Start-of-June UPDATE: APPARENTLY NO ONE CARES ABOUT THAT MALAYSIAN, SO [TRANSMISSION INTERRUPTED]
Bienvenito to my blog.
(From Jorge Stolfi, http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:White-noise-mv255-240x180.png)
(Updated on 28 November, A. D. 2014)
Friday, 28 November 2014
To kick off this blog...
I have... uh... never mind.
Start-of-June UPDATE: APPARENTLY NO ONE CARES ABOUT THAT MALAYSIAN, SO [TRANSMISSION INTERRUPTED]
Bienvenito to my blog.
(From Jorge Stolfi, http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:White-noise-mv255-240x180.png)
(Updated on 28 November, A. D. 2014)
Start-of-June UPDATE: APPARENTLY NO ONE CARES ABOUT THAT MALAYSIAN, SO [TRANSMISSION INTERRUPTED]
Bienvenito to my blog.
(From Jorge Stolfi, http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:White-noise-mv255-240x180.png)
(Updated on 28 November, A. D. 2014)
Monday, 24 February 2014
" Shelby the Shetland Pony : Episode 5 : The Coming of Winter "
C-c-c-c-cold. The warm joys of Thanksgiving had passed by. Shelby, Bimo, and the livestock had to stay in the humid basement; at least their manure can be used to fuel the furnaces.
Winter has strengthened its hoary hold in Idaho.
Nonetheless, it's now December, and the Bjørnsons were preparing for Christmas. The blizzards, at least for now, were over. Ever since day one, the family cleans up the spacious basement, moving out all the animals (save the weaker ones and Bimo, who can still visit anytime), and taking out the decor. There was once no fuss on using the same old Christmas tree for 4 or 5 years, nor was there any on using the same old decorations; yet this year, some ornaments were put away in recycling bins, and newer ones, of blue, white, and yellow-or-gold, were used. Days later, they went out to stock up on DVDs of older and newer classics, from cowboy films to anachronisms galore. They also decked the house with Christmas lights, arranged in geometric patterns, to beat the Olafsons' intricate snow forts, and the Leifsons' wood sculptures of reindeer and Saami folk. These lights are what the Bjørnsons spent (or "wasted", if you say it) $4,000 for.
"Now, what about Shelby?" you ask. Shelby's been galloping through the snow, rolling by his fur on this whitish blanket. He loves it!
Suddenly, that "little blue bird" is at it again!
"What's up, fatso?!" he screamed in blue-jay-speak.
Shelby did not answer. He's been digging the snow for grasses, while half-way thinking about sandwiches.
For a few hours, the little blue bird, pestered Shelby again, as usual. Even he had to run away to the back-yard of the house when —
The bird sniffed. Nuts!
Natalie's mother has brought a box of nuts. Nuuuuts.
He flew away from the frightened Shelby, towards the kitchen window at the back porch.
This Christmas involved a Christmas visit to the Montchalons Lutheran Chapel, where a service is conducted. The church is decorated with Christmas lights, arranged and depicted in a manner that is filled with beautiful greens and yellows, celebrating the birth and the life of Christ. On the next day, the Bjørnsons had their little Christmas party. This time, there was no turkey, and no videogames for the (teenage) children. Only sweaters.
How boring.
"What about SHELBY?!!"
Alright. This winter, Shelby was allowed to wander around, even at night, to find a nice place to sleep, away from that massively ridiculous spectacle of Christmas lights. The apple orchard might be a good spot.
No matter that Natalie and Jonathan, Reginald, and Arthur were playing a snowball fight past both sides of the fence - Shelby will just push off Natalie with his snout!
By the way, after the fight, Natalie whispered something to Shelby. He did not understand what it was.
Four days later, Natalie came out, this time in her blue (her favourite color) jacket. She had a red, triangular-shaped present, jingling with a bell. She approached Shelby, who was relaxing, snoring, and drooling, as usual, in his nicely-cleaned stable.
"Sheeelby! I've got something nice for you!"
But it wasn't the sound that called his attention. It was the smell. The smell of ...
crumple crumple crumple
... a triangular plastic box, with a SANDWICH.
Shelby's eyes locked on the package. As Natalie opened the box, he licked his lips. This sandwich is much more tastier than the last, and the rest.
He then happily dug in, feasting on his festive reward (?) like a wild animal pouncing on his prey.
The resulting mess was smaller.
Past the blizzard and the New Year's celebrations (Shelby hates fireworks!), yadda-yadda-yadda, let's move on to next March, and on (ward) to newer adventures!
