Monday, February 28, 2011


Harry B. Sanderford

Sweet Tooth needed a little snack, so he ambled on down the hall to the kitchen. He figured to make one of his patented peanut butter, potato chip, tangerine, raisin, and banana sandwiches because those things just always hit the spot. Unfortunately, when he tugged the Wonder Bread from the top of the fridge, what was left of a newish loaf slid from its sack, scattering 52 pickup style (give or take a few cards) onto his feet and all over the kitchen floor. Examining the Wonder bag now hanging limply in his grasp, he discovered on the leaky end a rather ragged hole he could not recall having formerly been there. Turning his attention back atop the fridge to what had been a brand new bunch of bananas, he saw very plainly that one banana was now half eaten.  Well, half devoured actually. It wasn't like it had been sliced cleanly with a knife and wrapped in Saran Wrap to be placed in the butter door of the fridge where it would be forgotten for months before its discovery and finally tossed out with suspicion and utter speculation as to its species and origin. No, it had been rather haphazardly portioned with seemingly no utensil involved; an oozing brown viscosity trailing its ragged, blackened, peel. His old nemesis he knew was back.
It wasn't a good idea to come between Sweet Tooth and his snacks, unless maybe you felt like getting eaten.  This wasn't Sweet's first round with Super Raton. The last time, his pointy faced adversary had escaped down a hidey hole embarrassing him and it was still a sore point. He swore one day he'd get that rat if it ever dared set paw in his pantry again. He'd been waiting ever since, counting the days, and he was ready.  At the hardware store he'd purchased the biggest baddest rat trap ever made, the E-Rat-O*Kater! (Patent Pending).  It had a one inch thick solid oak base half the size of a clipboard with an over-wound heavy duty spring held in check by a hair trigger that at the slightest vibration or provocation would release the bulky barbed business end. Guarranteed to rend The End. The beady eyed potato chip poacher had not shown himself since.
Kicking bread slices out of his path, there was a lightness in his step on his way to the pantry and a wide grin cracked his face as he fetched the too long dormant E-Rat-O*Kater! from the top shelf.  He set it up where the bread had been on top of the refrigerator, baiting it with one of the slices of bread from the floor he smeared with peanut butter. As a last stroke of culinary inspiration he dotted the peanut butter with cheesy puffs he remembered the whiskery one had enjoyed before. He cocked the powerful spring back, hooking the bar under the keeper and sliding it into the trigger. Then he carefully, carefully, holding his breath, very gently, released it.  All set. Bon appetit, Mighty Mouse!

He was too wound up now to bother with his patented peanut butter, potato chip, tangerine, raisin, and banana sandwich. Besides, the bread was all dirty. He swept up the bread, snagged an envelope of Poptarts from the cupboard and went back to his room to eat them raw and listen. He hunkered in the dark quietly chewing the crumbly cold pastry. He feared turning on the light or television might alert the twitchy vermin and dissuade him from partaking of his last supper. After a while he stretched out on the bed. He meant to just lay in wait, listening but before long he fell asleep and began to dream. His dreams were a jumble of the tantalizing treats he loved hovering before him. Suspended bags of salty snacks dripped crispy contents like crunchy teardrops while half eaten candy bars and cream filled Little Debbie's draped the backs of aisle seats or spilled over counter top edges in a dreamy Dali vision of Sugar's concessions At The Bijou.


Snapped awake from his dream, Sweet Tooth sprang from his bed and ran down the darkened hallway into the darker kitchen.  He skidded to a stop at the far wall, snapped on the light switch and peered up at the fridge, eager to gloat. Nothing. No writhing rodent, no cheesy puff adorned peanut buttered bread, not even the E-Rat-O*Kater! remained.  Slowly he turned, and there he was.
Sweet Tooth had run right past Super Raton in his haste. The scamper hampered rodent of the rotund persuasion was now between him and the door. His legs on his right side were pinned grotesquely in the E-Rat-O*Kater!'s steely grip but damned if the furry bastard wasn't using his left legs to push himself along like one of those bulldogs that has mastered riding a skateboard. Sweet swallowed back a twinge of poptart that was trying to escape and for the first time felt just a little exposed in his BVDs and bare feet.
While Sweet Tooth shifted from foot to foot wondering just how to finish the job without requiring a rabies vaccination, the mauled rat was making off with the E-Rat-O*Kater!. The varmint reached the doorway but instead of skating through and down the dark hallway, it steered into the jam.  Wedging the E-Rat-O*Kater! against the jam gained him enough leverage to wriggle his crooked appendages free.
The rat sat up on his haunches and casually licked a trickle of blood from his paw before using it to flip Sweet Tooth the bird and darting off down the hall. Sweet Tooth finally snapped out of it himself. He remembered the broom.  Of course, the broom!  he thought and snatching it up, he lit out after the rat. This was not over.

