Category Archives: humor

Crab Apple Pie

image from https://noshingwiththenolands.com/crabapple-strawberry-tart/

I was spending time with a certain cynical youth who likes to insult me and argue about every one of my faults as a human being, telling me that such treatment is meant to improve me to meet a standard that only he thinks I need to live up to when it occurred to me; Crab Apple has two meanings.

Image borrowed from; http://ediblecapitaldistrict.ediblecommunities.com/recipes/crab-apple-syrup

Crab apples (which ominously come up on Wikipedia as genus Malus) are generally mistrusted as eating apples. Alternatively known as “wild apples”, they are often bitter to the taste. Hence, the association with the chronic complainer, the dyspeptic dude, and the hen-pecky female. Crab apples are the fruits of unpleasant people-trees.

So, how does one deal with crab apples? I always tend to fall back on the homily, “When you are given any kind of fruit, make it into pie.” And yes, the links under the pictures will actually yield recipes. I know it is a metaphorical over-simplification. But, if I do not enjoy being critiqued for the hair in my ears and the werewolf hair sprouting under my eyes, or the way I say, “I’m sorry!” too much, I am going to use those fruits to make a pie of surreal comedy in a WordPress post.

I saw a guy on the highway speeding around me at well-over the speed limit, turning around to give me a look at his middle finger, probably trying to predict how many IQ points he will have left when he crashes into whatever is ahead of him that he can’t see because he’s grinning and glaring at me behind him. There’s an apple for this pie.

The impatient clerk in the tax office gives me the “Are you really that stupid” glare and attendant sigh as she suggests that I step to the side and correct the mistakes in my paperwork so she can mistreat the next person in the incredibly long line that she wants me to return to the back of. There’s another apple.

Image borrowed from this website; https://www.abelandcole.co.uk/recipes/rosy-crab-apple-pie


In today’s world, it really doesn’t take long to have enough apples for your pie. In fact, I am looking at a huge pie now with loads and loads of crab apples in it.

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Filed under commentary, feeling sorry for myself, goofy thoughts, humor, metaphor

When the Captain Came Calling… Canto 20

Canto Twenty – The Evil Island

We were lost because the Reefer Mary Celeste no longer had a navigator aboard, and Chinooki had apparently destroyed the radio and all the other electronic equipment on board as well.  Kooky and I tried to keep her on the course we had been following, but two of us were simply not enough people to manage a ship of the size of the Mary.  We quickly lost our way in a thick fog and we were going in an unknown direction at too high a rate of speed.  We knew how to use a compass and we might even have been able to wait for the stars if our minds hadn’t been turned to Jell-O pudding by the mermaid’s singing.

“She killed all of our crew, didn’t she?” said Kooky.

“She did.  You know, Chuck warned us about her.  We should’ve listened.”

“You are right, Captain.  I realize that now.  But at the time, it was like I was under a spell or something.  She had power over me.”

“Yes, she did.  Over all of us, apparently.”

“I am so sorry, Captain.  I’ve caused the death of us all, haven’t I?”

“None of us should ever have let someone else take control of our lives.  We should’ve realized the danger from the start.  You can’t blame yourself alone.”

It was right after that conversation that Kooky spotted Chinooki sitting on a distant rock.

“I am going to make her pay, Captain.  She is going to regret coming on board the Reefer Mary Celeste.”

Kooky was at the wheel, and he steered the entire ship directly towards the rock where Chinooki was sitting.

“What are you going to do?” I asked.

“I’ll ram her!  I will run her over!”

“Kooky, she’s singing right now.  Do you think maybe she wants us to do exactly what you are doing?”

“Maybe so.  Maybe not.  But I have ta!” And the strangest thing is that I let him do it.  I let him ram the Mary bow-first into the rock.  It tore through most of the front end of the ship, separating her at mid-ship into two parts, both of which sank to the bottom.  I remember swimming in the ocean with shark fins in the water near the horizon.  I remember hearing Kooky call out and a sudden thrashing, and I wondered if it were the sharks or the mermaid herself who claimed him.  I never saw him again.  I never saw any of them again.  I blacked out, and don’t remember anything before awakening on the sand of the Evil Island’s shore.

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Filed under humor, magic, novel, NOVEL WRITING

Pencil, Pencil, Pen, Pen, Pen…

Yes, students actually eat pencils in class.