Winter has strengthened its hoary hold in Idaho.
Nonetheless, it's now December, and the Bjørnsons were preparing for Christmas. The blizzards, at least for now, were over. Ever since day one, the family cleans up the spacious basement, moving out all the animals (save the weaker ones and Bimo, who can still visit anytime), and taking out the decor. There was once no fuss on using the same old Christmas tree for 4 or 5 years, nor was there any on using the same old decorations; yet this year, some ornaments were put away in recycling bins, and newer ones, of blue, white, and yellow-or-gold, were used. Days later, they went out to stock up on DVDs of older and newer classics, from cowboy films to anachronisms galore. They also decked the house with Christmas lights, arranged in geometric patterns, to beat the Olafsons' intricate snow forts, and the Leifsons' wood sculptures of reindeer and Saami folk. These lights are what the Bjørnsons spent (or "wasted", if you say it) $4,000 for.
"Now, what about Shelby?" you ask. Shelby's been galloping through the snow, rolling by his fur on this whitish blanket. He loves it!
Suddenly, that "little blue bird" is at it again!
"What's up, fatso?!" he screamed in blue-jay-speak.
Shelby did not answer. He's been digging the snow for grasses, while half-way thinking about sandwiches.
For a few hours, the little blue bird, pestered Shelby again, as usual. Even he had to run away to the back-yard of the house when —
The bird sniffed. Nuts!
Natalie's mother has brought a box of nuts. Nuuuuts.
He flew away from the frightened Shelby, towards the kitchen window at the back porch.
This Christmas involved a Christmas visit to the Montchalons Lutheran Chapel, where a service is conducted. The church is decorated with Christmas lights, arranged and depicted in a manner that is filled with beautiful greens and yellows, celebrating the birth and the life of Christ. On the next day, the Bjørnsons had their little Christmas party. This time, there was no turkey, and no videogames for the (teenage) children. Only sweaters.
How boring.
"What about SHELBY?!!"
Alright. This winter, Shelby was allowed to wander around, even at night, to find a nice place to sleep, away from that massively ridiculous spectacle of Christmas lights. The apple orchard might be a good spot.
No matter that Natalie and Jonathan, Reginald, and Arthur were playing a snowball fight past both sides of the fence - Shelby will just push off Natalie with his snout!
By the way, after the fight, Natalie whispered something to Shelby. He did not understand what it was.
Four days later, Natalie came out, this time in her blue (her favourite color) jacket. She had a red, triangular-shaped present, jingling with a bell. She approached Shelby, who was relaxing, snoring, and drooling, as usual, in his nicely-cleaned stable.
"Sheeelby! I've got something nice for you!"
But it wasn't the sound that called his attention. It was the smell. The smell of ...
crumple crumple crumple
... a triangular plastic box, with a SANDWICH.
Shelby's eyes locked on the package. As Natalie opened the box, he licked his lips. This sandwich is much more tastier than the last, and the rest.
He then happily dug in, feasting on his festive reward (?) like a wild animal pouncing on his prey.
The resulting mess was smaller.
Past the blizzard and the New Year's celebrations (Shelby hates fireworks!), yadda-yadda-yadda, let's move on to next March, and on (ward) to newer adventures!
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(Updated on 28 November, A. D. 2014.)
Sunday, 10 November 2013
"Shelby the Shetland Pony: Episode 4: Autumn Breezes And Blasts." / "A Midsummer in Latvija: Episode 3: Another Summer Morning."
Autumn has arrived on the bountiful north, as the earth's southern half basks in more sunlight. In this part of southern Idaho, Farmer Bob and his children (if they were not going to school) were busy picking their juicy produce, and selling them in the farmer's market in the middle of the cobblestone Montchalons Town Square.
"Apples, carrats, artichokes, pumpkins, and garlic — you name 'em, we have 'em!" cried Bob, who also sells some wool and eggs. It was a breezy September, and Bob competes with his neighbours to attract the most customers (and profits) with his music, his cardboard art, and his warm-heartiness. Especially Dan Dylan Sr. , that tough, black-bearded fella with lots-a chunks o' wood. This whole clamour lasted from mid-morning to sundown, and even more when it's the weekend or a federal holiday. Meanwhile, while Bob sells his produce, his daughter and sons were off to college, and school, respectively, facing a new round of exhaustive (yet useful) lessons, and drama with their beaming friends and quirky trends, with discreet caution.
