🍥 Pigsy was happy being smarter than you. Pigsy knew Just what to do. Pigsy would Treat a man's Defeat as Perfectly opportune to Sweep in and swoon the wounded, Sharing balloon bread cud; a poultice Longer lasting than mud in Case you ever Wondered what Pigsy knew To Do... Rind Pigs Feet Brine Crispy Bugles Flesh Pickles Holy Water Wine Thin Skinned Foot Fetish Pope on a Rope, or was it Soap? Her Cloven Toes His Chosen Sin for Mouth Wash His Hog Wash Her Accessories Useless Dewclaws Barefoot in the Kitchen Tip-Toe around Confessions of a Pig In Zen. 🌭🐷💅🏻 The poem "Confessions of a Pig in Zen" by tabbyrenelle ©2023 All Rights Reserved, is from: The Year of the Boar, Collected Works (essays and poems) by tabbyrenelle. 🍥
the Achilles pig
“Eating the Pig” By Donald Hall 🐷 “Eating the Pig,” by Donald Hall, appeared in the Winter 2018 issue of MQR, a special issue dedicated to Poetry at Michigan. The accompanying photo essay by Sarah Innes, “Forgotten Photographs from the Feast That Occasioned Donald Hall’s ‘Eating the Pig,'” featured pictures taken by her late husband, Stephen Blos, at the dinner on which the poem was based. Writes Innes: "I climbed the steps to their corner apartment on a dark Sunday evening. Everybody had made an effort to dress up. The table was set with an Indian print bedspread, mismatched goblets, and tall candles. The pig was shiny and striped like a tiger, with an apple clenched in his teeth, and surrounded by fruit stuffing…" These eating_the_pig_photos(and more) were on view at Hatcher Graduate Library in October of 2018 as part of its “Eating The Pig: A Dinner Party in Poetry, Photography and Painting” exhibit. Curated by Sarah Innes, the exhibit previously appeared at the Ann Arbor District Library. 🐷 “Eating the Pig” By Donald Hall 🐷 Twelve people, most of us strangers, stand in a room in Ann Arbor, drinking Cribari from jars. Then two young men, who cooked him, carry him to the table on a large square of plywood: his body striped, like a tiger cat’s, from the basting, his legs long, much longer than a cat’s, and the striped hide as shiny as vinyl. Now I see his head, as he takes his place at the center of the table, his wide pig’s head; and he looks like the javelina that ran in front of the car, in the desert outside Tucson, and I am drawn to him, my brother the pig, with his large ears cocked forward, with his tight snout, with his small ferocious teeth in a jaw propped open by an apple. How bizarre, this raw apple clenched in a cooked face! Then I see his eyes, his eyes cramped shut, his no-eyes, his eyes like X’s in a comic strip, when the character gets knocked out. This afternoon they read directions from a book: The eyeballs must be removed or they will burst during roasting. So they hacked them out. “I nearly fainted,” says someone. “I never fainted before, in my whole life.” Then they gutted the pig and stuffed him, and roasted him five hours, basting the long body. * * * Now we examine him, exclaiming, and we marvel at him— but no one picks up a knife. Then a young woman cuts off his head. It comes off so easily, like a detachable part. With sudden enthusiasm we dismantle the pig, we wrench his trotters off, we twist them at shoulder and hip, and they come off so easily. Then we cut open his belly and pull the skin back. For myself, I scoop a portion of left thigh, moist, tender, falling apart, fat, sweet. We forage like an army starving in winter that crosses a pass in the hills and discovers a valley of full barns— cattle fat and lowing in their stalls, bins of potatoes in root cellars under white farmhouses. barrels of cider, onions, hens squawking over eggs— and the people nowhere, with bread still warm in the oven. Maybe, south of the valley, refugees pull their carts listening for Stukas or elephants, carrying bedding, pans, and silk dresses, old men and women, children, deserters, young wives. No, we are here, eating the pig together. * * * In ten minutes, the destruction is total. His tiny ribs, delicate as birds’ feet, lie crisscrossed. Or they are like crosshatching in a drawing, lines doubling and redoubling on each other. Bits of fat and muscle mix with stuffing alien to the body, walnuts and plums. His skin, like a parchment bag soaked in oil, is pulled back and flattened, with ridges and humps remaining, like a contour map, like the map of a defeated country. The army consumes every blade of grass in the valley, every tree, every stream, every village, every crossroad, every shack, every book, every graveyard. His intact head swivels around, to view the landscape of body as if in dismay. “For sixteen weeks I lived. For sixteen weeks I took into myself nothing but the milk of my mother who rolled on her