits:
Ron Popeil: Boing Boing
Barbie Gaga: VeiK 11
Broccoli cat: IcanHasCheezeburger.com
Dana/Tricia: TotallyLooksLike.com
Derek Stevens: Retro Junk
T-shirt: Café Press.com

I Don’t Think I’m In Kansas Anymore

SIX WORD SATURDAY:

I've got more than six words.
(Needing more sixy whatups? Give the SWS button a "click."-->)

"I’M JUST guessing, but probably one of the earliest signs that your radarscope is wearing out is something I call ‘image fuzz-out.’ But I’ve never seen a radarscope, so I totally wouldn’t go by what I’ve just said." –Jack Handey

(Better late than nevery:)

HAPPY
Jack Handey
FRIDAY!

MAN, OH, MAN, what a surreal last half of the week this turned out to be! Yep, it was chock full of a whole lot of stuff I, quite frankly, didn’t see coming (Image fuzz-out?). Okay, OKAY. The happenings I’m about to go on and on and on about, are only a few. But I promise you, they won’t be boring. If I were you, though, I’d grab a pot of strong coffee, with a very long straw stuck in it and a comfortable chair, because I also promise you this blog-ride’s gonna take you forever.

IT ALL STARTED late Wednesday, when our mentally challenged cat Noddy <– I’m not trying to be bad-funny OR cruel. IT’S TRUE: Although mental retardation in cats is rare and hard to identify because some felines naturally have wild and crazy personalities, Noddy’s behavior cannot be attributed to him being another

Steve Martin.

In fact, one out of the two vets who confirmed his diagnosis, actually gave it to us in black and white, in the event we’d ever need it for legal purposes --such as bailing him out cat jail, for instance. Where was I? Oh, yeah. Noddy got the idea that he was of the outdoor variety and slipped past us into the night. Having not found him after several hours of Nancy Drew sleuthy-looking, we left a blanket and our dog Jane’s dog bone (<– one of Noddy’s favorite treats) on the front stoop as a lure, and went to bed, where we worried about him until morning.

MY HUSBAND Billy, who could not forego work to hunt for his not so beloved a beloved beloved, was already out rat racing by the time Puppet and I opened the front door to begin search partying, again, for young Nodward (<– whose name next up-obviously should instead be

Toonces).

HALLELUJAH! and God bless Noddy’s little pea pickin' heart (<-- and my husband's compassionate ticker, too!), because at the steering wheel of our locked car parked in the driveway was our smiling, favourite wad of fur! Billy must have found him before heading off to work in his van and, probably assuming Puppet and I could easily use our radarscope to zero in on his about-to-be specific location, put the Nodster in our car for safekeeping! W-we think. (?) Going back on it, I’m not so sure either one of us actually came right out and asked my husband if he had indeed locked the cat in the car...?

ONCE BACK inside the house, Noddy woofed down a hardy breakfast to the tune of The View’s Joy Behar, who I find to be quite annoying, but since nodPod is oddly fascinated with her, we regularly watch the show together. <– It being Noddy’s kind of "normal," I figured doing so would be a real-worldy" but gentle snap-to" for him.

AND SO IT went, until I had to leave the dog out and we eerily felt like we weren’t alone. Jane saw it first, but didn’t say a word. Like some scene taken directly from any number of episodes of

Number Six being sheepdog-herded. (1967-1968)
The Prisoner,

Rover was all-by-it’s-lonesome-rolling steadily, and straight down our dead end street! But since it was blue, and Patrick McGoohan was no where to be found (Perhaps he and Noddy had spent the night together, and he was still in hiding? Oh, that’s right, McGooghan passed away last year, didn’t he?), I quickly re-deduced: As if it had a mind of its own, a 70 cm+ exercise ball was tooling down my empty-of-people road! So, SOMEONE, TELL ME: Where did it come from and who belongs to it?! I door-to-doored, but I never found answers.

FOR A WHILE, I watched the ball pace back and forth, and occasionally pause on neighbors’ lawns like it was up to no good. Finally, it settled near the berm at the end of the street, where it apparently fell into a deep blue sleep. NOTE TO SELF: Get a life.

GOING OUT of my way to avoid doing the laundry and ever other mundane household chore on my list Concerned for my neighborhood’s safety and its protection, I decided to investigate another unusual going-on that I noticed earlier from my porch perch, while I was busy

"Follow the bouncing ball!"
checking out Rover.

"OH. MY. GOD!" I realised outloud. (<–Yes, now I was talking to myself.), "Oh my God" is right, because what looked like shaving cream streaming down and caking on the passenger’s door of a car parked out front, was actually mass quantities of bird poop being pooped by a GIANT robin who, when she wasn’t looking at herself/talking to herself/carefully flying at herself in the side mirror of the vehicle, she was pooping! "Hmm," I thought as I watched her gazing at her reflection, "Either she thinks she's found a friend (maybe her only one, too), or she’s the most narcissistic red-breast I’ve ever come across." I went with the latter and named her

Mirror Winningham,
which I immediately changed to

Warren Birdy,

after a grade school science class flashback told me otherwise: a female bird’s feathers are slightly paler, and she would also poop less. (<– I made up that last part. It seemed right.)

WHEN NIGHTFALL finally fell
and I was outside looking for

(A robin’s egg???)
the medicine ball,

that of which I would Duct tape to the grill of my husband’s van, so a surprisey, good morning laugh would be waiting for him the next day, IF I ever found it, BUT I DIDN'T, because it had disappeared as mysteriously as it had once arrived, Warren was STILL going strong!! Which raises two questions: Do birds ever sleep? And if the answer is "yes," which we all know it is, WHY DO THEY POOP DURING IT?!

THIS MORNING,

The Beat Goes On:

AFTER A BRIEF visit to Hypnagogiaville (<– that "here nor there" place situated somewhere between asleep and awake), where I dreamed I was lost in the Black Forest, which turned out to be

Adam Lambert’s hair

(If you’re a BIG fan of Lambert like I am, you probably wouldn’t think it was all that much of a nightmare, but it was, so I’m glad it woke me up.), upon wakey-wakey, I shooed away a

begging-for-the-car-keys-for-the-one-zillionth-time Noddy (<-- who promised that he’d fill the gas tank, if I let him take the jitney for a spin) in order to clearly but unsuccessfully search the landscape for an absenty, possibly-abandoned-by-a-neglectful-self-centered-parent Rover. Then, from that same front window "ranger station," as I observed my own private Energizer Bunny with wings as he continued his love affair with himself, I heard my husband shout out to me from the bathroom, alerting me to the fact that he is out of

Gillette Foamy.

NINE WORDS:

(Imagine this, only a million times worse.)
Have I got a money
$aving idea for him!

Keep it surreal,
SparkleFarkle~~~~~*

Rest in peace, my Mollo and ZuZu.

P.S. HELP is on the way! –> IF YOU DON’T KNOW anything about Toonces the Driving Cat, "click" HERE. IF YOU DON’T KNOW anything about The Prisoner’s Rover, "click" HERE. You're welcome!

Photo Credits:
Toonces: AreaVoices.com
"Everybody sing... 'He drives around, all over the town, Toonces the Driving Cat!'"
Mare Winningham: JewishJournal.com
Warren Beatty: HERE
Peeking Adam Lambert: The Hair Styler