Then comes October, with the annual preparations for Thanksgiving out of a handful of Bob's cash-reapings. There's the occasional fishing and boating in a nearby lake, near the Boy Scouts' Camp, and bike races in town. And there's the autumnal equinox, when day retreats, and night prevails.
And then, November, "when winter creeps in." This November was worse; from its Arctic domain, winter raged and boomed into the Midwest. To the areas around Galveston in Texas, rains and fogs prompted delays, and eastward, the northern parts of the Atlantic Seaboard was blasted with icy winds and roaring snowfalls. On the fourth Thursday of the month, Thanksgiving had to be celebrated indoors.
This year, and at this very specific morning, Shelby was allowed inside, while the rest of the livestock stay put in the newly-expanded basement against the cold. As Natalie brings him by the collar, and then gets out to battle the sleet for his stuff in the stable, he would have sniffed the fine scents of pine wood, on the floors, on the stairs, on the ceiling: it is almost everywhere. He saw the constantly bright ceiling lights, thawing him like hook-bound sixes of little Suns, shining at morning and night. There is a long, mahogany-tinted table, draped with a pale cloth, with simple Thanksgiving decor. There was the fireplace, the spot Shelby slowly walked, and took his nap beside it, warming his torso and legs on the rug. He would have been more attracted to the fires' glow, than he is to the meals in the kitchen, and his ears cannot even notice the euphoniously glorious sound of violin symphonies, alternating from E-flat to B-flat and back, all in major key, like the second movement of Vivaldi's "Winter".
Natalie has just returned, seeing Shelby snore and drool by the fireside. She then draped his rug over him, cleaned her hands in the kitchen, and laid down the meals that the family prepared yesterday. Just when she was about to place the turkey, her grandfather and twin brothers, who had just finished shopping in the (New) Montchalons General Store, and a "final touches" spree ensued, with Shelby being the balmy eye of the storm of five people, groceries, and the frantic rush for "the city folk".
It was 8 a. m. when the other Bjørnsons were out shopping; it was 1 p. m. when they were done with the preparations. Ah, they could rest watching some TV (while Natalie unsuccessfully tried to wake Shelby up), until nine simultaneous honks and beeps ballyhooed them. Shelby woke up, and ran around, only to be caught be Natalie and her brothers, who put him and Bimo into the basement.
It was the seven Håkonsens in one car, the nine Haugens in another car, and the six Skjeggestads in a gray S. U. V. Twenty-two relatives are being welcomed, ad-lib, by the Bjørnsons, seeing the warm rug by the fireplace decorated with "your goldenrod pony's fur".
Nonetheless, the twenty-seven Norwegians had a wonderful Thanksgiving, firstly praising God for His protection, blessings, and wisdom; then feasting on the turkey, fruits, vegetables, pastries, and pumpkin pie, watching a football match in San Francisco, and preparing a smaller, yet heartier, meal for dinner. As the relatives said their goodbyes and sped off, Natalie gave a basket of apple slices to Shelby, the meaty leftovers to Bimo (both the collie and the horse are inside an empty room), and the rest to be stored into compost.
Of Shelby and Bimo, Shelby would be the more happier of the two, as this Thanksgiving was the best memory in his life ... lazily snoring and rolling in the warmth of the den ... zzz ... !
"Apples, carrats, artichokes, pumpkins, and garlic — you name 'em, we have 'em!" cried Bob, who also sells some wool and eggs. It was a breezy September, and Bob competes with his neighbours to attract the most customers (and profits) with his music, his cardboard art, and his warm-heartiness. Especially Dan Dylan Sr. , that tough, black-bearded fella with lots-a chunks o' wood. This whole clamour lasted from mid-morning to sundown, and even more when it's the weekend or a federal holiday. Meanwhile, while Bob sells his produce, his daughter and sons were off to college, and school, respectively, facing a new round of exhaustive (yet useful) lessons, and drama with their beaming friends and quirky trends, with discreet caution.
Then comes October, with the annual preparations for Thanksgiving out of a handful of Bob's cash-reapings. There's the occasional fishing and boating in a nearby lake, near the Boy Scouts' Camp, and bike races in town. And there's the autumnal equinox, when day retreats, and night prevails.
And then, November, "when winter creeps in." This November was worse; from its Arctic domain, winter raged and boomed into the Midwest. To the areas around Galveston in Texas, rains and fogs prompted delays, and eastward, the northern parts of the Atlantic Seaboard was blasted with icy winds and roaring snowfalls. On the fourth Thursday of the month, Thanksgiving had to be celebrated indoors.
