#cabbage patch pig

[guineapiggies]

Via komorumotto

[enby-creature-feature]

Hog mobile and a cursed entity

[sweetangelofdesirex]

Fun in the Patches

You can thank this edit for making me watch this movie, and therefore making me write this. I'm gonna just say this, I don't know if this is unhinged or not, and that should tell you something.

Pairing: Gus X fem! reader

Warning: SMUT 18+ MINORS DNI, Unprotected sex, creampie, this is my first smut ever. Thank you.

Other notes: Chapter 6 of Release Me-Fix me will be coming out this week on Sunday so look out for it! Also I came up with an awesome Jackson Ripnerx Fem! Reader Idea, but that won't be coming out until I finish Release Me which I think has about 3 or 4 chapters left. Lol! I lost my pig obsession but the love of the story is what's keeping it alive. I WILL FINISH IT! Alright guys hope you enjoy my one-shot.

P.S. Was thinking about adding their wedding night hehehe-TOO MANY PLANS

It had been on my mind for hours now, replaying over and over and over again, dreaming of his soft lips on mine, shy but desperate to please. Poor bastard may have been inexperienced (and terrified) on our wedding day, but nothing a little guidance couldn't fix. It was so adorable seeing him stutter out how much he loved me.

"Ay miss, a drink over here please."

"Got it." I wanted out of here as quick as possible.

My mind was in the clouds. How could I focus on serving customers and helping with my boss's baby, when all I could think about is gazing into those angelic blue eyes as he takes me? Oh! I could fuck him on the floor, or in his wagon. My pussy ached for more; I want to fuck on that fucking roof until it caves in. Or... somewhere even better; his father's beloved cabbage patch.

My lips were sore from biting them, I wouldn't be able to take this much more. I could see my pervy boss imagining his own fantasies of me-Ugh! Guy's a dickhead if I ever met one. The door opens, but I'm too busy polishing glasses and dreaming of fucking in the mud to notice.

"Hey there, Gus." Mave greets him. My heart flips like a coin in chance. I look up to see a striking man staring at me.

"Hello love." his soft voice warms my heart, and I can't help but to blush.

"Hello, What brings you here today?"

"Came to drop this off." Gus shakes the package in his hand, smiling sweetly at me. If only he knew what I've been dreaming of all day.

"Alright love birds, you'll have plenty of time-"

"Actually, I was wonderin' if I could get off early?" I turn to my husband "I think we should check on your dad's cabbages, don't you?"

"It's pourin' outside-freezin'." He says quite shocked, like I said if the poor bastard only knew.

"That's perfect.-We should get goin'." I grab my coat and he's waiting for me, thankfully getting the hint.

Thick fog cloaks the dirt roads, and the chilled rain drops leaves Gus's cheeks red. He looks so innocent and yet so hungry and I can't help but kiss his cheeks.

"Stop here." I whisper in his ear.

"Here?" He whispers back, voice cracking with shock. "What are we doing here? It's cold."

"Not for long". Before he can say anything else, I slip off my brown wool coat. He's shocked but can't stop watching. Slowly, I lift my shirt, exposing my bare breast and stiff nipples. I give him a wink as slip down my skirt exposing heaven to him. Now I really got his attention. Not so innocent now.

"Y'wanna do that here?" The words stutter out of flustered Gus as I jump out of the carriage, slapping my ass for an added enticement.

"C'mon don't you want to play with me." Keeping my gaze on his, I let my hair down, allowing the strands to fall where they may. I love the feeling of the mud under my feet as I walk through the patch. I turn to see Gus watching me curiously, weighing his options. Why not put on a little show? It won't hurt. I begin caressing a cabbage, placing it in between my legs. Slowly, I grind my hips against it. Soft moans leaving through cold puffs of breath.

"Ohh Gus." Oh Gus was right! Gus couldn't believe the divine sight before him. He knew he wanted you as soon as he saw you serving food at the Pub. He begged his father to let him marry you, even get on his hands and knees to be with you, and God was he grateful.

Never in his life did he think cabbage was sexy, in fact he loathed cabbage, but seeing the way your hips grinded in smooth waves made his cock suffocate desperate for that orgasmic paradise.

Gus couldn't take it anymore, ripping off his clothing with a quickness. He had been feigning for you all day! Fuck the freezing rain, anything you wanted, he wanted. The mud squished beneath his feet, with each step he became more intoxicated by you.

Staring up into his eyes as he stared down into yours, was euphoric. He slicked his hand your hair and down to your neck, closing the gap between you. His lips gently press on yours, then your cheek, and your other cheek. His hard cock was practically begging you to devour it, the veins bulging, slowly you open your mouth to take him in. Your taste buds savoring every bit of salt, sweat, and skin. His head lulling back as you his erection touch the back of your throat. You were in paradise, watching his mouth agape from the pleasure you were giving him. You grind harder against the cabbage, the rough petals rubbing harder against your clit.

"Fuucckk." Swiftly, he pulled his twitching cock from your mouth. He was so close to the edge, but he couldn't waste cumming just yet.

He licked your chin, tasting himself in the deepness of your kiss. The feeling of your lips intertwined-Oh no he definitely couldn't cum yet.

Pushing that godforsaken cabbage out of the way, he placed himself right in between your glorious legs. The sheer energy between you two was irresistible. The rain glistening your skin, shiny and slick, dripping over your breast and down your stomach. It called to him to lick it up, to taste and treasure every bit of you, it fed his thirst in ways he could never imagine. Electric. Gripping your hips, he aligned your entrance to him. He needed you now.

And you loved that about him. His one track mind, and his insatiable desire for you. The way he's gripping you tight as he touches and pushes his way inside, making sure I take every. single. inch of him. The sheer mass is enough to overtake me, filling me to the brink. Sweet mother of God.

No words are needed between lovers, only the pure rapture of the slow and steady rhythm of each thrust. Our hips in sync, deeper, stronger, harder, threatening to become one. Our hearts racing as the desperation for release builds. I don't know how much more I can take! Tongue entwined with tongue, his thrusting becoming deep and wild.

"I love you." His voice a soft whisper, his gaze encapsulating me with light blue.

"I love-I love you too." You could say that a thousand times, and it would still make his heart patter as if it was the first time. His body couldn't resist the urge any longer, and with such force, pleasure rippled through his body pouring into you. Another thrust, he could feel his warm release filling you, so hot it rivaled the chill outside. He left a line of kisses from your neck up your jaw. Softly, he kissed your cheeks, and your nose. He could spend all day and night here, reveling in your beauty. With one last kiss, he pulled out allowing his release to leak out of you, crumbling on top of you from satisfaction.

God was he happy to have you as his wife, to see you smiling sweetly at him-well worth half of the cabbages.

The downpour became heavier washing away the mud, but not quenching the thirst of desire.

Looking at him, you couldn't help but want to do it again.

"Don't y'dare look at me like that." Grabbing his face, you planted kisses on his cheek hard with love. Tonight was going to be fun.

[the-crittercorner]

Finding Plushie Clothes Online

Remember to measure your plush friends before buying anything!

Also if you decide to buy something that is intended for dolls you will probably have to make a hole for the tail so keep that in mind!

Please feel free to share your own tips!