My daughter forgot her pencil case in school over the weekend. Now, for normal students, this is no really big deal. But for the Princess, like it is for me as an amateur artist, the pencil case, with her colored pencils and pens in it, is one of the most necessary things for life.

Of course, we did not have an opportunity to go back to school for her pencils and pens. So, panicky, she texted her teacher whereupon the pencil case in question was found and put aside for her until early this morning. She then stole my pens and pencils for the weekend, depriving me and causing me to be the one with the anxiety disorder and heart palpitations.

Of course, pens and pencils were always a critical issue when I was a teacher for 31 years, plus two years as a substitute teacher. Unlike the Princess, students in an English classroom NEVER have a pen or a pencil to write with. I swear, I have seen them gnaw pencils to pieces like a hungry beaver or termite. And they chew on pens to the point that there is a sudden squishy noise in their mouth and they become members of the Black Teeth Club. (Or Blue Teeth Club for the more choosy sort of student.)

A piece of an actual classroom rules poster.

Having students in your class who actually have pencils and pens to learn with is a career-long battle. I tried providing pens for a quarter. I would by cheap bags of pens, ten for two dollars, and sell them to panicky writers and test takers with a quarter (and secretly free to some who really don’t have a quarter). I only used the pen money to buy more cheap pens. But that ran afoul of principals and school rules. A teacher can’t sell things in class without the district accountant giving approval and keeping sales tax records. Yes, the pencil pushers force teachers to give pens, pencils, and paper away for free. I finally settled -on a be-penning process of picking up leftover un-popped pens, half-eaten pencils, and the rare untouched writing instrument apparently lost the very instant the student sat down in his or her desk. These I would issue to moaning pencil-free students until the supply ran out (which it rarely ever did) at no cost to myself.

I also tried telling them repeatedly that they had to have a writing instrument, or they needed to beg, borrow, or steal one. And if they couldn’t do that, I’d tell them, “Well, you could always prick your finger and write in blood.” That was a joke I totally stopped using the instant a student did exactly what I said. A literalist, that one. And it turns out you can’t read an essay that a student writes in actual blood.

But, anyway… My daughter is safely in school now and no longer panicking because she has her precious pencil case back in her possession. And she probably will not ever make that same mistake again. (And she will probably not return my pens and pencils either.)

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Filed under humor, kids, Paffooney, pen and ink, self pity, teaching, Uncategorized

Sunday Silly Artistical Posts

I like to dig through old piles of artwork I have done to re-purpose things and mash things together to make weird art salad.

Xeribeth the Sorceress and her parrot Herkimer

I used to play a Dungeons-and-Dragons-like game called Talislanta with groups of adolescent boys, most of whom had previously been my students in middle school. It was a weird world where weird things made artistical challenges for me that taught me to be a better and more imaginative artist.

Xeribeth was a member of an almost-human race that had yellow skin and wore colorful face tattoos. She also had to be somewhat alluring to trick adolescent boys into undertaking dangerous and possibly suicidal adventures (meaning characters who only lived on paper might die and have to be re-rolled with dungeon dice.)

Zoric, being a green Cymrillian wizard, gave me numerous opportunities to creative Kermit-the-frog-colored portraits. And he was a player character, so his greed and penchant for unwise actions decided on in the heat of battle (like turning himself into a fish-man while adventuring in the waterless desert) didn’t come from me.

Playing those games gave me training as a story-teller as well.

My efforts to see color with gradually worsening color-blindness led me to create eye-bashing color compositions that attempt to portray realistically things and feelings that can’t possibly be physically real. Thus I gradually became, over time, a surrealist (a juxtaposer of unlike and jarring things to deliver a visionary picture of reality) (How’s that for surrealistic gobbeldegook in definition form.)

Rabbit castles are the obvious answer

I often solve the problems of my life by drawing something and making cartoonish comments with serious consequences.

Little people and Slow Ones like us have different problems, but share the same world.

Ultimately, it boils down to the fact that the world on the inside of me is decidedly different than the world on the outside of me. But I have to live in both. And I can do that by drawing my colored-pencil Paffooney stuff, and posting it, and writing about it on a silly Sunday.