side for me, for my brothers and sisters. Only five hours roasting, and this body so quickly dwindles away to nothing.” * * * By itself, isolated on this plywood, among this puzzle of foregone possibilities, his intact head seems to want affection. Without knowing that I will do it, I reach out and scratch his jaw, and I stroke him behind his ears, as if he might suddenly purr from his cooked head. “When I stroke your pig’s ears, and scratch the striped leather of your jowls, the furrow between the sockets of your eyes, I take into myself, and digest, wheat that grew between the Tigris and the Euphrates rivers. “And I take into myself the flint carving tool, and the savannah, and hairs in the tail of Eohippus, and fingers of bamboo, and Hannibal’s elephant, and Hannibal, and everything that lived before us, everything born, exalted, and dead, and historians who carved in the Old Kingdom when the wall had not heard about China.” I speak these words into the ear of the Stone Age pig, the Abraham pig, the ocean pig, the Achilles pig, and into the ears of the fire pig that will eat our bodies up. “Fire, brother and father, twelve of us, in our different skins, older and younger, opened your skin together and tore your body apart, and took it into our bodies.”
Any fool knows a dog needs a home; A shelter from pigs on the wing…
The Three Little Pigs by Roald Dahl (1982) 🐷 👛 🐺 The animal I really dig, Above all others is the pig. Pigs are noble. Pigs are clever, Pigs are courteous. However, Now and then, to break this rule, One meets a pig who is a fool. What, for example, would you say, If strolling through the woods one day, Right there in front of you you saw A pig who'd built his house of STRAW? The Wolf who saw it licked his lips, And said, 'That pig has had his chips.' 'Little pig, little pig, let me come in!' 'No, no, by the hairs on my chinny-chin-chin!' 'Then I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house in!' The little pig began to pray, But Wolfie blew his house away. He shouted, 'Bacon, pork and ham! Oh, what a lucky Wolf I am!' And though he ate the pig quite fast, He carefully kept the tail till last. Wolf wandered on, a trifle bloated. Surprise, surprise, for soon he noted Another little house for pigs, And this one had been built of TWIGS! 'Little pig, little pig, let me come in!' 'No, no, by the hairs on my chinny-chin-chin!' 'Then I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house in!' The Wolf said, 'Okay, here we go!' He then began to blow and blow. The little pig began to squeal. He cried, 'Oh Wolf, you've had one meal! Why can't we talk and make a deal? The Wolf replied, 'Not on your nelly!' And soon the pig was in his belly. 'Two juicy little pigs!' Wolf cried, 'But still I'm not quite satisfied! I know how full my tummy's bulging, But oh, how I adore indulging.' So creeping quietly as a mouse, The Wolf approached another house, A house which also had inside A little piggy trying to hide. 'You'll not get me!' the Piggy cried. 'I'll blow you down!' the Wolf replied. 'You'll need,' Pig said, 'a lot of puff, And I don't think you've got enough.' Wolf huffed and puffed and blew and blew. The house stayed up as good as new. 'If I can't blow it down,' Wolf said, I'll have to blow it up instead. I'll come back in the dead of night And blow it up with dynamite!' Pig cried, 'You brute! I might have known!' Then, picking up the telephone, He dialed as quickly as he could The number of red Riding Hood. 'Hello,' she said. 'Who's speaking? Who? Oh, hello, Piggy, how d'you do?' Pig cried, 'I need your help, Miss Hood! Oh help me, please! D'you think you could?' 'I'll try of course,' Miss Hood replied. 'What's on your mind...?' 'A Wolf!' Pig cried. 'I know you've dealt with wolves before, And now I've got one at my door!' 'My darling Pig,' she said, 'my sweet, That's something really up my street. I've just begun to wash my hair. But when it's dry, I'll be right there.' A short while later, through the wood, Came striding brave Miss Riding Hood. The Wolf stood there, his eyes ablaze, And yellowish, like mayonnaise. His teeth were sharp, his gums were raw, And spit was dripping from his jaw. Once more the maiden's eyelid flickers. She draws the pistol from her knickers. Once more she hits the vital spot, And kills him with a single shot. Pig, peeping through the window, stood And yelled, 'Well done, Miss Riding Hood!' Ah, Piglet, you must never trust Young ladies from the upper crust. For now, Miss Riding Hood, one notes, Not only has two wolfskin coats, But when she goes from place to place, She has a PIGSKIN TRAVELING CASE. 🐷 👛 💅🏻 This poem was published in Revolting Rhymes, a collection of six Roald Dahl poems published in 1982.