Second-Hand (poshmark,ebay, depop, mecari etc)

- Search terms to use for smaller plushies (beaine babies, webkinz, bab buddies, smaller jellycats etc)

Webkinz clothes

Beanie baby clothes

Ty gear for beanie kids

Build a bear smallfry clothes

Build a bear buddies clothes

Kpop doll clothes 20cm

Laffin duck clothes

Hazel village clothes

- Search terms for bigger sized plushies (build a bear, douglas, large/medium jellycats etc)

Build a bear clothes

Build a bear clothes lot

Preemie to 0-3 months baby clothes

Baby doll clothes

Cabbage patch kids clothes

18inch doll clothes

16inch teddy bear clothes

Buying things new

- search terms to use for smaller plushies

Laffen duck clothes

20cm plush doll clothes

Gunnie pig clothes

Teddy bear clothes

Webkinz clothes (they still have some being sold on Amazon)

Bearded dragon or lizard hats (strange ik but works for small jellycats and mini beanie babies)

Build a bear buddies clothes

18inch doll pet accessories

- brands & website that sell plushie clothes or sell things that work for them

Hazel village

Laffen duck

Manhatten toys - baby stella clothes

Chewy gunnie pig clothes

- Search terms for bigger plushies

16 -18 inch teddy bear clothes

Preemie or 0-3 months baby clothes

16-18 inch baby doll clothes

xs-small dog/cat clothes

Cat and small dog hats

Xs-small dog/cat collars

18inch doll clothes

- brands & websites that sell or have clothes that work for bigger plushies

Build a bear (of course lol)

The bear factory

Walmart - my life as

Target- our generation

Chewy - xs-small dog & cat clothes

Melissa & doug mine to love baby doll clothes

Etsy shops that have plush clothes

https://www.etsy.com/shop/PenguinGiftShop

https://www.etsy.com/shop/HiddenTreasuresByDon

https://www.etsy.com/shop/jdstitchco

https://www.etsy.com/shop/FernsTreehouse

https://www.etsy.com/shop/DollGenius

https://www.etsy.com/shop/PJBears

https://www.etsy.com/shop/HandMadeRagDollStore

https://www.etsy.com/shop/LindasHobbyHut

https://www.etsy.com/shop/BakersBearsUS

https://www.etsy.com/shop/WestcountryHandy

https://www.etsy.com/shop/0823Dolls

https://www.etsy.com/shop/StrangePhenomenon

https://www.etsy.com/shop/EvaNettiesFarm

https://www.etsy.com/shop/DollyMakesUK

https://www.etsy.com/shop/usefulandbeautiful

https://www.etsy.com/shop/TeddyBearBuilding

[anatovrocktail]

When I say my garden is small, i mean it is approximately 2 meters wide strip behind my flat. The only exception to this is the patio, where it is a whopping 3.3 meters wide.

But last year i got a raised flowerbed going with lemon balm, hydrangea, osteopernum, forget me nots, ferns, alliums and daisies. A planter of herbs and strawberries. Pots of mint, lavender and rosemary carried from my old place. Brought a few cheap shrubs.

This year I added another raised bed as a veg patch and some pots. So far i have swetcorn, peas, butternut squash, potatoes, mange tout, carrots, parsnips, spinach, beetroot, radishes, leuttace, spring onions, three types of tomato, two types of pepper, cucumbers and more herbs.

I have seeds for brocoli, cabbages, sprouts, beans, leeks, cauliflower and rhubabrb chard to start.

I've just ordered a grafted dwarf apple tree and red and black currents thanks to @a-blessing-of-ravens and Naga Chilli seeds.

I've got roses and clematis climbing the wall and a mini greenhouse full of seedlings. My conservatory is currently a greenhouse with an armchair.

I'm happy as a pig in shit here.

And we're going to be eating well this summer

[steddieasitgoes]

@steddiemas Day 7 Prompt: Mall and/or Job

Tags: Steve Harrington/Nancy Wheeler (but they don't even kiss), Eddie Munson Has A Crush On Steve Harrington, Shopping Malls, The Great Cabbage Patch Riots, Steve Harrington Is A Sweetheart, Good Sibling Nancy Wheeler, Banter

wc: 1724 | Rating: G

Read on ao3 | ao3 collection

“Can you believe my parents?” Nancy scoffs, sliding into the passenger seat of the Beamer. “It’s all Holly wants and they won’t get it for her.”

“Look on the bright side, Nanc,” Steve says, throwing a hand over her seat as he reverses out of the Wheeler’s driveway. “You’re going to be the best big sister in the entire world when you give it to her on Christmas morning.”

“If we even get our hands on one. They sell out in seconds.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a little mall rush after facing off against monsters last month. We can totally do this.”

🥬 👶🏻🥬 👶🏻🥬 👶🏻🥬 👶🏻🥬 👶🏻🥬 👶🏻🥬 👶🏻🥬 👶🏻🥬 👶🏻🥬 👶🏻🥬 👶🏻🥬 👶🏻🥬 👶🏻🥬

Steve should know better than to underestimate Nancy, but how was he supposed to know she was right about this? It’s a baby doll for christ sake. A weird-looking baby doll for that matter. And what the hell is with the name? Cabbage? They couldn’t have thought of anything cuter?

What does he know, though? Apparently, the stupid name and weird design worked because he’s currently stuck in a crowd of thousands outside a mall in Indianapolis at six in the fucking morning. Nancy disappeared into the crowd half an hour ago to see just how deep it went. He’s hoping she made it to the front and that’s why she hasn’t returned. The other outcome is one he doesn’t want to think about, but his mind can’t help but conjure up the image of the headline: “Teen Girl Dies In Cabbage Patch Stampede.” The Wheelers would kill him.

There’s no time for dwelling as the sea of people lurchs forward. He can’t see the front doors but judging from the sudden rush of shoving and shouting, the doors to the mall are about to open.

For the first time in his life, he’s happy Nancy sat him down two days ago and laid out the game plan. The layout of the mall is fresh in his mind as is the doll Holly wants — blonde hair in pig tales, freckles, blue eyes — a creepy carbon copy of herself.

The minute the doors open, Steve’s shoving adults double and triple his age out of the way. He breaks out into a sprint when he clears the pack, b-lining for the toy store on the second floor. Despite his speed, he’s beaten by at least a hundred other eager shoppers who were probably at the front of the hoard outside.

It would be easy to get discouraged, but Steve powers on. He didn’t drive this far to let Holly and Nancy down. Thankfully, the boxes are stacked in the entryway of the store. The massive pile gets smaller and smaller by the second as hands grab the dolls free, hoisting them up over their head in victory.

Acting on adrenaline alone, Steve dives into the dwindling pile and gets his hand on a box. He can’t tell which doll it is, but at this rate, anything is better than nothing. With the box clutched to his chest, he starts getting up from the floor when he feels a pair of hands reaching for him. The person tugs, hard, freeing Steve from the stampede that’s coming. For a second Steve thinks the person saved him, but then he feels the box being tugged from his hands and he realizes what’s actually happening.

It’s not a rescue mission, it’s a kidnapping.

“Get your hands off my doll!” Steve shouts, yanking hard enough to send the person surging forward. They collide in an instant, falling to the floor with the box clutched in both their hands.

“Harrington?” The man asks as he struggles to get to his feet.

“Munson?”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Come on, Steve, isn’t it obvious? I’m here for the same reason you are. For one of these bad boys.”

“Yeah, okay, Munson,” Steve snorts, eyes squinting as he takes in his appearance. Ripped black jeans and leather jacket. Vest with patches to bands Steve’s never even heard of. Hair longer than some of the moms currently fighting behind him. Eddie’s not really the Cabbage Patch Kid type. Not in the slightest. “Didn’t peg you as a fan of dolls. Isn’t that a little too freakish even for you?”