Friday, February 25, 2011

The Anthropomorphic dog

Harry B. Sanderford

Billy's struggling artist days ended the day he came up with the gimmick of painting  his rottweiller Rufus in a variety of humanesque, if humiliating  poses.
Wrapped in a shawl rocking Whistler's Mother style, fly fishing in waders and a hooky hat, or overalled and pitch-forking American Gothic with Francine the french poodle who lives next door, Rufus found ironic abstraction tedious .
"Yo Bro, don't make me go all anthropomorphic on your ass up in here," Rufus snarled.
Billy Blake looked up from his easel, "You feelin' froggy leap Motherfucker, but first stop scratchin' at them fleas and hold that mug how I showed you."
"Dawg, I tole you I aint got no mutherfuckin' thumbs an' I'm scratchin' at this wooly ass sweater you makin' me wear, aint even my color."
"You're spillin' beer all over is what you're doing. Just hold it best you can, I'm almost done." And with a few more strokes he was, another Mastercard masterpiece for the mongrel masses. No offense Dog.

Friday, February 18, 2011

A Day At The Beach

Harry B. Sanderford

Rothko and Stella loved the beach. To Jalapeno it was just one big litter box and for her it held no great appeal. She sprawled sunbathing on the dashboard lifting a lid occasionally to watch Kenny riding a wave. The dogs delirious with freedom romped and chased tight figure eights in water chest deep on little corgi legs. Jalapeno didn't like riding in the truck and she would never understand why dogs and humans like being wet so much. She licked a paw, caught a lovely whiff of something fishy on the seabreeze, stretched in her sunny spot and slept. Here's to good waves, long dogs and flexible cats.

Wednesday, February 16, 2011


 By  Sugar and Harry B. Sanderford

Love lies sleeping on a white sand beach.  The tide washed her up
and has yet to reclaim her. Starfish and fiddler crabs loll in shallow
pools or dodge plastic shovels unconcerned that love burns
nearby. Fearing the riptide that could drag her back under,
Love longs for a safe harbor. Embraced by the dunes and warmed
by the sunlight, a gull's haunting laugh taunts her but she does 
not stir. Love is not lost, only dreaming and I am in her dream.

 Sugar is the sweet combination of Tinkerbell and all things pink who occasionally channels  Mae West. She is proprietor of the 6S Sugar Shack where she goes heavy on the spirits and easy on the eyes.  You can find more of her sweet musings here:

Today is Sugar Wendy's Birthday! Happy Birthday Sugar!

Monday, February 14, 2011

Happy V.D.

                                               Harry B. Sanderford
                                     I went to the store
                                     to buy you a card.
                            They all seemed so mushy,
                                    deciding was hard.
                                    I looked at them all,
                                  every one on the shelf,
                                    and finally decided
                                   to make one myself.
                                  So,I cut and I pasted,
                                   great gobs of gluey
                                   paper were wasted.
                                   I cut out little hearts
                            I thought you might like to see,
                                      and for the front,
                                    a big HAPPY V.D.!
                                    Speaking of which,
                                I suppose I should say...
                                  That the V. and the D.
                                stand for Valentine's Day.
                                    I'm pointing this out,
                                  lest you take it to mind,
                                   that  this card be one,
                                    of the Get Well kind.
                               Nope, that's not the case.
                            What this card's meant to say,
                                   is wont you be mine,
                                on this Valentine's Day?