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Filed under art editing, artwork, cartoons, commentary, goofy thoughts, humor, Paffooney

When the Captain Came Calling… Canto 19

Canto Nineteen – The Log Book of the Reefer Mary Celeste

It would be two days before anything more could happen in the quest to understand about the Captain.  Valerie finally found the time to visit Mary Philips’ house while Pidney was also there.  None of the other Pirates proved available.   Danny had a 4-H meeting to attend in the old Norwall School House, and Ray Zeffer also was in 4-H.  4-H Club was the center of farm-boy life in small farm towns in Iowa.  Both the boys and the girls had their own division of the club.  Heart, head, hands, and health, the 4-H’s were an international organization that encouraged youth development and prosperity through projects and learning goals.  4-H was to farmers what Boy Scouts were to the Army, Navy, and Marines… indoctrination into the secret cult of the tillers of the earth.  Technically, the three Pirates meeting in the basement of the Philips’ house were supposed to be at the meeting too, at least Pidney was.  The Norwall Pirates were also technically a 4-H softball team, so there were definite ties to things that couldn’t be ignored for long.  Still, this secret meeting was temporarily more important.

“I’m glad creepy old Doble couldn’t come,” Pidney said.  “I don’t trust him around you girls.  He doesn’t go to 4-H meetings any more, but he apparently has more important things to do with himself anyway.”

“We have to consider him a Pirate, though,” said Mary.  “He is the only remaining member of the original club.”

“Yeah, whatever.”  Pid was frowning until he looked at Valerie.  Then he smiled.  “But I’m sure glad you could come, Val.”

Valerie smiled her thanks at the big Polack.  He could be kinda dense at times, but Valerie was deeply in love with him anyway.

“I have the log book here,” Mary said, “and we can pick up reading where we left off.”

“About the mermaid?” said Pid.

“Yes, about the mermaid.”

“Chinooki,” reminded Val.

“Let me turn to the book mark,” said Mary.

                The mermaid was a miraculous creature.  Kooky actually had very little trouble catching her in the nets he used for catching prawns whenever we were near the island of Tahiti.  It was like she wanted to be caught for some strange reason.  And we soon discovered that keeping company with Chinooki was something every man aboard desired with a passion.   Her singing voice charmed the men to sleep and suggestibility.  The mermaid possessed every piece of scrimshaw, every golden ornament, and every valuable jewel on board the ship in very short order.

                “Chinooki likes sweet mens,” Chinooki said so often we never stopped to think that it might have a double meaning.

                Chuck Jones was the first man to disappear.  Kooky later told me that Chinooki told him she ate the sweet man.  But she could say practically any scary and awful thing, and then sing a sweet song, and everyone would smile and think she did no wrong.  The cabin boy disappeared next, and Bob Clampett swore he saw the kid’s severed foot at the bottom of the oyster stew Cookie served that same night.

“I am becoming alarmed here at this story,” said Pidney.  “Is this one of those things where you read the scary story in a book and then it comes true in real life?”

“It can’t be,” said Mary.  “You know full well that Captain Noah Dettbarn was a fool and a liar long before he ever went to sea.  He has a reputation in this little town, and the old folks all say that telling a lie is the same as telling a Noah.”

Mary continued reading aloud.

                Chinooki was a favorite of every sailor aboard.  She entertained us constantly with stories and songs.  She could play Kooky’s ukulele, too, like a professional.  She had us all dancing and singing along without being truly aware of what was going on.  Crewmen kept turning up missing.  Then, when Kooky started kissing her on the lips at every opportunity, I realized I needed to confront her.  I think I owe Kooky for that, because if he hadn’t interrupted her songs with his kisses, I might never have returned to my senses.

                “Chinooki,” I said, late one night at the aft rail, “you have to stop doing to us whatever it is that you have been doing to us.”

                “Chinooki not know what you are meaning, nice Captain mans.”

                “Don’t accuse her without all the facts,” Kooky said.

                “The crew likes what Chinooki has been doing for us,” added Bob Clampett.

                “Look around, Bob,” I said.  “Where exactly is the rest of the crew?”

                Bob looked all around the deck.  There was a lot of nobody to count.  His eyes got big and round.  “Good Lord!  You are right, Captain!  Something is definitely wrong!”