“I don’t know. Isn’t it weird for you to be buying one? What would our wonderful peers at Hawkins High think?” Eddie teases, grip still tight on one side of the box.

“It’s not for me.”

Eddie hums, shaking his head. “That’s what they all say.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Steve spots a mother handing over a handful of bills to a man on the other side of the store. The woman is in a pristine coat, not a lock of hair out of place. There’s no way she was in this mess and yet, she’s happily walking away with a doll. The man waves her off, stuffing the handful of bills back into his pocket before making his way back into the store.

It clicks then. The man and the shady business deal a second ago. The news report he remembers listening to a few days ago. Cabbage Patch black market deals. Scammers. Fakes.

“You’re a reseller!” Steve gasps, glaring daggers at Eddie. He tries to roll on top of him to free the box, but there’s no use. Instead, he ends up rolling them into a quiet aisle where they stayed on the floor, hands denting the box.

“I am not!”

“Yeah, you are! That’s the only explanation for why you’re here. You don’t give a shit about these dolls, but you know you can get cash for them.”

“Honestly Harrington, could you be a little bit more original with your accusations?” Eddie scoffs. “What? You see ripped jeans and a guy who lives in a trailer and automatically thinks I need cash? Newsflash big boy, I do fine supplying you and all your friends that grass you love smoking every weekend.”

“Well, then, what do you need the doll for?” Steve asks, trying his best to yank it free from Eddie’s unrelenting grasp.

“None of your business.”

Steve’s about to argue back when another pair of hands join the fray. A petite and wrinkled elderly woman hovers over them. The look of pure determination and mischievousness is a stark contrast to the rest of her.

“Oh, no you don’t lady!” Eddie shouts, tugging the box and Steve towards him and away from the woman’s hand. She stumbles, nearly falling into the display of Barbie dolls. “Come on, we can settle this later!”

Struggling to his feet with his hands still gripping part of the box, Steve and Eddie make it to the checkout aisle. Together they hand it over to the clerk, not daring to put it on the conveyor belt when hundreds of empty-handers are hovering waiting to steal. They split the bill and reach for the plastic bag at the same time, each taking one side as they make their way out of the store that’s spiraling deeper and deeper into chaos now that the store is sold out.

“Now what?” Steve asks when they manage to make it into the parking lot.

“Well, it’s not like we can share the doll.”

“Right, so one of us needs to give it up.”

“Yeah, one of us does.”

For a moment, Steve considers kicking Eddie in the shins and making a run for it. He knows he can outrun him no doubt. The only problem is he’d have to leave Nancy behind. Even if he managed to get Holly the doll, he’s pretty sure Nancy would not appreciate being stranded in the city.

It’s hard to tell what Eddie’s thinking, but Steve thinks it’s something similar. Probably less running if Steve had to guess. Maybe blackmail.

“Steve!” Nancy calls, startling Steve out of the impromptu staring contest. He follows the sound of her voice and spots her exiting the mall with a plastic bag clutched to her chest. A giant smile is plastered on her face. “I got her!”

“The one she wanted?” Steve shouts back.

Nancy nods.

Oh thank god, he thinks before offering her an enthusiastic thumbs up. With Holly’s Christmas gift secured, he turns to Eddie and finally lets go of the plastic bag. “Guess it’s your lucky day, Munson. M’sure you made whoever that doll is for very happy.”

With a finger-wiggle wave, Steve jogs off to catch up with Nancy.

🥬 👶🏻🥬 👶🏻🥬 👶🏻🥬 👶🏻🥬 👶🏻🥬 👶🏻🥬 👶🏻🥬 👶🏻🥬 👶🏻🥬 👶🏻🥬 👶🏻🥬 👶🏻🥬 👶🏻🥬

“Eddie!”

Eddie jumps and turns to find Jeff silently judging him. His arms are crossed and he’s not holding any bags. Oh, fuck.

“What the hell?” He shouts, punching Eddie’s shoulder. “One second you were behind me and then you were gone! I spent so much time looking for you I missed out on getting the new release!”

“Shit, Jeff. I’m—“

“Are you holding a Cabbage Patch Kid?”

“Uh, I…” Eddie trails off and glances down a row of cars. In the distance, he spots Steve helping Nancy and the stupid doll box into the passenger seat of the Beamer. He tears his eyes away when Steve shuts the door, but it's a mistake because Jeff is right there, staring at him with even more judgment in his eyes.

“Dude,” Jeff whines. “You bought a Cabbage Patch just to talk to him?”

“We talked for a long time, Jeff! And our hands touched!”

“I cannot deal with this,” Jeff groans, burying his head in his hands. “What are you going to do with that thing now?”

Eddie glances into the plastic bag. It’s the first time he’s actually looked at the thing. A red-headed doll with green eyes and freckles stares back at him with a painted-on smile. It’s fucking creepy.

“I didn’t think I was going to keep it!” He defends which sends Jeff on another tangent. One that fades into the background as Steve’s words from earlier ring in Eddie’s ears. “Wait! Steve mentions something earlier.”

“I’m sure he did.”

“No, I’m serious,” Eddie snaps, glaring at Jeff. “Apparently there's like a black market for these things. Maybe we can sell one and get enough to buy ourselves a decent miniature set for Hellfire or new speakers for Corroded Coffin.”

“You better hope so,” Jeff says, shaking his head. “Or else I’m never letting you live this down.”

[fukuzawa-armeddaddyagency]

Decided to put up my cabbage patch kids on a shelf, they bearly fit on one shelf- I have 13, like that's not enough! But sadly the pig & duck one I wanted aren't available on Amazon anymore :(

I can get a sloth or a penguin tho! ><

-🪽

That's nice. It's good to have lots of babies

[jokesfordayscom]