This Little Piggy Went to a Book Club
My sister's got an outta town guest, Mouthy, and she's invited her to slam. Mouthy profiles, her best side shadowed, eyes to the left, wandering out the barn door, maybe she's trying to look interested or interesting, her white cotton blouse, is all collar falling open eyelets and where she missed a button... Brags, "I Had him, at attention at the waffle house, don't sound like much, but s'where on your life, I wanted my baby to be born like a little pile O kittens under that tall wooden porch... and I'd sell 'em off premature 'fore they's even weaned still sucking and blind nuzzling into armpits, thinking they was goin' t' find nipples, with them tiny paws kneading... Oh! I Had him, hard pressed when I laid to rest the little dead runt under his sister's window, where the screen punched out that time she practiced her fire drills." Mouthy earned a write up in an astronomy magazine. "Chicken bones CRACK! when fat black pigs eat 'em, and we listened to the firing range make hay. Was a soda machine~ cans drop and roll, you pop 'em too soon drink 'em foam first, and never mind." She had an affinity for it, whacking, I mean and hacking. But don't take my word for it. "I hid my diary every year of my life, and if it wasn't for a reliable seed diary there'd be no reason to count to ten, ready or not, here I come. Other than that there was so much, well... just shame in it. Poetry not being honest work, I mean." Mouthy shows off her set of knives, pulls slow one at a time from each slot of the wood block stainless and steel, "I like the rolling over of a rolling pin ringing bells in my ears Thwack! I scream high notes and how willingly my bass follows they says I is a brick house, combination lock Him's a brick layer hair pin picker so in the midst of our thumping drum beats we creates an echoing bed chamber where our holler backs seduce one 'nother... and another times two." Mincer, "I like to think of it as an inevitable coming of age." Paring, "War paint one stripe for the dreamy girl voices with birds flying over their words." Carving, "A sink of dirty dishes climbed onto the grate of a fire escape to sit above it all, the undertow of wailing strollers baby daddy pusher succumbin' numb to Sirens by now and arrested." Serrated, "Sucker punched into romance, fell for it how longing was the death nail Autumn leaves still blowed round from their stinking rot piles." Slicer, "Full loads of laundry You gotta sea part the light through the dark of night, lantern houses beckoning so distant they fade before You arrive safe s.o.s you never do." Dicer, "Well, now... Him's the one whom appreciates Russian novels to a fault, likens 'em akin to prairie songs sung by cowboys missing whores turned to ladies when their own dreams kicked 'em outta bed and wouldn't have 'em no more." Razor, "Hillbilly cha cha, no hesitation Bounding 'cuz Him's big." Chopper, "That kid with the nasal drip perpetually on the back of his sleeve then his mittens in the snow Left alone on the swing-sets where he'll leave a piece of his tongue frozen in chains." and Shaver, "I wasn't born into culling; I was called to it." My sister winks at me leaning over whispers, time for the DJ. 🎧🐷🎧 The poem "This Little Piggy Went to a Book Club" by tabbyrenelle ©2022 was first featured on the Poster Child Podium in June of 2022, inspired by and loosely based on the Atomic Ranch Book Club book pick, "Pig Years" by Ellyn Gaydos.