                “Ho ho!  Sweet Bobs has seen through the glammer!  Maybe silly Captain mans too!” said Chinooki.  She then wobbled up to Bob using her fish tail to travel upright in the manner of a cobra.  She put her silvery arms around his neck and gave him a big old smooch on the lips. Then she bit deeply into the side of his neck.  Together they pitched backwards over the ship’s rail and fell into the ocean below.  Poor Bob did not even have a chance to scream.

At that point in the story, poor Pidney was so pale, that Mary stopped reading, apparently afraid the big Polish football hero was about to pass out from fear.

“Don’t stop now!” Valerie insisted.  “This old log book thing is getting really, really good.”

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Filed under horror writing, humor, novel, NOVEL WRITING, Paffooney, Pirates

Hidden Kingdom… Chapter 3 Begins

Now, here is the start of Chapter 3;

Here are the links for previous chapters;

Chapter 1; https://catchafallingstarbook.net/2018/11/24/hidden-kingdom-chapter-1-complete/

Chapter 2; https://catchafallingstarbook.net/2019/05/04/hidden-kingdom-chapter-2-complete/

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Filed under comic strips, fairies, Hidden Kingdom, humor, Paffooney

When the Captain Came Calling… Canto 18

Canto Eighteen – Library Lies

The four young Pirates took the invisible Captain into the Norwall Public Library, into the reading room where all the encyclopedias were kept, along with the piano used for community sing-a-longs after town council meetings.  They all took seats around one of the round tables used for meetings and, on rare occasions, students doing homework.

Valerie kept staring at the empty space behind the floating glasses where the Captain’s face actually had to be.  If she squinted and stared real hard, she could almost picture a face there, though an older face than the yearbook photo Mary had shown her.

“Uncle Noah,” Mary said, “You have to answer some questions for us now.”

“Well, um, heh-heh… what exactly do you children want to know?”

“How did you become invisible?” Danny demanded.  “And can you teach me how to do it too?”

“Why do you want to be invisible?” Valerie asked Danny, while poking him in the ribs with a finger.

“Yeah… well… you see, I could go into the girls’ locker room at school, and…”

“Okay, not that question!” insisted Mary.  Pidney beside her was a bright crimson color in the face.  “Tell us, Uncle Noah, why you became invisible.”

“Well, that was not a matter of choice.  Did you read the log book I sent you?”

“Not all of it, no…”  Mary looked at the empty air behind the glasses with a very skeptical expression.

“Well, you see, there was this witchdoctor… also called a juju man…  His name was Mangkukulan…  He put a curse on me, and made me invisible.”

“Why did he put a curse on you?” Pidney asked.

“Well, uh… you really should read about it in the log book first.  It tells the story better than I can here and now… um, before you read it.”

“Just summarize for us,” suggested Mary.

“Well, um… the truth of the matter is… um, I am in need of a… well, a pure sort of… a girl who…”

“What, Uncle Noah?”

“I need a virgin.”

“Cool,” said Danny.  “What do you need one of those for?”

“Um, well, I… Mangkukulan needs a virgin to give to the mayap mapali Matuling Lupa.”

“The what?” asked Valerie.

“That wouldn’t be a volcano or something would it?” asked Danny.

“Well, sorta, kinda… the god of volcanoes.”

“And why does Man-coo-coo-man think he needs to get a virgin from you, Captain?” asked Pidney, frowning.

“Because I… well… I sorta… um… spoiled the one he had.”

“You what?  And what virgin were you planning to give him in return?” asked Mary, almost loudly and angrily enough to be heard by the librarian in the next room.

“I hate to ask this, Mary dear… but… well… are you still a virgin?”

“What?  How can you ask a question like that?” Mary roared.

The librarian, Val’s Aunt Alice, looked into the room just as the Captain hastily pulled the hood of the cloak over his head.

“Is everything all right, Mary dear?” the librarian asked.

“Oh, ah… we are fine.  We are just having a friendly little argument.”

“I see…” Aunt Alice frowned at the cloaked and hooded figure slumped down in the chair across the table from Mary.  “Call me if you need anything, girls.  I have a handy phone on the desk, and there’s a new deputy sheriff in town.  We have a deputy who actually lives in Norwall now.”

“That’s good to know, Ms. Stewart.  Thank you so much.”  Mary smiled grimly at the cloaked Captain.