25 Hilarious County Fair Jokes That Will Make You Snort Like a Prize Pig

https://jokesfordays.com/?p=2311 25 Hilarious County Fair Jokes That Will Make You Snort Like a Prize Pig County fair season is here, and we’re all about celebrating those hilariously corny jokes that make these events so memorable. From pig races to pie contests, these annual gatherings are breeding grounds for some of the most groan-worthy punchlines you’ll hear all year. Table of Contents Toggle 10 Hilarious County Fair Jokes That Will Make You Snort With LaughterWhy County Fair Jokes Are the Perfect Way to Celebrate Rural TraditionsThe Universal Appeal of Agricultural HumorHow Fair Jokes Connect GenerationsBarnyard Blunders: Animal-Themed County Fair JokesCow and Livestock LaughsChicken and Pig PunchlinesBlue Ribbon Zingers: Competition-Related County Fair JokesBaking Contest QuipsPrize-Winning Vegetable HumorMidway Madness: Carnival Ride and Game JokesFerris Wheel WisecracksRigged Game GagsFair Food Funnies: Jokes About Deep-Fried EverythingCorn Dog ComedyTractor Pull Punchlines: Farm Equipment HumorJohn Deere vs. International Harvester JokesMuddy Field MishapsWeather Woes: County Fair Jokes About Rain, Heat, and DustSurprise Thunderstorm HumorSweltering Heat QuipsHow to Use County Fair Jokes to Entertain the Whole FamilyKid-Friendly Fair JokesAdult Humor That Still Keeps It CleanThe Best County Fair Joke Comebacks When Someone Teases Your HometownFrequently Asked QuestionsWhy are jokes such a big part of county fair culture?What types of jokes are most common at county fairs?What’s the history behind county fair humor?How do county fair jokes connect different generations?What makes animal-themed jokes so popular at county fairs?How can families use county fair jokes during their visit?Why are competition jokes such a staple of county fairs?What’s special about midway and carnival ride humor?How do weather jokes function at county fairs?What makes county fair food such a good subject for jokes? 10 Hilarious County Fair Jokes That Will Make You Snort With Laughter Why did the scarecrow win a blue ribbon at the county fair? Because he was outstanding in his field! You’ll find him standing tall among the agricultural exhibits, proudly displaying his award. What do you call a cow that’s just given birth at the livestock show? De-calf-inated! The farm animals at county fairs often provide the perfect setup for dairy good humor. How does a farmer count their cows? With a cow-culator! This joke always moo-ves the crowd at the 4-H competitions where young farmers showcase their prized livestock. Why don’t chickens tell jokes at the poultry barn? Because they might crack up! The feathered contestants at county fairs take their competitions very seriously even though their fowl attitudes. What did the corn say when it won first place? Aw shucks! You’ll hear plenty of corn-y puns like this while walking through the produce displays at your local fair. Why did the pig bring a suitcase to the county fair? He was bringing home the bacon! Pig races and livestock auctions are prime opportunities for pork-themed punchlines. What happens when a tractor gets old? It retires! You’ll spot plenty of vintage farm equipment at county fairs, showcasing the agricultural heritage of rural communities. How do farmers fix their jeans? With cabbage patches! The crafts pavilion at most county fairs features homemade clothing and quilts that would put any store-bought repair job to shame. What did the apple say to the pumpkin at the produce competition? “Stop being so seedy!” Fall harvest displays create the perfect backdrop for fruit and vegetable jokes that appeal to all ages. Why couldn’t the butter tell a joke? It kept spreading! This dairy delight is a key ingredient in many county fair baking competitions, from buttery pie crusts to rich, creamy frostings on prize-winning cakes. Why County Fair Jokes Are the Perfect Way to Celebrate Rural Traditions County fair humor goes far beyond simple punchlines—it represents a deep connection to agricultural heritage and rural community bonds. These jokes celebrate farming life’s unique challenges and triumphs while bringing people together through shared experiences. The Universal Appeal of Agricultural Humor Farm-centered jokes resonate with rural communities worldwide because they tap into timeless agricultural themes that everyone understands. “Don’t like the weather? Wait five minutes!” reflects the universal farmer’s struggle with unpredictable conditions that can make or break a harvest. Animal antics provide another rich source of humor, with stories of livestock mishaps creating laughter across generations. County fairs historically functioned as “farmer’s universities,” creating the perfect environment for humor to develop alongside practical knowledge exchange. We can see this educational-entertainment blend in jokes about children feeding raw materials to livestock, highlighting the hands-on learning experiences that shape rural identity. This combination helps preserve agricultural traditions while making them accessible to visitors who may have little direct farming experience but can still appreciate the relatable absurdities of rural life. How Fair Jokes Connect Generations The cyclical nature of fair humor creates powerful bonds between different age groups within rural communities. Decades-old joke cycles and traditional carnival barker routines establish continuity between historical and contemporary fair experiences. Youth agricultural competitions, which have been cornerstones of county fairs since their inception, continually generate fresh material while elderly fairgoers contribute nostalgic punchlines about farming practices from earlier eras. This intergenerational exchange reinforces shared cultural identity through humor that evolves yet remains firmly rooted in the cyclical patterns of agricultural life. The persistence of these jokes embodies what scholar Michael Marsden identifies as “the rhythms of festival life”—tying humor inextricably to place-based agricultural rituals. Fair jokes help communities process collective challenges like crop failures through laughter, fostering resilience while strengthening the cultural fabric that connects past, present, and future generations of rural Americans. Barnyard Blunders: Animal-Themed County Fair Jokes County fairs wouldn’t be complete without a healthy dose of animal-themed humor that celebrates our farmyard friends. These jokes capture the essence of rural life while providing laughs for visitors of all ages. Cow and Livestock Laughs Cows and livestock are favorite subjects for county fair comedians. “Why did the cow join the band at the fair? Because she wanted to be a moo-sician!” This classic joke never fails to get chuckles from the crowd as they stroll past the dairy exhibits. Farmers particularly enjoy sharing these bovine punchlines while showing off their prized cattle. Livestock humor extends beyond just cows too. We’ve heard countless fairgoers ask, “Why did the farmer bring a ladder to the county fair? He wanted to elevate his livestock to a new level!” These playful jests celebrate the agricultural traditions that form the backbone of county fairs while giving everyone something to smile about between judging events and tractor pulls. Chicken and Pig Punchlines Poultry provides plenty of material for fair comedians. “Why did the chicken go to the county fair? To show off its egg-cellent dance moves!” Chicken jokes at county fairs often play on egg puns and farming stereotypes that resonate with both rural and urban visitors alike. Pigs, as fair favorites, inspire their own category of humor. “Why did the pig go to the fair? He heard it was a hog-wild time!” Fair attendees love these swine-themed jokes while watching piglet races or visiting the livestock barns. Porcine punchlines work particularly well during competitions when the crowd is already engaged with these intelligent animals, creating memorable moments that celebrate agricultural heritage through laughter. Blue Ribbon Zingers: Competition-Related County Fair Jokes Competition is at the heart of any county fair, and naturally, it’s also at the center of some of the best fair humor. These jokes play on the anticipation, rivalry, and sometimes absurdity of county fair contests. Baking Contest Quips Baking competitions inspire some of the tastiest humor at county fairs. The classic line “Don’t count your chickens before the pie-eating contest” puts a delicious twist on the traditional idiom, perfectly capturing the unpredictable nature of these beloved events. Many contestants learn that “You can’t have your cake and eat it too, unless it’s a fair cake!” – a humorous take on competitive bakers who want both the glory of winning and the pleasure of enjoying their creation. The tension between participants often produces situations where the sweetest desserts come with the sourest rivalries, making these contests a recipe for comedic gold. Prize-Winning Vegetable Humor Oversized vegetables and peculiar produce provide fertile ground for county fair jokes. While wandering through displays of giant pumpkins and peculiarly shaped zucchinis, we often hear quips like “Why did the squash win? It couldn’t be squashed!” These jokes thrive on personification and exaggeration, giving personality to prize-winning produce. Farmers bringing their prized vegetables often joke that “their relationships with their carrots are deeply rooted.” The structure of fair puns like “Life is berry sweet at the county fair!” works perfectly when applied to the vegetable competition arena. Contestants proudly displaying their enormous tomatoes might declare they’re “sauced” with excitement, while cucumber growers are just “pickled” with anticipation about the judges’ decisions. Midway Madness: Carnival Ride and Game Jokes County fair midways capture the perfect blend of chaos and charm, creating an ideal backdrop for some of the funniest jokes you’ll hear. These carnival-themed quips play on the unique experiences we all share when visiting these beloved attractions. Ferris Wheel Wisecracks Ferris wheel jokes revolve around the amusing contrast between this ride’s leisurely pace and the general excitement of the carnival atmosphere. “The Ferris wheel offers a peaceful thrill” is a popular saying that perfectly captures this contradiction. Many fairgoers joke that it’s “the only ride where you can enjoy scenic shortcuts” as you slowly circle through the air. Clever wordplay often connects the wheel’s circular motion with “fair plots,” creating a double meaning that references both storytelling and the concept of fairness. We’ve found these jokes particularly effective when waiting in line, as they help pass the time while building anticipation for the peaceful view from the top. Rigged Game Gags Carnival games have earned their reputation for being notoriously difficult to win, spawning countless jokes about their seemingly impossible challenges. “Trying to win a goldfish is a serious fun challenge!” perfectly highlights the frustrating yet entertaining nature of these midway staples. Witty fairgoers often reference “shooting fish in a barrel” when discussing the perceived difficulty of carnival games, usually with a healthy dose of sarcasm. Puns like “tail-gate party” at the petting zoo areas and “fair fluffs” for cotton candy stalls add to the whimsical critique of game booth unpredictability. The oxymoronic humor of describing these games as “guaranteed random certainty” captures the essence of why we keep playing even though knowing the odds aren’t in our favor. Fair Food Funnies: Jokes About Deep-Fried Everything County fair food humor centers around those deliciously indulgent treats we can only justify eating once a year. From battered delicacies to sugar-coated