This year, and at this very specific morning, Shelby was allowed inside, while the rest of the livestock stay put in the newly-expanded basement against the cold. As Natalie brings him by the collar, and then gets out to battle the sleet for his stuff in the stable, he would have sniffed the fine scents of pine wood, on the floors, on the stairs, on the ceiling: it is almost everywhere. He saw the constantly bright ceiling lights, thawing him like hook-bound sixes of little Suns, shining at morning and night. There is a long, mahogany-tinted table, draped with a pale cloth, with simple Thanksgiving decor. There was the fireplace, the spot Shelby slowly walked, and took his nap beside it, warming his torso and legs on the rug. He would have been more attracted to the fires' glow, than he is to the meals in the kitchen, and his ears cannot even notice the euphoniously glorious sound of violin symphonies, alternating from E-flat to B-flat and back, all in major key, like the second movement of Vivaldi's "Winter".
Natalie has just returned, seeing Shelby snore and drool by the fireside. She then draped his rug over him, cleaned her hands in the kitchen, and laid down the meals that the family prepared yesterday. Just when she was about to place the turkey, her grandfather and twin brothers, who had just finished shopping in the (New) Montchalons General Store, and a "final touches" spree ensued, with Shelby being the balmy eye of the storm of five people, groceries, and the frantic rush for "the city folk".
It was 8 a. m. when the other Bjørnsons were out shopping; it was 1 p. m. when they were done with the preparations. Ah, they could rest watching some TV (while Natalie unsuccessfully tried to wake Shelby up), until nine simultaneous honks and beeps ballyhooed them. Shelby woke up, and ran around, only to be caught be Natalie and her brothers, who put him and Bimo into the basement.
It was the seven Håkonsens in one car, the nine Haugens in another car, and the six Skjeggestads in a gray S. U. V. Twenty-two relatives are being welcomed, ad-lib, by the Bjørnsons, seeing the warm rug by the fireplace decorated with "your goldenrod pony's fur".
Nonetheless, the twenty-seven Norwegians had a wonderful Thanksgiving, firstly praising God for His protection, blessings, and wisdom; then feasting on the turkey, fruits, vegetables, pastries, and pumpkin pie, watching a football match in San Francisco, and preparing a smaller, yet heartier, meal for dinner. As the relatives said their goodbyes and sped off, Natalie gave a basket of apple slices to Shelby, the meaty leftovers to Bimo (both the collie and the horse are inside an empty room), and the rest to be stored into compost.
Of Shelby and Bimo, Shelby would be the more happier of the two, as this Thanksgiving was the best memory in his life ... lazily snoring and rolling in the warmth of the den ... zzz ... !
Sunday, 27 October 2013
"Shelby the Shetland Pony: Episode 3: The Horse and The Bird." / "A Midsummer in Latvija: Episode 2: The Next Day."
Shelby was galloping towards his favorite spot, the apple tree orchard, to get some juicy apples. As he turned his back on the tallest tree, ready to kick it, a little blue jay flapped its wings and descended on his brown snout. The bird may look blank in its face, but inwardly, behind its clear, black eyes, it was boiling with anger and hot, steam-jets of rage. And it was staring at him.
"Hey, fatso. You're wreckin' my home," it jay-ed in a tiny voice.
The pony made no answer, as the bird's tiny words were incomprehensible to his clunky brain.
"Is tiny bug," his snortings boomed.
The pony walked three steps forwards, but the bird remained perched on his snout, its claws bedded in his hairs. He walked five steps backwards (and almost getting towards the tree), but the bird was still blocking his view, staring at him.
"Haw haw haw. Tryin' to say somethin' awfully un-funny, bagpipe-o'-lard. For almost destroyin' my home, here's my gift."
The bird pecked at the hairs of his bulky snout. Such a thing as this caused our poor, sensitive horse to freak out, and buck and kick away at the air, like most horses do, screaming and squealing for help. And as quickly as a mirage, the bird was laughing and fluttering off, delighting at the misery of his equine enemy.
He bucked up and down, around and around, as to ensure that the bird will not block his sights. He looked around, left, and right, and as he turned left again, the bird landed on his snout. Again.
"What's up, fatty? Want some apples? Ya can't have any more, any longer."
The pony snorted and chortled, annoyed that the bird was there to stare and taunt him, squawking and screeching, just to stop him from getting to the apple trees. After all, he wants some tasty apples, no?