This Little Piggy Broke Bread
~ A Simple Cup of Tea ~ There is a brand of tea that insists on talking to me. I don't read leaves. Nothing like that. The Yogi staples his paper tea tags to the tea bag strings so I might read them like fortune cookies. He rewrites and paraphrases flits of wisdom to make them his own. So the tea bag says to me, "Beauty bestows grace." "Okay, yeah." I sigh. I'm irritated. I hate being dealt the fucking beauty card. You know, and Grace? She takes it up the ass with a smile... Bible tells her so and everybody fighting for flag and country... women and children first to be seen and not heard... Amazing. I honestly don't know how much beauty I actually got because everybody has a different gold standard. I like rust. Rust is beautiful, you ask me. Grace~ what does she do? She puts up with it unto death and manages immortality, if not her freedom. 'Course once she chooses to commit, and that's where beauty bestows grace, weakness becomes fiber. The very stuff principles get based on and morally propagated by. Admiration swollen by pride, grants the Lady her pedestal. Got me an ode, coming to mind. You must pay homage. Pay. Toll keepers and tax ledgers and something 'bout incentives. Pay heed. Pay. I wanna slang you around and upside yer head, Yogi. I talk like that for reasons of Grace. Tie me on an apron. A watched pot does too boil. What you want for your tea is an off boil though. Something just shy. Bring out the full flavor, rather than scalding it to death. Tea bags are not yer best bet. No sir. Probably been sold grass clippings and sawdust to bulk up the net weight. Them Japanese ceremonies take time. You gotta ladle water over your hands and take off your shoes and crawl through a hole and sit on your knees and bow and turn the picture on your cup toward your hostess after she shows you how to sip and then you gotta share a story. Tea is not a drink. It's a practice. You want your future told, three coins might be easier than a jumble of yarrow, but without understanding how to make one sip three sips in one, you gonna go and diss the Chinese spirits. It don't suit fools to wake 'em up for boorish chaos no matter if it's expected of fools. 'Cuz if you neglect the Qigong, then how you gonna know how to operate yer big dipper? I-Ching divines over tea to refine the universal laws of men. Grace belongs sure enough, if only to illuminate her part of the mountain. Sometime~ she only ever the vanity of a beard. Leastwise she ain't ruthless. Insists on a return to simplicity. That's how you taste the tea. I like mud. Mud is beautiful. Slabbing clay supposed to be wedging slabs, for coiling snakes into pinch pots, what makes a cup. Riverbanks of mud and fire kilns can work together, keeping in mind their separate natures. Temper, temper, Grace. She pours.
The prose poem "Temper, Temper" was originally titled, "A Simple Cup of Tea" and first posted by tabbyrenelle on December 21, 2021. Excerpt from the 2nd edition of the Girl Soda Atlas © 2016 All Rights Reserved, by K.J.Legry.
Hey piggy piggy
Animal Farm by George Orwell (1945) (Excerpt from Chapter One) Old Major cleared his throat and began to sing. As he had said, his voice was hoarse, but he sang well enough, and it was a stirring tune, something between Clementine and La Cucaracha. The words ran: Beasts of England, beasts of Ireland, Beasts of every land and clime, Hearken to my joyful tidings Of the golden future time. Soon or late the day is coming, Tyrant Man shall be o'erthrown, And the fruitful fields of England Shall be trod by beasts alone. Rings shall vanish from our noses, And the harness from our back, Bit and spur shall rust forever, Cruel whips no more shall crack. Riches more than mind can picture, Wheat and barley, oats and hay, Clover, beans, and mangel-wurzels Shall be ours upon that day. Bright will shine the fields of England, Purer shall its waters be, Sweeter yet shall blow its breezes On the day that sets us free. For that day we all must labour, Though we die before it break; Cows and horses, geese and turkeys, All must toil for freedom's sake. Beasts of England, beasts of Ireland, Beasts of every land and clime, Hearken well and spread my tidings Of the golden future time. The singing of this song threw the animals into the wildest excitement. Almost before Major had reached the end, they had begun singing it for themselves. Even the stupidest of them had already picked up the tune and a few of the words, and as for the clever ones, such as the pigs and dogs, they had the entire song by heart within a few minutes. And then, after a few preliminary tries, the whole farm burst out into Beasts of England in tremendous unison. The cows lowed it, the dogs whined it, the sheep bleated it, the horses whinnied it, the ducks quacked it. They were so delighted with the song that they sang it right through five times in succession, and might have continued singing it all night if they had not been interrupted.
Political language — and with variations this is true of all political parties, from Conservatives to Anarchists — is designed to make lies sound truthful and murder respectable, and to give an appearance of solidity to pure wind.
