With Mick and Mory

Clark's using a different picture of us.

That's what I like about you, Mory, you're so observant.  Steel trap vision.

Always gotta diss me.  I never diss you.  Maybe I should start, I mean, our socks are still in the laundry.  We're naked in this picture.  I didn't wanna say "naked" in public like this.  

Well, I guess the bird's outta the bag now, hahahahaha.  Whatta we got for today? 

We were going to plug another story by Lesh until we found out what a pig he is toward women.  I talked it over with Clark, and we decided not to validate Lesh's primitive agenda and further, and that we will also excise our mention of him in an earlier Buried Treasure column.

I suppose "Oh" would be too understated a response?

Nah, "Oh" is quite sufficient, I should think.

I say, since when did we start trying to talk like Alistaire Cooke?

Uh, oh.   Sorry, I've been rehearsing for a tryout as the parrot in a winter-stock production of Treasure Island.   Anyway, we have a replacement guest already lined up to fill the hole left by the Malaysian whose name will no longer be mentioned by us.

And?

A new poet, just joined us, name of Archer_Poet, whose first post is a po-wem called Phoenix and the Dragon.  Clark discovered her and says this poem is profound.  Amanda Gulledge loves it.  

You read it?

I might.  As you know, po-wems are not my thing, but I am interested in mythology.

Uh huh.  I see.  Mythology.  Is your beak growing?  Wait a minute - your beak is growing.  It's getting longer!

Jeeze, Mory, you have got me figured out, and I've never said I was afraid to read about mayhem and murder.

Mick, you talk too much, but, if you're interested, A Day in January might make you cry.  It's that good, and I'd love to see you cry.  Even Clark liked it.  Here's what he put in the comments section:   "This is a gem, Mical. I tear up easily, probly too easily when I'm by myself, and I teared up on this. Damned ladybugs are laffing at me. Sweet, powerful, life-affirming story!"

Clark tears up?  That's a little scary.  I mean, I always thought he was sorta manly.

What would you know, sock brain?   Ready for the next one.  It's a po-wem.  Happy?   It's by sagemerlin, called The Silent Sirens.

I read it.

Like it?

Loved it.  Really like the title.  It says a whole helluva lot, when you realize he's not talking about a police task force swooping down on a crack house.  He's talking about Haiti.  Why are there no sirens?  Powerful poem.  

I'll read it.  Thanks.  Next up, two comedies in a row.  Both are fiction, of course.  The first one features Mrs. H again in Foolish Monkey's continuing saga about this neurotic but lovable - barely, I might add - woman.  Last episode had her right hand go on strike after she left the dentist's office.  This time she's watching Dr. Phil on the tube and stuffing breakfast goodies into her face. I laughed quite a bit reading this.  You might, too. It's called Mrs. H Meets the Pillsbury Doughboy.

Read that, too.  Laughed my tail feathers off.  Clark says Barbra Streisand should play Mrs. H in the movie.  Next?

Last.  A satire by Con Chapman.  He's a pro, so you know it's gotta be good.  This one's called Self-Mutilation Grows with Demand for Motivational Speakers.

You say this is satire?  It better be, with a title like that.  It's a mouthful, I would say.

You did.

I did?

You said "a mouthful."

We don't have mouths, Mick, we have beaks.

Brawwwwwwwwwwwk!