Mixed fruit, melon, berries in whipped cream

We've studied these writings at length and we've determined they are all the same letters in differing forms and written vertically from bottom to top and other times read left to right. The picture of the wire device communicates similar to words that the liquid inside can be whipped. The words "whipping cream" means the cream can be whipped, not that the cream is useful for whipping something. In this language the "ing" ending is both gerund and present participle of verbs; gerund being when a verb is used as a noun and present participle means the little ending on a word that means the thing is happening presently. The square package indicates various songs performed by fruit, while the package contains fruit, melons and berries. This is a form of poetry. They are saying various fruit together sing, while it's not all fruit and they are not singing, they are simply existing together. Apparently harmoniously.  

Indeed. The stuff whips.

* 1/4 teaspoon incredibly flavorful Mexican vanilla. The whole room smells of vanilla when the bottle is opened.

* a good shake of confectioner's sugar, enough to balance the lemon put on the fruit

 

Let's eat it right now.

        "We could. What are you a caveman? A cowboy? A camper? A roughneck, a teenager, someone who lacks culture?"

Yeah, I am all that. Give it to me now.

I could just keep right on eating. Eating and eating. Eating and thinking of the next thing to eat.

Could I get fat from this?

Probably. 

I really like these pants. They say waist size 33 and that is too big. I am wearing a heavy thick sweatshirt tucked in and the belt cinched tight and I look ridiculous with jeans that look pleated. That means I am waist size 31 by this manufacturer. 

You should buy some.

They really are comfortable. They seem to stretch a bit and comporte con me cuerpo. But these are lighter weight, what a rip off! They state the weight but that number is meaningless to me until I bought them. Okay for summer but no bien por invierno. So I must buy more in waist size 31 and in heavier weight fabric. 

I bought some as gifts and the dudes reported they really like them.

They know if they lie about liking pants that they don't really like then they are inviting more pants they don't like, so best to be brutally truthful than sweetly dishonestly gracious. 

Dearborn Denim. Their line is not big. I went there because everyone was complaining about Levi's advocating for anti-second amendment. My friend, who owns a rifle, goes, "What? They're like western gold rush, aren't they?" I go, "Yes. They're also straight up San Francisco."  Frankly, I despise guns. Personally I am way too clumsy.  But I despise even more politicians, activists, corporations busting moves on my constitutional rights. Constantly. Despise vs Super Despise. That's my birthright. Odd one, I admit it. Unique among civilized nations. And all those other advanced western nations without this protection pressure us to follow them into their beautiful oblivion. Use it or not, maybe my kids would like this constitutional right. 

I don't have any kids. 

So maybe my grandkids would like this constitutional right for reasons that I cannot anticipate. 

Look, kids or no kids, I am not smart enough to make that kind of pan-generational decision. 

Anyway, I am buying some new American made jeans right now. The company is all American people sewing American designs into American-made fabric from American cotton on American machines lubricated with American whale oil killed in American waters on American-made boats with American whaling equipment with all the American sailors drinking American rum and then barfing and puking and hurling and peeing and pooping in American porcelain. It always gets down to that. 

Yes, I could get fat from eating this.

But that is unlikely.

I should add another page.

Okay, this page goes behind everything else. 

My friend with a rifle. 

The back porch had been turned to a solarium. Two sliding doors onto the porch were removed. A kitchen window was removed. The roofline was extended. New outer doors installed. I sat inside the living room looking through the dining room through the back porch, all opened up to the back yard, deeply verdant, a veritable secret suburban garden surrounded by towering trees. I watched a squirrel dip into my dog's food dish in the middle of the yard in front of the pine trees. 

Cutest little thing.

Then again. 

And again. 

The squirrel was stocking up.

I got up from reading my book. The squirrel returned. Now I see from the square space that used to be the kitchen window that the squirrel's tail looks like a snake, not fluffy. The squirrel is a rat!

I pondered the evolutionary irony of a fluffy tail making the difference between being exterminated and being hand-fed in the park. 

This friend mentioned earlier was there at the house at the time. "Look at this." I thought the rat was a curious thing.  He said, "Wait." 

He returned fairly quickly with a rifle. A large one. Not a .22. I don't know what kind or caliber but it was large. I do not know where it came from. I haven't a clue where he had it. He took aim through the kitchen window at my dog's heavy plastic bowl. My dog at my side. The rat returned. BANG! One shot. The rat flipped high straight up in the air and landed with a thud. We thought it was dead, it stirred, shook, rattled, twitched, leapt again shot up spinning and spraying blood it scampered injured and disappeared along the edge of the house. We found its hole and poisoned it.

Now this is quite illegal inside Denver city limits and my property was the exact city limit. The line goes straight, zoink, straight, just to get my property. I would be in so much trouble. 

My whole house smelled of gunpowder. The smell lingered. It is a penetrating sharp acrid oddly pleasant smell. I honestly thought I could see the smell entering the fabrics, I could certainly see the smoke. And the sound rang extremely loud. There was no alley, the next street is a semicircle. Everyone's backyard abutted mine, like a child draws around his own hand, my yard is the hand and everyone else's yards are the fingers, so the gunshot was centralized. Everyone could have identified it. All of my neighbors could have identified me.

But at least the rat was gone.

My dog's bowl had a small chip in it and blood all over it. 

That is singularly the best shot, the most useful shot, that I have ever seen anyone make. But then I have never been hunting. Everyone I know is more sensible than to take me hunting.