George Orwell, Politics and the English Language (1946)
Piggy’s Got Back
"The Muppets raped Kurt." C. Widow Love screeches. Her face is wide and her bright red mouth wider... and she screeches again incoherently, swaying and slogging around the stage in her stained slip. Mascara collects under her eye like a painted football player, streaks running not from crying so much as sweating. But she uses the effect to her advantage, and addresses her audience like she's crying. "I'm indignant!" Love screeches. "What's a matter?" Fozzie Bear asks and tips his fedora. He says, "Waacka Waacka Waacka." Love screams curdling and incoherent. She stomps around in what were once fuzzy slippers and now look like greasy matted roadkill. "Sacrilege!" She howls, "How dare you bastardize him!" "Uh, Ms. Wuv-- Are you cuh-went-wee on dwugs?" Asks Baba Wawa. She is pressed against the stage, in her fitted red blazer, and gold button earrings. She lifts her microphone upwards held steady as bait awaiting Love's giant gaping mouth. Love explodes into a fit of hysterical crying. Everything about her is leaking. Baba Wawa keeps a cool face with a tiny noncommittal smile. Her eyes stare sleepily and unblinking. She is patient as her formula takes effect. Her arm is as firm as the Statue of Liberty hoisting her torch. "Uh Ms. Wuv? Can you tell me what's making you cwy?" Love blubbers and shudders and plops down on her bottom. She loses a slipper in her descent and wipes dripping snot on the back of her arm. She leans over Baba Wawa's microphone above Baba Wawa's mildly-condescending-pleasant-without-sincerity-and-yet-not-entirely-provably-insincere expression and shrieks, "They're fucking up His message, Babs!" "Uh Ms. Wuv-- Is it twoo you O-widge-in-a-wee sold the wights to Koat's song?" Baba Wawa investigates using a monotone delivery. Her heavy drowsy lids give her a certain air of boredom. Her trademark work ethic makes her seem not so much trustworthy as reliable. Love sniffles as she considers the question. "Ms. Wuv, duzn't that make you a hypocwit?" "High-Yaah!" Miss Piggy grunts and makes a quick karate-chop toward Love. Her long hair tosses around like a shampoo commercial. Love howls and grabs the rhinestone tiara off Miss Piggy's head. The audience watches Love attempt to place the sparkling headpiece on top of her dirty tangles. Miss Piggy lunges at Love's neck and the two of them fall into a tussle, Love's thighs squeaking loudly against the floor like the sound of skidding basketball shoes. Baba Wawa turns her microphone into the crowd and points it at a young woman. "Uh, Fwannie Fah-Mah Joonior, do you be-weave the Muppets raped your Fah-tho?" Francis shakes her head. She glances briefly at her mother's wrestling match with Miss Piggy. "Please consider the source." She says without humor. Baba Wawa nods. She appears both serious and appreciative. "Fwannie Fah-Mah Joonior, does that mean you be-weave your muh-tho is cuh-went-wee on dwugs?" "I don't have to reach far to answer that." Francis replies as she observes Miss Piggy and her mother pulling each other's hair and biting each other's fingers. Baba Wawa ducks as Miss Piggy throws Love's other slipper into the second row, narrowly missing her hair-sprayed bangs. Her lids flutter momentarily and there is some speculation she may go down. She seems accusatory as she pivots for gleeful witnesses. She efficiently straightens her blazer and stands with an uplifted chin. The crowd roars with cheers and applause as Miss Piggy slams Love's face into Animal's bass drum, and returns her now bent tiara to her now disheveled tresses. "Hmmmph!" Miss Piggy bellows and crosses her arms over her fat cleavage in smug triumph. "HERE MY SMELL!" Animal roars and his unibrow goes up and down suggestively. He raises his arms above his bobbing head and clicks his drumsticks three times before launching into a frenetic solo on the toms. His grin is wide and toothy. Love quivers and spasms, splayed on her stomach below, her head still resting in the hole of the bass drum.
This Short Story, “Piggy’s Got Back” originally titled “Polly Wants a Cracker” and posted in 2016, is being Reprinted on December 31, 2022 in memory of Barbara Walters, who made everyone she ever interviewed cry, except for Miss Piggy.