confections, these jokes celebrate our love-hate relationship with fair cuisine. Corn Dog Comedy Corn dogs have become the ultimate prop for fair-related humor, inspiring both innuendo and self-deprecating jokes. “I’m on a seafood diet at the county fair… I see food, then corndog it!” plays on classic diet joke formats while adding that distinctive fair twist. Many fairgoers connect with blunt setups like “What’s brown and sticky? A corndog left in the sun all day!” These jokes work because they transform an iconic fair food into something universally relatable. Corn dog humor often blends nostalgia with practical observations about eating something unwieldy while walking around crowded fairgrounds. Tractor Pull Punchlines: Farm Equipment Humor Tractor pulls at county fairs bring out not just powerful machines but also hilarious moments that capture the unique blend of farm equipment culture and competitive spirit. From brand rivalries to muddy mishaps, the announcing booth often becomes an impromptu comedy stage. John Deere vs. International Harvester Jokes Brand loyalty runs deep in farming communities, creating the perfect foundation for playful rivalry jokes at tractor pulls. “Why don’t International Harvesters need GPS? They’re still lost in the 1950s!” represents the classic teasing between equipment enthusiasts at these events. John Deere owners often become targets too, with quips like “How do you spot a Deere owner at a fair? They’re the ones polishing their hoods between pulls.” These brand-exact jokes highlight the passionate communities that form around farm equipment, with friendly banter becoming as much a tradition as the pulls themselves. Announcers frequently leverage these rivalries to keep crowds entertained during competition lulls, knowing exactly which buttons to push for audience reaction. Muddy Field Mishaps Soggy conditions create prime comedy material at tractor pulls, with stuck machines inspiring some of the most memorable one-liners. Announcers commonly joke about particularly stuck competitors with lines like “That tractor’s so stuck, even the mosquitoes brought a tow strap!” Weather challenges transform ordinary pulls into comedy gold, especially when drivers make unsuccessful attempts to power through mud. “He’s not plowing—he’s auditioning for a mud-wrestling team!” reflects the play-by-play commentary that keeps audiences engaged during these struggles. Washington County Fair announcers have perfected the art of teasing drivers about “leaning back like lawn-chair test pilots” during weight-transfer maneuvers, blending technical observations with humor that resonates with knowledgeable audiences. The more dramatic the mud splatter, the more creative the jokes become, turning potential disappointments into entertaining moments that fair attendees remember long after the event ends. Weather Woes: County Fair Jokes About Rain, Heat, and Dust County fair weather brings its own brand of humor, with unpredictable conditions inspiring some of the funniest jokes you’ll hear on the fairgrounds. From sudden downpours to scorching temperatures, these weather-related quips keep spirits high no matter what Mother Nature throws at fairgoers. Surprise Thunderstorm Humor Rain at the county fair creates the perfect storm for clever punchlines that celebrate the irony of outdoor events meeting unexpected weather. “Every cloud has a silver lining… unless it’s a raincloud at the fair!” perfectly captures the optimism that quickly dissolves when dark clouds appear over the midway. Fairgoers often adapt classic sayings to fit their drenched circumstances, offering gems like “When life gives you lemons, trade them for cotton candy!” These jokes transform disappointment into shared laughter while everyone huddles under the nearest tent. Fair veterans know that unexpected weather twists provide the perfect backdrop for community bonding through humor, turning potential fair-ruining rain into memorable moments that attendees will recount year after year. Sweltering Heat Quips Hot county fair days inspire jokes that are almost as sizzling as the asphalt underfoot. “It’s a fair day when the sun is shining and the funnel cakes are frying!” connects the scorching temperatures to the beloved fried treats that tempt fairgoers from every direction. Waiting in ride lines during peak heat generates particularly creative humor, with people comparing standing in the roller coaster queue to trekking across the Sahara. Fair announcements sometimes play into this theme, suggesting that the heat is “just another attraction we didn’t charge extra for.” The relationship between fried food and fried fairgoers becomes a running gag throughout hot fair days, with jokes about people turning as golden-brown as the corn dogs they’re eating. These heat-related quips create a sense of camaraderie among sweaty attendees who understand that surviving the county fair in August takes equal parts determination and humor. How to Use County Fair Jokes to Entertain the Whole Family County fair jokes provide the perfect opportunity to create lasting memories and spark laughter during family outings. We’ve gathered some clever ways to incorporate these humorous quips into your next fair visit to keep everyone entertained. Kid-Friendly Fair Jokes Children naturally gravitate toward simple wordplay and puns that relate to familiar fair sights. The classic scarecrow joke, “Why did the scarecrow win an award at the fair? Because he was outstanding in his field!” never fails to generate giggles from younger audiences. Kids particularly enjoy sweet-themed humor like “Why is cotton candy so sweet? It’s sugar-coated evidence!” that connects directly to their favorite fair treats. Ride-related jokes also resonate well with children, such as “Why did the merry-go-round have a revolving door policy? Because everyone was dizzy!” These light-hearted punchlines create shared moments of joy while exploring the fairgrounds together. Adult Humor That Still Keeps It Clean Adults appreciate slightly more sophisticated wordplay without crossing into inappropriate territory. Jokes about fair activities offer perfect material, like “I’m just here for the pie-eating contest—I’m a real slice of the action!” that combines clever wordplay with fair traditions. Fair competitions provide rich material for adult-oriented humor that remains family-friendly. Magician-themed jokes such as “The magician’s tricks vanished without a trace at the fair!” appeal to grown-ups who enjoy subtle wordplay. Weather-related puns like “My friend said they were all about equality, but I said they were just looking for fair weather friends” offer that perfect balance of sophistication without excluding younger listeners. These jokes allow adults to participate in the fun while keeping conversations appropriate for all ages. The Best County Fair Joke Comebacks When Someone Teases Your Hometown County fair jokes capture the heart and soul of rural America with their blend of agricultural wit and community spirit. They’re more than just punchlines—they’re cultural touchstones that bring generations together through shared laughter. Whether you’re chuckling at livestock puns watching a pig race or groaning at corny jokes while eating a corndog these moments of humor create lasting memories. The jokes we’ve shared celebrate everything from prized pumpkins to midway madness. Next time you visit your local fair bring these jokes along and create your own. After all the true magic of county fair humor isn’t just in the telling—it’s in how it connects us all through laughter under the same big tent of rural tradition. Frequently Asked Questions Why are jokes such a big part of county fair culture? County fair jokes celebrate rural traditions and agricultural heritage while creating bonds within communities. These jokes reflect shared farming experiences and make agricultural traditions accessible to everyone. They serve as a way to connect generations, reinforce cultural identity, and help communities process collective challenges through laughter. What types of jokes are most common at county fairs? Animal-themed jokes about cows, chickens, and pigs dominate county fair humor. Competition-related jokes about baking contests and prize-winning vegetables are also popular. Other common categories include midway madness jokes (about rides and games), fair food funnies, tractor pull punchlines, and weather-related quips that reflect the unpredictable nature of outdoor events. What’s the history behind county fair humor? County fairs historically served as “farmer’s universities” where practical knowledge was shared. Humor developed alongside this education, making agricultural traditions more accessible. These jokes evolved to reflect the challenges of farming life while fostering community bonds. The tradition continues today, connecting present fairgoers with generations past through shared laughter. How do county fair jokes connect different generations? Fair jokes create bonds between different age groups by fostering intergenerational exchange. Older generations share traditional jokes with younger ones, who then adapt them with contemporary twists. This cyclical nature reinforces cultural identity while creating shared experiences that span generations, making county fairs a place where humor bridges age gaps. What makes animal-themed jokes so popular at county fairs? Animal jokes celebrate farmyard friends and rural life in an accessible way. They personify livestock with human traits and situations, creating relatable humor that resonates with fairgoers of all backgrounds. Examples like “Why did the cow join the band? To be a moo-sician!” connect visitors to agricultural traditions while providing light-hearted entertainment. How can families use county fair jokes during their visit? Families can use jokes to entertain everyone while navigating the fairgrounds. For kids, simple punchlines about scarecrows or animals work best. Adults might enjoy more sophisticated wordplay about fair activities and competitions. Sharing jokes while waiting in lines or between attractions creates shared moments of joy and memorable experiences. Why are competition jokes such a staple of county fairs? Competition is central to county fairs, making it natural fodder for humor. Jokes about baking contests (“Don’t count your chickens before the pie-eating contest”) and prize-winning vegetables capture the unpredictable nature of these events. The friendly rivalry between contestants often leads to comedic situations that everyone can relate to. What’s special about midway and carnival ride humor? Midway jokes capture the chaotic charm of county fair carnivals. Ferris wheel humor highlights the amusing contrast between the ride’s leisurely pace and the excitement below. Carnival game jokes playfully critique their notorious difficulty with punchlines about “guaranteed random certainty,” reflecting the whimsical frustration these games inspire. How do weather jokes function at county fairs? Weather jokes transform potential disappointments into shared laughter. With fairs being outdoor events, unpredictable conditions inspire humor like “Every cloud has a silver lining… unless it’s a raincloud at the fair!” These quips reflect fairgoers’ resilience and create camaraderie among attendees facing the elements together. What makes county fair food such a good subject for jokes? Fair food jokes celebrate the indulgent, unique treats that are synonymous with these events. Corn dogs, funnel cakes, and fried everything provide rich material for punchlines that blend nostalgia with relatable observations about eating while navigating crowded fairgrounds. These jokes acknowledge the special place fair food holds in American culture. Jokes For Days https://jokesfordays.com/?p=2311