What else would he do, then?
He galloped a U-turn towards the tree, shooing the bird as he shook his snout and nose. Then he quickly turned his back away from the tree, and KICKED it!
The tree shook its branches, and down descended a shower of green leaves ... and a rain of delicious, red apples. The pony gleefully grabbed one with his drooling mouth, munching away his prize before trotting back.
However, the bird landed at his snout, and stared at him again. This time, it feels irritated, as to ensure that he will not go out through the white picket fence, and back into his metallic stable ...
"I'm not givin' up pesterin' ya, dodgeball."
Shelby, being determined, shook his head as he galloped back to the stable. But even then, that pesky little blue jay still had not given up pesterin' him. The sight of such a ridiculous display, of Shelby trying to have a moment of peace to eat his grass, interfered constantly by that angry little jay hopping and pecking at his snout (and scratching and tearing his mane), would be temptingly humorous.
Nevertheless, Natalie was also there, chasing the bird away, until it was never seen again. She then nursed any of his wounds, and gave him a fresher apple from the fridge.
"Hey, fatso. You're wreckin' my home," it jay-ed in a tiny voice.
The pony made no answer, as the bird's tiny words were incomprehensible to his clunky brain.
"Is tiny bug," his snortings boomed.
The pony walked three steps forwards, but the bird remained perched on his snout, its claws bedded in his hairs. He walked five steps backwards (and almost getting towards the tree), but the bird was still blocking his view, staring at him.
"Haw haw haw. Tryin' to say somethin' awfully un-funny, bagpipe-o'-lard. For almost destroyin' my home, here's my gift."
The bird pecked at the hairs of his bulky snout. Such a thing as this caused our poor, sensitive horse to freak out, and buck and kick away at the air, like most horses do, screaming and squealing for help. And as quickly as a mirage, the bird was laughing and fluttering off, delighting at the misery of his equine enemy.
He bucked up and down, around and around, as to ensure that the bird will not block his sights. He looked around, left, and right, and as he turned left again, the bird landed on his snout. Again.
"What's up, fatty? Want some apples? Ya can't have any more, any longer."
The pony snorted and chortled, annoyed that the bird was there to stare and taunt him, squawking and screeching, just to stop him from getting to the apple trees. After all, he wants some tasty apples, no?
What else would he do, then?
He galloped a U-turn towards the tree, shooing the bird as he shook his snout and nose. Then he quickly turned his back away from the tree, and KICKED it!
The tree shook its branches, and down descended a shower of green leaves ... and a rain of delicious, red apples. The pony gleefully grabbed one with his drooling mouth, munching away his prize before trotting back.
However, the bird landed at his snout, and stared at him again. This time, it feels irritated, as to ensure that he will not go out through the white picket fence, and back into his metallic stable ...
"I'm not givin' up pesterin' ya, dodgeball."
Shelby, being determined, shook his head as he galloped back to the stable. But even then, that pesky little blue jay still had not given up pesterin' him. The sight of such a ridiculous display, of Shelby trying to have a moment of peace to eat his grass, interfered constantly by that angry little jay hopping and pecking at his snout (and scratching and tearing his mane), would be temptingly humorous.
Nevertheless, Natalie was also there, chasing the bird away, until it was never seen again. She then nursed any of his wounds, and gave him a fresher apple from the fridge.
Sunday, 14 July 2013
"Shelby the Shetland Pony: Episode 2: Daily Life"/ "A Midsummer in Latvija: Episode 1: The Arrival"
"Natalie Tjodbjørg Bjørnson," resonates a woman's fine voice through the wooden hallway, as the morning sun gleamed over the hills and through the windows, " ... the bus is here!" Her blonde daughter rushes out, carrying her green bag behind her, zipping through the front door and the porch. Along the way, she takes out some carrots out of her right pocket, and leaves them behind the white picket fence for her Shetland pony to eat. As the pony walked over to its little "breakfast", she boarded the college bus, and it went off to his left on a cloud of dust.
Now, Shelby is on his own. He gallops around his vast enclosure. If this still bores for him, he trots to visit to his sunny stable, with all of its windows and its doors welcoming in the fresh spring air and the late morning light. He can play with the collie, provided that the farmer releases him into the pony's enclosure. He could have a fun time rolling on the mud with the pigs. He might come near the poultry pens, and scare off the chickens, ducks, and geese for his own pleasure and amusement. On the event in which some neighbours come outside and have their lunch, he would watch.