Captain Dettbarn seemed meek and chastened after that.

“You can’t really believe you can take a girl from your home town and give her to a witch doctor to throw into a volcano?”  Mary said quietly through gritted teeth.

“No, I suppose not.  But I still might need to know… um, for magical reasons.  I do have to solve the problem somehow.”

“You don’t have the right to ask that question,” said Pidney, simmering with anger.  “You are talking about a young lady’s honor.  She loses something no matter what the answer is.”

“How can she be losing something?” asked Danny, looking thoroughly confused.

“She loses her right to privacy.  And besides, if she answers that she is one, the creepy old Captain here may kidnap her and throw her into a volcano.”

“Oh,” Danny said.

“I really need to know, Mary, honey… because the witch doctor’s magic follows me everywhere.  And I am afraid he will try to take you if you are.  After all, you are the daughter of my good friend Dagwood Philips, and the witch doctor will know that you are important to me.”

“And what will you do if it turns out that I am one?”

“Well, I can’t do anything about that… but your boyfriend here could.”

“Captain!”  Mary was angry again, and Pidney was a glowing red with embarrassment again.

“Is Valerie in any danger?” asked Danny, suddenly panicky.

“This pretty little one?” the Captain asked.

“Of course,” said Mary.  “Is she in danger too?”

“Well, I don’t know.  She’s obviously not as important to me as you are, Mary… but she’s even more obviously a virgin.”

“Well, that’s disturbing,” said Valerie.  “Because I have my doubts that Pidney can solve the problem for both of us.”  The notion tickled her insides.  The idea was not without its good side.  But, still, it made her angry that they all made that particular assumption about her.

“I, um… I better be going now,” said the Captain.  “I have put you girls in enough danger already.  But… I promise, I will find a solution to this problem.  You, however, need to read the log book.  If I have any chance of finding the right magical spell to save us all, I’m going to need your help.”

With that, there was a sudden burst of light from flash powder, and the Captain was gone.  His cloak remained.  As did his clothing and his yachting cap.

“Oh, my gawd!” swore Pidney.  “What will we do now?”

“I think we have to do some serious reading,” said Mary.  “And we may have to think about some other things that kids like us probably shouldn’t be doing either.”

A thrill ran up Valerie’s spine.

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Filed under humor, magic, novel, NOVEL WRITING, Paffooney

Fools and Their Toys

It is now published!!! https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07RKRYWH1/ref=sr_1_3?keywords=michael+beyer+books&qid=1557153283&s=gateway&sr=8-3

These are the links. https://www.amazon.com/dp/1096891867/ref=sr_1_fkmrnull_2?keywords=michael+beyer+books+Fools+and+Their+Toys&qid=1557153522&s=gateway&sr=8-2-fkmrnull

And here is a peek into Chapter One;

Canto One – The Puppet’s Preface

Murray Dawes was sad but silent as the sheriff’s deputies put him in the cell in the county lock-up.  Other men would protest their innocence of being a serial murderer and sex offender.  Murray was accused of being the infamous “Teddy Bear Killer” who molested and murdered young boys all across the Midwest.  Murray was in fact not quite right in the head.  Something was off enough to make him constantly silent as the stones on an Iowan hillside in winter.  But just because he was silent and mentally unique, it didn’t explain how he could end up accused of terrible crimes when he was totally innocent.  He had, in truth, only been guilty of rescuing the last boy-victim of the real killer.  And because he wouldn’t answer any questions from anybody, and the boy-victim was in shock and couldn’t talk, he stood a very real chance of taking the whole of the blame.  Well, I wasn’t about to stand for it.  I would find some way to tell them all the truth.  My name is Zearlop.  I am Murray’s ventriloquist’s puppet.  And I know the truth that’s inside his muddled head.

I also know you will probably say this is totally unbelievable, that an inanimate object… or, rather, a puppet who is animated by others, cannot be the narrator of a story.  You are right, of course.  I can’t possibly be the author of this tale.  I am a modified sock puppet of a zebra with mechanically blinking eyes and mechanically enhanced mouth movements.  My head is full of cotton stuffing and old newspapers.  But I was cleverly put together by two geniuses, and given life by another.