Thursday, February 10, 2011


              Scaramouche, Scaramouche, will you do the fandango? Queen

By Harry B. Sanderford

The Spanish dance it is named for is a courtship dance that starts out slowly (boy sees girl, girl runs away) and builds to a passionate whirl-wind  (boy chases girl, girl looks over her shoulder to make sure boy is still gaining on her). The ride is itself a rhythmic mimic of the dance. Four enormous legs festooned with flashing lights suspend a giant pendulum that swings a whirling merry-go-round business end with increasing speed in an ever expanding arc. It is on the extreme perimeter of that spinning business end that you will find your seat and strap yourself in to ride Fandango. You laugh nervously with your neighbor hoping to appear fearless but secretly you're calculating consequential variants associated with centrifugal forces, corn dogs and candy floss consumption. The ride begins with a slow clockwise rotation and a gentle rocking motion that comforts you at first but it's gathering speed and span with every pass and before you know it you see the ground then you see the sky, you see your house, then you see your thigh, if you see your lunch you're gonna die, ayee-yi-yi-yi! At merciful last it is slowing to a stop and wonder of wonder you didn't even chunder. So bingo bango do the Wango Tango, you just tripped the light Fandango!

Thursday, February 3, 2011

In The Eye Of The Beholder

Zelda Martin & Harry B. Sanderford

A cowgirl in a yellow sundress crouches behind a big rock on the beach, reloading.  Her name is Sal and right now she's no one's pal.  She's madder'n a bull with his nuts in a vise.  She takes aim again at Sam, that son-of-a-bitch who's running away as fast as his bow-legs can carry him, zipping in and out of the surf to make himself harder to hit.  Sal knows that Sam knows that the sun's in her eyes, so she can hardly see.  Why is the sun in her eyes, you ask?  Because the no-good sidewinder has her wide-brimmed cowgirl hat and her fringed leather vest, skirt and boots in that bag he's got slung over his back.  A girl lets down her guard for a few minutes, to take a nap on the beach, and what happens?  She wakes up in a goddamn yellow sundress  for chrissake, while the guy she thought she could trust is hightailing it down the beach, probably headed for the nearest pawnshop.
 Sam’s not heading for any pawn shop. He’s booking for cover so he can hideout until Sally either simmers down or runs out of bullets. As long as they’ve been riding together, Sam has accepted Sal’s hard drinking and her ornery fighting. Her temper has a hair trigger and her fury, if unleashed upon someone who does not happen to be one’s self, is a spectacle unparalleled and a marvel to behold. He's turned a deaf ear to her coarse language and for the most part a blind eye to what would charitably be called her rough exterior.  Sam was the one cowboy on the whole planet who saw something beautiful in Sally. He loved her just as she was warts ‘n all and I mean we’re talkin’ real warts here, hairy ones, not no dang metaphorical warts.  She sure was pretty in that yeller sundress...well, at least 'fore she woke up, he thought diving behind a trash barrel as it caught a ricochet.
DAMN!  That was my last goddamn bullet!  What's wrong with me? she thought.  I never miss!  She stood up and threw her empty pistol as hard and far as she could, in Sam's general direction.  And then, she became aware of a strange sensation creeping up through her chest, her throat and then her eyes, and then some kind of salty, watery stuff was squirting out of her eyes and down her cheeks.  What the hell?  It''s...TEARS!  Christ almighty!
"SAM!" she screamed.  Come back here, you ornery polecat!  And bring me my real clothes.  I feel like a candy-ass whore in this stupid sundress!”  She started ripping off the dress and running through the wet sand toward the trash barrel, where Sam stood, prepared to run in either direction, toward her or away from her, depending on the look in her eye as she got closer.
Running naked up the beach Sal was a kinetic study of the female form fashioned from phone books.  Her pigeon toed gate rocking her head left and right  was the saving grace that kept her pendulous breasts from blacking both eyes.  Sam saw Bo Derek in the beach scene from 10.  
Sal was still too far away for Sam to hear her shouts but he took her getting naked on the beach and running towards him, (plus the fact that she’d stopped shooting at him) as a good sign and decided to shuck his own duds and meet her halfway.
At this point, the laws of Physics took over.  Two hefty Masses approaching one another at increasing Accelerations resulted in a Forceful collision that sent them smack down hard, into the sand and surf, where they commenced to rolling back and forth in each other's wake.  When their heads cleared, they scooted toward each other like two sand crabs in heat.  Sam pulled Sally to her feet and gasped in pleasant surprise.  The friction from the coarse sand had scraped every one of those hairy warts off of her, making her even prettier than he had thought possible.  Standing there together, the setting sun haloing Sal’s wild thatch of red curls, Sam felt he was the luckiest man alive. He sensed Sally had cooled off and he knew this was the perfect time. So he dropped to one knee and asked his gal Sal for her big ol’ cracked and calloused hand in marriage.
Sam had become something of an expert at misreading Sally’s moods. If he’d been better at it he might have ducked instead of catching her haymaker square on his left ear. The blow sent him cart-wheeling back into the surf, sucking about half the Atlantic Ocean up his nose as he sank to the bottom looking up through the wavering water at the funhouse version of his sweet saddle-tramp Sally. Seeing her through this new lens was something of an eye opener for Sam as he layed on the bottom watching her pitching and stomping and fussing. Her antics were those of a dance he’d seen before and of which he knew the progression. Right now she would be calling him a sidewinder and if she had a chaw she’d punctuate the accusation with a brown spurt of tobacco before swinging wildly at the air in front of her. Sam grinned, a bubble escaping his mouth as Sally pantomimed his predictions up above.  Sam didn’t know it but he was looking  at Sally in a way he never had before. Objectively. And you know what? She still rocked his world.
Still smiling, Sam closed his eyes and pictured Sally coming down the aisle toward him, wearing a purty, white bridal gown.  He was having himself a nice little picket fence underwater daydream as he headed towards the light. But, the next thing you know, he was upchucking ocean face down in the sand and gasping for a breath while Sally rode him bareback.  Once it was apparent he might survive, She rolled him over, kissed him smack on the lips and looked him dead in the eyes as she told him in that tender way of hers, “You ain’t getting’ off that easy Buckaroo. I accept!”