When the farmer goes out to feed his lunch, he goes to the chickens first, the ducks afterwards, then the geese, the pigs, his collie Bimo, and lastly, Shelby. The pony's lunch is the usual hay-and-apples (or carrots) course.
On the blazing afternoons, the farmer works on a patch of his yard opposite Shelby's enclosure, and places Shelby into a harness to plough the fields. At 5 p.m. , the college bus stops by the front yard, with Natalie and her two brothers coming home (amid Shelby's cheerful greetings) after a long and exhausting day of studies and sports. After the pony's identical-course dinner, Natalie and her father guides the animals back into their pens for the night. Natalie then continues her homework, watches a baseball match with her whole family ("Go, Bisons, Go!"), or plays games with her brothers. Shelby then joins the animals, after their bored fidgetings, into their individual journeys into their cloudy dreamlands.
Friday nights were somewhat different, as Natalie goes out in the evening to attend a baseball training session, and her brothers come out to stargaze into the dark sky with their neighbours. Occasionally, Shelby and Bimo can stay outside for just a while, within the former's locked-gate compound.
Saturdays were more different, as Natalie wakes up an hour earlier to jog outside with her brothers on the streets. where there is a row of pines beside the sidewalk. She then mucks out his stable pen, and with a brother's help, they carry it by wheelbarrrow across the field to a compost pile in the southeast, well away from sources of water (even sprinklers) and neighbours, and dumps the manure there. Leaves, twigs, and other stuff were also placed on it, along with the occasional artificial fertiliser, to speed up the process. In some Saturday nights, the Bjørnsons go out to Montchalons Stadium to see the Bisons pit themselves against various other teams and clubs, from the Durangos, to the Broncos, to the Cardinals-and-Torontos.
On Sundays, the Bjørnsons go to church up to noonday with the whole neighbourhood. They sometimes take five plastic boxes of "salsa-salad" some of the congregation prepared for post-service lunch. The nights were spent on more stargazing, hectic studying-and-revising, or radio listening.
However, a few months later, Shelby starts to periodically walk into the shady apple orchard, deep within his enclosure, and closer to the outermost fence and a dark forest. He starts to kick the apple trees to get their juicy treats, but unbeknownst to him, one of the trees has a nest, on which a little blue bird resides. As months pass into the next summer, this corvid can't take it anymore...
Now, Shelby is on his own. He gallops around his vast enclosure. If this still bores for him, he trots to visit to his sunny stable, with all of its windows and its doors welcoming in the fresh spring air and the late morning light. He can play with the collie, provided that the farmer releases him into the pony's enclosure. He could have a fun time rolling on the mud with the pigs. He might come near the poultry pens, and scare off the chickens, ducks, and geese for his own pleasure and amusement. On the event in which some neighbours come outside and have their lunch, he would watch.
When the farmer goes out to feed his lunch, he goes to the chickens first, the ducks afterwards, then the geese, the pigs, his collie Bimo, and lastly, Shelby. The pony's lunch is the usual hay-and-apples (or carrots) course.
On the blazing afternoons, the farmer works on a patch of his yard opposite Shelby's enclosure, and places Shelby into a harness to plough the fields. At 5 p.m. , the college bus stops by the front yard, with Natalie and her two brothers coming home (amid Shelby's cheerful greetings) after a long and exhausting day of studies and sports. After the pony's identical-course dinner, Natalie and her father guides the animals back into their pens for the night. Natalie then continues her homework, watches a baseball match with her whole family ("Go, Bisons, Go!"), or plays games with her brothers. Shelby then joins the animals, after their bored fidgetings, into their individual journeys into their cloudy dreamlands.
Friday nights were somewhat different, as Natalie goes out in the evening to attend a baseball training session, and her brothers come out to stargaze into the dark sky with their neighbours. Occasionally, Shelby and Bimo can stay outside for just a while, within the former's locked-gate compound.
Saturdays were more different, as Natalie wakes up an hour earlier to jog outside with her brothers on the streets. where there is a row of pines beside the sidewalk. She then mucks out his stable pen, and with a brother's help, they carry it by wheelbarrrow across the field to a compost pile in the southeast, well away from sources of water (even sprinklers) and neighbours, and dumps the manure there. Leaves, twigs, and other stuff were also placed on it, along with the occasional artificial fertiliser, to speed up the process. In some Saturday nights, the Bjørnsons go out to Montchalons Stadium to see the Bisons pit themselves against various other teams and clubs, from the Durangos, to the Broncos, to the Cardinals-and-Torontos.