You have to understand; the human mind is like a great complex Labyrinth where no man has ever mastered every single corridor.  Sometimes the most beautifully complex minds become lost or trapped in a dead-end corridor, never to find the light outside again.

But sometimes a special mind that was meant for special things is helped to find the light again… shown a trap door or a secret exit by another who has mastered at least a portion of the great, overly-complex dungeon.

And sometimes it is possible to slip past the Minotaur who guards the secrets of the Labyrinth and keeps us all from unlocking the magic. My story, the story I mean to tell you even if you don’t believe I am capable of telling it because I am a mechanical sock puppet of a zebra, begins with a fool.  The fool’s name is Murray Dawes.  That’s right, Mumbling Murray Dawes, the feeb, the spaz, the Special-Ed idiot, son of Elmer and Ethel Dawes, the nephew of Harker Dawes, and the only human being in the universe who had more in common with potatoes than he did with other people.  Yes, I promise I will explain that last one later in the story.

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Sunday Sermons in More Innocent Times

There are definitely tendencies in those of us who are really atheists and non-believers in our heads to look back fondly at a time when God and religion filled our childish hearts every Sunday Morning. I have been told that idiots like me with a penchant for writing humor ought not to indulge in making fun of religion and politics. But I look at modern humorists making fun of both those things with impunity and too often end up admiring their success. Because, not only does the the subject of religion provide an easy target for satire and mockery, but we can’t really keep something sacred in our porcelain and breakable human hearts for very long without making sure it is fire-tested. That’s why I intend to take a flame-thrower to it in today’s Sunday Sermon. And I don’t mean I will only make fun of belief in God, but making fun of belief in atheism as well.

Here is a piece of music that gives your heart peace that you might need to play in the background if you really plan to read this purple-paisley-prose post. It is Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major, a very spiritual piece to play for peace of personhood and a pinch of paradise.

Now, of course, the first thing to acknowledge in this idiot’s Sunday sermon is the idea of God Himself.

Is there a God?

Remember, I pass the test for believing what atheists normally believe. That should disqualify me from making the following statement. But remember too, I also identified myself in this essay as an idiot. So, I will say it anyway.

There is a God, not in Heaven, but in us. There has to be. I talk to Him all the time, and He answers me. And I keep asking Him, “If you don’t exist, then how can you be answering me?”

“Well, Michael, you are an idiot. And things don’t have to make sense for you to believe them. But also, I am the part of you that never gives up on you even when you have given up on yourself.”

And I try to look as intelligent as I can as I say, “What…?”

“People, Mickey, my son, have a secret power inside of themselves that, when they are in troubled times and dire dangers, they can reach deep into their souls for it and pull it out to save themselves from the situation in the best way possible.”

“So, if people use this power correctly, say the right words and everything, they can save their lives in any situation and even live on after death?”

“I know you are an idiot, my child, but try not to be quite so idiotic all the time.”

“But people who are very religious believe in eternal life of some kind, don’t they?”

“You are not the only idiot out there, my beloved.”

“So, we don’t get eternal life for praying the right things and doing the right things and fulfilling all the elements of the Live Forever Spell?”

“There is no such thing as eternal life nor eternal torment. But you exist. And existence is eternal. There was no life before you are born, and there is no life after you die. But once you exist, you always exist, even outside of the time-frame of your mortal life.”

“That’s why I call myself a Christian Existentialist, right?”

“You are, indeed, that flavor of idiot, yes. But the Christian part means you have to adhere to Christian values. And not the ones Christian Fundamentalist idiots interpret from the Old Testament. The real ones based on choosing love over hate.”

“So, is that all I need to bring this sermon to an end?”

“Well, you should probably thank William Bouguereau for providing most of the internet images you illustrated this thing with. He died before you were born, but he still exists.”

“Thanks, Billy B. You paint lovely naked angels.”

“And you should recognize that this idiotic thing you have written is not a sermon, but, rather, a fantasy dialogue. And then stop adding more to it like a good little idiot.”

“Amen.”

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Filed under commentary, humor, insight, philosophy, religion

Hidden Kingdom… Chapter 2 Complete

Here is the link to the complete Chapter 1https://catchafallingstarbook.net/2018/11/24/hidden-kingdom-chapter-1-complete/

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Filed under comic strips, fairies, Hidden Kingdom, humor, Paffooney