The intoxicated bumblebee flew into the reclining man’s nostril. The reclining man’s nostril twitched. The aforementioned bumblebee came tumbling from the no longer reclining man’s nostril like an Olympic gymnastic floor exercise. An alien cat took notice of the goings on, and reported the disturbance through the proper channels…crop circles, eh? while a promenade of farmers quaffed Summit Pilsener beer (with the barley all the way from North Dakota…where Larry Woiwode presides as the poet laureate)…now where was I? Oh…a wolf flashed the peace sign to a pinkish purplish parked car on Lake Street, while a girl in derby hat did a soft shoe while tiptoeing to the Dairy Queen by the river. Robot picked up the wolf’s trail from a discarded bone and trampled thistles while clouds floated overhead like giant cat paws.
“Hold on,” Robot said out loud in a robot voice, “Those aren’t clouds…those are flying vampire bats!”
The only thing I’d add to that? I worked with a man named Richard Betts in the late 70s that regaled me with tales from his youth, living on a farm in southern Minnesota by the South Dakota border. One such tale involved teaching his Weimaraner dog to ride his mule. He had a paper clipping from the Minneapolis paper with the story. That is all for now. The End