Grab yourself a can of pork soda
The Pig By © Roald Dahl Dirty Beasts. Puffin Books; Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England, 1984. In England once there lived a big And wonderfully clever pig. To everybody it was plain That Piggy had a massive brain. He worked out sums inside his head, There was no book he hadn’t read. He knew what made an airplane fly, He knew how engines worked and why. He knew all this, but in the end One question drove him round the bend: He simply couldn’t puzzle out What LIFE was really all about. What was the reason for his birth? Why was he placed upon this earth? His giant brain went round and round. Alas, no answer could be found. Till suddenly one wondrous night. All in a flash he saw the light. He jumped up like a ballet dancer And yelled, “By gum, I’ve got the answer!” “They want my bacon slice by slice “To sell at a tremendous price! “They want my tender juicy chops “To put in all the butcher’s shops! “They want my pork to make a roast “And that’s the part’ll cost the most! “They want my sausages in strings! “They even want my chitterlings! “The butcher’s shop! The carving knife! “That is the reason for my life!” Such thoughts as these are not designed To give a pig great piece of mind. Next morning, in comes Farmer Bland, A pail of pigswill in his hand, And piggy with a mighty roar, Bashes the farmer to the floor… Now comes the rather grizzly bit So let’s not make to much of it, Except that you must understand That Piggy did eat Farmer Bland, He ate him up from head to toe, Chewing the pieces nice and slow. It took an hour to reach the feet, Because there was so much to eat, And when he finished, Pig, of course, Felt absolutely no remorse. Slowly he scratched his brainy head And with a little smile he said, “I had a fairly powerful hunch “That he might have me for his lunch. “And so, because I feared the worst, “I thought I’d better eat him first.”
I am grateful for: “Your Chaos”
After steeping Your tangerine caffeine, the tea bag fortune says, "Tag, you're it," strings attached, to the Positivity, "Without the storms and rain, life would cease to be." Venus says when she tried on-line dating, she got sent so many dick picks, it was like their frankfurters would stretch from sea to shining sea—several times. Each relished a woman with an appetite for dirt bike hotdogs and truly wished to be the one every one would be in love with. She felt their vulnerability but regarded their casual exhibition as impersonal and wondered, so just what’s in these wieners? and took a quick look at this “paste-like and batter-like poultry product” by forcing bones, with attached edible tissue, through a sieve or similar device under high pressure. And to her surprise the take-away was inside his haiku about how coots sound the same fighting as they do fucking. Pork by “advanced meat recovery machinery” separates the edibles from the inedibles without smashing the bone. and less than 10 percent water and Corn syrup, Salt, A common meat preservative antimicrobial, capable of killing off harm full bacteria Flavorings stocks (a stockade) (a want) ad classifying his search for a bi-valve to tie his ball-gag while boiling water with parts of the carcass. Found in chowder and instant hand warmers. To help keep meat-based products pink. He voyeurs back to back episodes of the Gadget Girls, those money savvy tarts, showcasing vibrating modern conveniences to fangirls who give good feedback Side effects, including dizziness, gastrointestinal issues, headaches and, if consumed in large quantities, kidney stones. A filler or thickening agent. Brewers also often use it in beer. Uncontrollable bouts of laughter. Resistance to his own measure and mean streaks… An increased risk of cancer. Frequently found in fertilizers. An increased shelf life… he doesn’t want to end up like his father, a master of wood a carpenter. Paid by some Hopi or Chinook to erect a totem pole. A pure-blood Irish-Catholic. Not a drop of American Indian but at the EXPO where his father’s booth proudly displayed his polished life-sized mahogany Jesus bust with a detached centerpiece of hands folded in prayer, a Chief, no less, approached him and praised him for being a true visionary. They discussed wood grain and how to coax the spirits from the rings. His father had additionally provided a small demo of his skill at a wood block where he informatively described his blades and planes and proceeded to whittle a whistle in the shape of a dove and when he lifted his lips to blow through the hollow tail, a sweet perfect note in ‘C’ sang out the beak. His father designed and built the alter at their church and donated his oak banisters and handrails to senior centers and nursing homes and taught how to build his benches, picnic tables and bunkbeds to a Boy Scouts of America troop. Made his actual living on elaborate personalized coffins King Tut woulda been so lucky to have been buried in a sarcophagus carved by his father. and He didn’t want to be like his mother who was a master glass blower. A mistress of the crystal ball. Literally providing instruments of hocus pocus up and down the west coast. Mostly middle-aged women sporting her witch-balls (intended to ward off and or capture dark spirits) in their whimsical tea gardens, several shingle-hanging psychics paying top dollar for table-top oracles elevated by silver-plated tripods. Wand knobs, divination pendulums, and ritual chalices sold like hotcakes. However, his mother raked in the most cash for her rearview mirror car ornaments, glass chillums, and elaborate water bongs. He says he wants to be the cocktails they serve on trains… And the Trip Advisor requests a review which will garner points that look like stars and add up to a badge.
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