On Sundays, the Bjørnsons go to church up to noonday with the whole neighbourhood. They sometimes take five plastic boxes of "salsa-salad" some of the congregation prepared for post-service lunch. The nights were spent on more stargazing, hectic studying-and-revising, or radio listening.
However, a few months later, Shelby starts to periodically walk into the shady apple orchard, deep within his enclosure, and closer to the outermost fence and a dark forest. He starts to kick the apple trees to get their juicy treats, but unbeknownst to him, one of the trees has a nest, on which a little blue bird resides. As months pass into the next summer, this corvid can't take it anymore...
Sunday, 16 June 2013
"Shelby the Shetland Pony: Episode 1: Once Upon A Time..."
Once upon a time, there lived a Shetland pony. He was bought by a farmer in his Idaho homestead.
A few years later, the farmer's daughter was taking the pony for a stroll around the yard. As she took her pet by the collar, its head shifted to the left, towards the fence behind the homestead and facing the Olafsons' home, shaded by oak and maple trees. There was a barbecue going on, as the youngest daughter, Candace Olafson (from a daycare centre) had her birthday party. What caused the trouble (for now) was ―
Sniff sniff, went the pony's hairy nostrils.
"Shelby, we're halfway done with our garden stroll," the daughter replied. "Come on, come on, come on!"
She then noticed on what the pony was staring towards:
After the party, Jonathan, Reginald, and Arthur were done playing "Pin the Donkey's Tail", and are now going to sit on the picnic table. They opened a plastic box, and feasted on the sandwiches.
Meanwhile, behind the vine-ridden picket fence, a pair of equine eyes (along with that of his owner's) look on.
Sammich. Me want sammich.
This is why the pony was eagerly peeking on the other side, hungry for this delicacy.
"Let's go, Shelby," the daughter said, tugging her pet with her leash, "We've got half a round to finish."
One month later, the daughter had just returned with her dad from her baseball game in Montchalons Stadium, which is just around a 20 minutes' drive from the Bjørnson homestead. While her father was planting crops and she put the few souvenirs away, she took out a little box of sandwiches, and walked to a wooden table. As she ate her sandwiches, she noticed Shelby trotting towards her, from the apple tree to the white horse-picket fence, by her left. He let out a little, yet loud, neigh.
"No, Shelby. Meat is not good for you, nor are tomatoes. If you eat the sandwich, you will fall ill," she replied.
The pony stubbornly neighed and snorted some more, this time somewhat like the pigs on the pigsty. She still continued to eat one of the sandwiches, saving the rest for her family, and walked back to her house.
The disgruntled pony loudly squealed in anger, startling some corvids on the apple orchard, who cawed as they fluttered their clutter of flapping wings to the cloudy, sunlit evening sky by the mountainside.
The farmer now reads a book on the rocking chair and in the old-fashioned living room by the 2006-made TV and the fireplace after a long day teaching his two younger sons on planting vital crops. A border collie sleeps on a pillow-stuffed basket by his side.
His irritated daughter returned with a complaint,
"Dad,"
"Yeah, sweetie."
"We've got a problem."
"Go on, say it."
"Shelby wants to eat sandwiches."
"Maybe if you could refuse his bizarre want, he will stop."
Her dad's advice failed. Shelby still whines for sandwiches, even after a month has passed.
Oh boy, the girl thought, I'm gonna need a vet.
Will the pony end his sandwich addiction?
(From Mistvan, http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/b/b8/Shetland.pony-05-Castolovice.jpg)
A few years later, the farmer's daughter was taking the pony for a stroll around the yard. As she took her pet by the collar, its head shifted to the left, towards the fence behind the homestead and facing the Olafsons' home, shaded by oak and maple trees. There was a barbecue going on, as the youngest daughter, Candace Olafson (from a daycare centre) had her birthday party. What caused the trouble (for now) was ―
Sniff sniff, went the pony's hairy nostrils.
"Shelby, we're halfway done with our garden stroll," the daughter replied. "Come on, come on, come on!"
She then noticed on what the pony was staring towards:
After the party, Jonathan, Reginald, and Arthur were done playing "Pin the Donkey's Tail", and are now going to sit on the picnic table. They opened a plastic box, and feasted on the sandwiches.
Meanwhile, behind the vine-ridden picket fence, a pair of equine eyes (along with that of his owner's) look on.