[historytwist]

The Call of the Cross

Chapter One

Jean stabbed his shovel into the muck and cursed loud enough to scare a flock of crows off a corpse. The earth sucked at his boots like a greedy sow, each step a wet schlorp that smelled of despair and last week’s cabbage stew. Spring of 1096 had drowned the village fields in a brown sludge so thick it could swallow a man whole—or at least his dignity, which Jean was fast losing. His tunic, a rag of patched wool, clung to his skinny frame, soaked in sweat and the sour whiff of dung he’d been flinging all morning. Overhead, the sky sagged gray, a giant’s unwashed arse threatening to dump more rain on his head.

“Move, you lump of Satan’s snot!” he bellowed at the plow, which sat stuck in the mire like a drunk knight after a brawl. The wooden beast groaned, its blade bent from years of battling rocks and roots, and Jean kicked it hard enough to stub his toe through the hole in his boot. He hopped, howling, as a cow lumbered over from the field’s edge, its big dumb eyes glinting with menace. Before Jean could dodge, the beast yanked the soggy leather from his foot and started chewing, slobber dripping in ropes from its jaws.

“Oi! That’s mine, you hoofed thief!” Jean lunged, slipping in the mud and landing face-first in a puddle that tasted of regret and frog piss. The cow mooed—a deep, mocking bellow—and trotted off with his shoe dangling like a trophy. Jean clawed himself upright, spitting brown grit, when a shadow blotted the sky. He squinted up, expecting a hawk or a storm cloud, but no—it was a pigeon, plump and smug, circling like it owned the place. With a triumphant splut, it unloaded a white smear of crap square on his forehead.

Jean froze. The warm drip slid down his nose, plopped onto his lip, and he licked it by reflex before gagging. “A sign!” he croaked, staggering to his feet. “God’s anointed me, sure as Saint Swineherd got blessed by a falling pig!” He wiped the mess with a sleeve already caked in filth, grinning like a madman. The village church loomed on the hill above, a squat heap of stone and moss that looked like a fat lord who’d eaten too many peasants. Its bell clanged once, a dull bong that rattled his skull and sent the crows flapping again.

He’d been dreaming of something bigger than this festering patch of nowhere—something with swords and glory, not shovels and cow theft. Last night, he’d seen it in the fire: a golden cross blazing over a city of honey and trumpets, though the ale might’ve helped with the honey part. Now, with pigeon shit as his crown, Jean felt it stirring again—that itch to ditch the plow and chase whatever mad bastard was shouting about Jerusalem down in the valley.

The wind kicked up, carrying a whiff of the village: smoke, rotting hay, and the faint tang of Father Anselm’s incense, which smelled like burnt hope and old socks. Jean squinted at the church, imagining the priest up there waving his skinny arms, promising heaven to anyone dumb enough to listen. “Reckon I’m dumb enough,” Jean muttered, patting his chest where a lump of bread sat wrapped in a rag—his lunch, if the cow didn’t come back for it.

A rustle broke his daze. He turned, and there was the cow, back with a vengeance, now gnawing a stalk of wheat it’d ripped from the field’s edge. “Give me that shoe, or I’ll roast you and dance on your bones!” Jean roared, charging with his shovel raised. The cow blinked, dropped the wheat, and bolted, shoe still flapping in its mouth. Jean gave chase, slipping and sliding, until he tripped over a rock and landed in a heap beside a ditch. The cow vanished into the haze, leaving him sprawled in the mud, panting and cackling.

From the ditch came a croak—a fat frog, green as sin, staring at him with eyes like judgmental priests. “Jean,” it croaked, clear as day, and he jolted upright, heart hammering. “Jean, you daft sod, the call’s coming.” The frog burped, hopped into the muck, and was gone. Jean sat there, smeared in filth, pigeon crap drying on his brow, and grinned wider than ever. “A talking frog and a holy turd,” he said to the empty field. “Reckon that’s my summons.”

He hauled himself up, grabbed the plow’s handle, and started dragging it toward the village, humming a tune about a knight who fought a goose and lost. The crusade was calling, and Jean—muddy, shoeless, and possibly insane—was ready to answer.