Get moreof Zelda's rockin' Zs right here:

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

Shadow Phil-osophy

Harry B. Sanderford

Phil Connors, Phil Collins & Dr. Phil have gathered at Gobbler’s Knob at 4:30 am on the morning of Wednesday February 2nd 2011. They’ve come to support their fellow Phil, Puxatawny, as he attempts to predict the likelihood of an early Spring by the sight of his shadow or lack thereof.


Puxatawney Phil: Thanks for coming. You guy’s ok, need anything?
Dr. Phil: “This ain’t my first rodeo son!”
Phil Collins: “I wish it would rain.”
Puxatawny Phil: I’m not anticipating rain today Phil, maybe sleet tomorrow.
Phil Connors: “What if there is no tomorrow? There wasn't one today.”
Phil Collins: “It’s against all odds?”
Phil Collins: “I can feel it in the air...”
Phil Connors: “This is pitiful. A thousand people freezing their butts off waiting to worship a rat. What a hype.”
Puxatawney Phil: Thanks Phil. Always good to get feedback from a colleague.
Dr. Phil: There’s more than one way to skin a gopher son.
Puxatawny Phil: C’mon Doc, you know I married a gopher.
Phil Connors: “This is one time where television really fails to capture the true excitement of a large squirrel predicting the weather.”
Puxatawny Phil: Needle all you want Connors. Squirrels work for the Farmer’s Almanac, I’ve got a network gig.
Dr.Phil: You don't put bicycle fenders on a pig that'll sing soprano!
Dr.Phil: “How can you have any pudding if you don’t eat your meat?”

The sun is long past risen and the Phils have taken one giant step back from the Doc who is slobbering, scatting and ranting.

Dr. Phil: “No dog ever peed on a moving car.”
Dr.Phil:  A bear don’t squeeze the Pope’s Charmin when he’s gettin’ the milk for free…
Dr. Phil: You don't need a satchel full of corndogs just to prove you’ve been to the circus…
Puxatawny Phil: What in the hell are you talking about Doc?
Phil Collins:”There's this girl that's been on my mind all the time, Sue Sussudio, oh, oh.”
Dr. Phil: There’s no hoppin’ the turnstile on the subway to Bakersfield…
Puxatawny Phil: C’mon guys, I need to make my prediction!
Phil Connors: “I'll give you a winter prediction: It's gonna be cold, it's gonna be grey, and it's gonna last you for the rest of your life.”


*Phil Collins & Phil Connors (Bill Murray) quotes are from Phil Collins songs and the movie Groundhog’s Day.  I put more than a few words in the Doc’s mouth but a couple of the Dr. Phillisms are actually attributed to him “ “ (and one to Pink Floyd).

I hope for you Winter-bound folks, Pux doesn’t see a thing and that Spring is on its way.

Happy G-Hog Day!