Sammich. Me want sammich.
This is why the pony was eagerly peeking on the other side, hungry for this delicacy.
"Let's go, Shelby," the daughter said, tugging her pet with her leash, "We've got half a round to finish."
One month later, the daughter had just returned with her dad from her baseball game in Montchalons Stadium, which is just around a 20 minutes' drive from the Bjørnson homestead. While her father was planting crops and she put the few souvenirs away, she took out a little box of sandwiches, and walked to a wooden table. As she ate her sandwiches, she noticed Shelby trotting towards her, from the apple tree to the white horse-picket fence, by her left. He let out a little, yet loud, neigh.
"No, Shelby. Meat is not good for you, nor are tomatoes. If you eat the sandwich, you will fall ill," she replied.
The pony stubbornly neighed and snorted some more, this time somewhat like the pigs on the pigsty. She still continued to eat one of the sandwiches, saving the rest for her family, and walked back to her house.
The disgruntled pony loudly squealed in anger, startling some corvids on the apple orchard, who cawed as they fluttered their clutter of flapping wings to the cloudy, sunlit evening sky by the mountainside.
The farmer now reads a book on the rocking chair and in the old-fashioned living room by the 2006-made TV and the fireplace after a long day teaching his two younger sons on planting vital crops. A border collie sleeps on a pillow-stuffed basket by his side.
His irritated daughter returned with a complaint,
"Dad,"
"Yeah, sweetie."
"We've got a problem."
"Go on, say it."
"Shelby wants to eat sandwiches."
"Maybe if you could refuse his bizarre want, he will stop."
Her dad's advice failed. Shelby still whines for sandwiches, even after a month has passed.
Oh boy, the girl thought, I'm gonna need a vet.
Will the pony end his sandwich addiction?
(From Mistvan, http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/b/b8/Shetland.pony-05-Castolovice.jpg)
(Updated on 21 October, A. D. 2013.)
(Updated on 10 November, A. D. 2013.)
(Updated on 28 November, A. D. 2014.)
Monday, 3 June 2013
"LAME JOKES AND TONGUE TWISTERS 1", from "the Collection" by Samuel Yaw
"I'm (not) bland,
I can (not) blend,
I'm (not) blind,
I'm (not) blond(e), and
I can (not) blunder.
Who am I?"
— "Childhood Games" by Jorge (HOR-hay)
"What are you sayin' (about that) cyan Saiyan?!"
— Anonymous
"There once was a girl who (happily) lamented that her dress looks "as beautiful as a Dalek's body and a Tesla coil."
— Anonymous
"DOC
Duc de Doc
took a duck,
decked* a dock,
(teched a 'tack**,) [and]
tucked a tick!
He then
bent a tent,
went to Trent,
rented ten,
lent€ a den,
'fent※ a gent, [and]
meant a plent!" @
― "Doc Went-"
Commentary by Fulgere Vogelbach:
* decorated
** "technologized/robotized a fight, or went into battle with robotic reinforcements"
€ lended, as in "let someone borrow an [animal's empty] den"
※ defended, as in "protected the man [from (a certain) danger]"
*** meaned a lot (of things, as in learning much lessons from Dr. Duc)
Please be free to answer these questions. Your reactions and comments are VERY welcome.
I can (not) blend,
I'm (not) blind,
I'm (not) blond(e), and
I can (not) blunder.
Who am I?"
— "Childhood Games" by Jorge (HOR-hay)
"What are you sayin' (about that) cyan Saiyan?!"
— Anonymous
"There once was a girl who (happily) lamented that her dress looks "as beautiful as a Dalek's body and a Tesla coil."
— Anonymous
"DOC
Duc de Doc
took a duck,
decked* a dock,
(teched a 'tack**,) [and]
tucked a tick!
He then
bent a tent,
went to Trent,
rented ten,
lent€ a den,
'fent※ a gent, [and]
meant a plent!" @
― "Doc Went-"
Commentary by Fulgere Vogelbach:
* decorated
** "technologized/robotized a fight, or went into battle with robotic reinforcements"
€ lended, as in "let someone borrow an [animal's empty] den"
※ defended, as in "protected the man [from (a certain) danger]"
*** meaned a lot (of things, as in learning much lessons from Dr. Duc)
Please be free to answer these questions. Your reactions and comments are VERY welcome.
(From Alex E. Proimos, http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Paris_Tuileries_Garden_Facepalm_statue.jpg)
(Updated on 28 November, A. D. 2014.)
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