Sir Geoffrey hunched over his notched blade in the sagging barn, a cavern of warped wood and straw that smelled like damp misery and forgotten oaths. The sword, a chipped relic from wars he’d rather not name, glinted dully in the slivers of light sneaking through the roof’s holes. He dragged a whetstone across its edge with a scrrrk that set his teeth rattling, muttering curses about the time he lost a battle to a flock of geese that wouldn’t stop honking. “Feathered bastards,” he growled, spitting a gob of phlegm into the straw dust swirling at his boots. It landed with a wet plop, and a rat scurried over to investigate, sniffing like a monk at a relic.

The barn creaked under a gust of wind, its walls leaning inward as if bowing to his sour mood. Geoffrey’s tunic—once fine wool, now a patchwork of stains and holes—itched against his broad chest, the sweat trickling down his back mingling with the tang of old ale and older regrets. His beard, a gray tangle thick enough to hide a dagger, bristled as he hacked a cough, the straw dust tickling his throat like a swarm of tiny devils. Outside, the blacksmith’s hammer clanged a dull rhythm—bang, bang, screech—a tune that sounded like a cat being throttled by a drunk minstrel. Geoffrey snorted. “Bloody fool’s forging a pot to piss in, no doubt.”

He hefted the blade, its weight pulling at his scarred hands, and squinted at the nicks—souvenirs from a dozen lost fights. “You’ve seen me through hell, you ugly thing,” he rasped, giving it a pat like it was a loyal hound. “That horse at Rouen, though—God’s teeth, what a mess.” He’d skewered his own steed mid-charge, a tale he’d never live down, especially since the beast screamed like a banshee all the way to the ground. The memory made him chuckle, a gravelly rumble that shook loose a cloud of dust from the rafters. It settled on his shoulders, a gritty halo for a knight who’d long since traded glory for grumbling.

A shadow flickered at the barn’s mouth, and Geoffrey’s head snapped up, hand twitching to the hilt. “Who’s there? Show your face or I’ll carve it off!” he bellowed, voice echoing off the beams. A scrawny lad stumbled in—Tom, the miller’s boy, all elbows and terror—clutching a sack of oats that looked suspiciously lumpy. “S-sir,” Tom stammered, “heard you was sharp’ning that blade again. Folk say you’re off to the Holy Land with the mad preacher.”

Geoffrey barked a laugh, loud enough to send the rat bolting for cover. “Peter the Hermit? That barefoot git who smells like goat sweat and miracles? I’d sooner march with a herd of dancing pigs.” He waved the sword, its tip wobbling dangerously close to Tom’s nose. “Last war I fought, I lost three toes to a puddle and my best cloak to a whore with sticky fingers. Crusades are for fools and priests with too much wine.”

Tom shuffled, oats spilling from a tear in the sack. One rolled toward Geoffrey and sprouted tiny legs, scuttling off into the straw like a drunken beetle. “B-but sir,” Tom pressed, “they say Jerusalem’s got gold walls and rivers of mead. Ain’t that worth a limp or two?”

“Mead, my arse,” Geoffrey snapped, slamming the blade onto a barrel. The wood split with a crack, spilling a swarm of spiders that danced a jig before vanishing into the gloom. “Gold’s just piss painted yellow, and rivers’ll drown you faster than a nun’s prayers. I’ve seen wars, boy—mud and guts and horses screaming while you’re stuck holding your own guts in.” He kicked the barrel’s remains, sending a plank flying into the wall, where it stuck like an arrow in a shield.

The blacksmith’s hammer faltered outside—bang, thud, clatter—and a yelp followed, sharp and panicked. Geoffrey grinned, a wolfish flash of teeth. “Sounds like he’s forged his thumb to the anvil again. Good. Keeps the bastard humble.” He turned back to the sword, running a calloused thumb along its edge until a bead of blood welled up. “Still sharp enough to gut a goose, if those feathered shits come back.”

Tom edged toward the door, sack dragging behind him. “So you ain’t going, then? Not even for God?”

Geoffrey paused, the word God hanging in the air like a fart in a chapel. He squinted at the barn’s far wall, where a faded cross—carved by some long-dead tenant—peered through the grime. The preacher’s voice had rolled through the village yesterday, wild and shrill, promising heaven to anyone daft enough to march. Geoffrey had laughed then, but now his gut twisted, a knot of old pride and older scars. “God don’t care for me,” he muttered, “but if He’s handing out free cities, might be I’d limp along for the ale.”

A sudden thwack shook the barn—a pigeon, fat and furious, had flown smack into the wall and flopped into the straw, twitching. Geoffrey stomped over, scooped it up by its limp neck, and held it aloft like a trophy. “See this, boy? God’s own messenger, drunk on divine wind! Maybe it’s a sign after all.” He cackled, tossing the bird out the door, where it landed with a splat in the mud beyond.

Tom bolted, oats tumbling in his wake, as Geoffrey turned back to his blade. He gave it one last grind against the stone—scrrrk—and slung it over his shoulder, the weight a familiar ache. The blacksmith’s hammer picked up again, a lopsided dirge, and Geoffrey stepped into the gray light, muttering, “Crusade or no, I’ll carve something outta this mess—geese beware.”

Marie hunched over a cracked wooden table in her dim hovel, pounding herbs with a rock the size of a baby’s skull. The air hung thick with the sour reek of sweat, damp earth, and something that might’ve been a dead mouse—or last week’s stew, she couldn’t recall. Her fingers, gnarled as old roots, ground the leaves into a gritty paste, green and bitter, while she cackled low in her throat like a crow with a secret. The hut’s walls—mud and sticks lashed together with spite—leaned inward, dripping with moss that glistened like a slug’s trail in the flickering light of a single tallow candle. Its flame spat and danced, casting shadows that looked like devils doing a jig.

“Faster, you lazy weed,” she hissed at the herbs, slamming the rock down with a thunk that shook the table. A sprig of thyme twitched, as if trying to flee, and she pinned it with a glare. “Think you’ll escape me? I’ve boiled tougher than you in my pot.” Her voice was a rasp, sharp enough to cut glass, and her lips curled into a grin that showed more gum than teeth—blackened stubs from years of chewing whatever grew wild and cursing the rest.

The door, a sagging slab of warped wood, creaked open, and in shuffled a peasant, his face pale as curdled milk, coughing like a dog choking on a bone. “Marie,” he wheezed, clutching his chest, “I’m dying, I reckon. Gimme somethin’—quick, afore the worms get me!” A wet hack sprayed spittle across the floor, and something wriggled in it—a worm, fat and pink, slithering toward her table. Marie’s eyes narrowed, and she scooped it up with a twig, dangling it like a prize.

“Dying, are you? Looks like you’re birthing a whole sodding family down there,” she snapped, flicking the worm into a clay pot where it plopped with a satisfied squelch. The peasant blinked, swaying on his feet, his tunic a rag of sweat and filth that matched the hut’s charm. “What’s it this time, eh? Cough? Pox? Did ya eat that moldy bread again, you daft lump?”

He nodded, miserable, and hacked again, loud enough to rattle the roof. “Aye, the bread. Tasted funny—like sin and sorrow—but I was hungry.” His eyes watered, pleading, and Marie rolled hers so hard they nearly fell out of her skull.

“Sin and sorrow’s what you get for being a greedy git,” she said, snatching a dried toad from a string hanging above her head. Its shriveled legs dangled, and she waved it in his face like a priest with a censer. “Here—holy salve, straight from Saint Toadbert’s arse. Rub it on your chest and pray, or don’t, I don’t care. Just stop dripping snot on my floor.” She thrust it into his trembling hands, and he stared at it, mouth agape, as if she’d handed him a lump of gold—or poison.

“Is it… blessed?” he croaked, clutching the toad tighter. A leg snapped off with a dry crack, and he yelped, dropping it into the dirt.

“Blessed? It’s cursed enough to scare the rot outta you,” Marie barked, kicking the broken toad toward him with a bare foot caked in grime. “Now get out afore I hex you into a turnip!” She lunged forward, arms flapping like a mad hen, and the peasant bolted, tripping over the threshold and landing face-first in the mud outside with a muffled sob. The door slammed shut behind him, rattling the walls, and Marie turned back to her table, muttering, “Fools. All of ‘em, fools.”

She sank onto a stool—three legs and a prayer holding it up—and rubbed her hands together, the paste staining her palms a sickly green. The candle flared, throwing her shadow against the wall, and for a moment it looked wrong—too tall, too sharp, with a third eyebrow sprouting above the others. She froze, heart thumping, and touched her forehead where a scar itched under her tangled hair. “Not today, you bastard,” she whispered, glaring at the shadow as if it might argue back. It didn’t—just shrank to normal, leaving her scowling at nothing.

Outside, the wind howled, carrying whispers from the village—talk of crusades, of Peter the Hermit and his wild promises. Marie spat into the dirt floor, a wet plink that summed up her thoughts. Jerusalem? Heaven? She’d seen enough of men’s dreams—bloody fists and broken screams—and wanted none of it. Her past was a shadow she wouldn’t name, a weight heavier than the rock in her hand, and she’d sooner sell fake relics to these mud-caked idiots than march off to die for some preacher’s rant.

A rooster crowed—inside the hut, somehow—its red comb bobbing as it strutted out from under a pile of rags. Marie blinked, then shrugged. “Fair enough,” she said, tossing it a crumb of herb paste. It pecked, clucked, and promptly keeled over, legs stiff in the air. She cackled again, louder this time, and went back to her grinding. “Better you than me, cock-a-doodle.”

Father Anselm stood atop the pulpit like a scarecrow struck by lightning, his gaunt frame swaying in the drafty church as he waved a femur he swore was Saint Peter’s shinbone. The sanctuary—a crumbling heap of stone and guilt—reeked of damp wool, sour breath, and the faint musk of unwashed piety. Candle stubs flickered on the altar, their wax dripping like tears onto a cloth so threadbare it might’ve been woven by moths. The wooden benches creaked under the weight of the village faithful, a grubby herd of peasants in tunics patched with desperation, their eyes wide and glassy as Anselm’s voice cracked the quiet like a thunderclap.

“Jerusalem!” he bellowed, thrusting the femur skyward, its knobby end wobbling as if nodding along. “The Holy Land calls, ye miserable sods! God’s own city, choked with heathens and ripe for the taking!” His face, all hollow cheeks and fever-bright eyes, glowed in the candlelight, sweat beading on his brow despite the spring chill seeping through the walls. His robes—frayed sackcloth dyed with what might’ve been piety or old stew—flapped as he gestured, and a gust from a cracked window sent a cloud of dust swirling around him, a gritty halo for a man half-mad with holy fire.

The congregation shifted, boots scuffing the dirt floor, a symphony of squeaks and grunts. Old Meg in the front row wheezed, clutching a rosary made of dried beans that rattled like a snake’s tail. “Heaven, you say?” she croaked, her voice a rasp of doubt and phlegm. Anselm whirled on her, femur pointed like a spear, and she shrank back, beans clattering to the ground where they rolled off into the shadows, giggling faintly.

“Aye, heaven!” he roared, slamming the bone onto the pulpit with a thwack that echoed off the rafters. “For any fool daft enough to march! Ye think God’s sittin’ up there, twiddlin’ His thumbs? Nay, He’s watchin’, waitin’ for ye to crawl outta this muck and claim yer reward!” He swept his free hand across the room, as if painting a vision of golden spires and angelic choirs, though most saw only the mildew creeping up the walls. A goat—nobody knew whose—bleated from the back, a loud baaa that sounded like “amen,” and half the crowd nodded, taking it as divine approval.

Anselm’s voice climbed higher, shrill and piercing, a banshee’s wail wrapped in scripture. “The cross! The cross is yer banner, ye stinking lot! Peter the Hermit’s out there, barefoot and bellowing, and ye’ll follow or burn!” He shook the femur again, and a chunk of it snapped off, tumbling into the lap of a gap-toothed lad named Wat. The boy yelped, holding it aloft like a prize, and Anselm grinned, wild and toothy. “See? A relic for the faithful! Saint Peter’s blessing on ye, Wat—now march or I’ll shove it up yer nose!”

Wat clutched the bone, eyes bulging, as a ripple of gasps and murmurs spread through the pews. A woman near the door—Big Agnes, broad as a barrel—stood up, her shawl slipping to reveal a third nipple that winked like an extra eye. “What’s it pay, then?” she barked, hands on hips. “I ain’t trudging to some sandy hell for nothin’ but prayers and blisters!” The crowd muttered agreement, and a skinny man in the corner—Jankin, the tanner—retched into the offering bowl, the splash of bile cutting through the tension like a knife.

Anselm didn’t flinch. “Pay?” he screeched, leaping atop the pulpit now, balancing on its edge like a deranged acrobat. “Eternal life, ye greedy cow! Streets of gold and rivers of wine—better than the swill ye choke down here!” He pointed at Jankin, still heaving, and laughed, a high, jagged cackle that bounced off the ceiling. “Even that sod’ll get a throne if he drags his sorry arse to Jerusalem—God loves a fool, and ye’re all His favorites!”

The goat bleated again, louder, and charged the aisle, headbutting a bench and sending it toppling. Peasants scattered, shrieking, as the beast gnashed at a stray bean, its eyes glinting with unholy glee. Anselm clapped his hands, delighted, and hopped down, femur raised like a scepter. “A sign! The Lord’s own beast says go! Who’s with me, eh? Who’ll take the cross and stomp the devil’s guts out?” He swung the bone in an arc, and a gust of wind snuffed half the candles, plunging the church into a murky glow where shadows danced like demons at a feast.

A hand shot up—Jean, muddy and grinning, pigeon crap still crusting his brow from the field. “I’m in, Father! Got a frog told me so!” he shouted, waving like a lunatic. Anselm’s eyes locked on him, gleaming, and he thrust the femur forward, nearly toppling off the pulpit again. “Blessed be the mad ones! Jean, ye’ll lead the charge—or at least trip over it!” The crowd tittered, a nervous ripple of laughter, until Big Agnes belched loud enough to shake the rafters, silencing them all.

Then it happened—a fart, wet and thunderous, ripped through the back row. Heads turned, fingers pointed, and a wiry man in a hood bolted for the door, leaving a stench that curled the candle flames. Anselm howled with joy, pounding the pulpit. “The devil flees! Ye see? God’s wind drives him out! March, ye bastards, march!” He started chanting, a garbled mash of Latin and nonsense—“Deus vult, ye stinky sots!”—and the goat joined in, bleating a harmony that sounded like a drunk choir.

The peasants surged to their feet, some cheering, some sobbing, one old coot fainting dead away into a puddle of Jankin’s sick. A candle tipped, sparking a straw heap by the altar, and flames licked up fast, orange tongues kissing the beams. “Fire for the faithful!” Anselm roared, unfazed, as the crowd stampeded out, dragging the goat and Wat’s relic with them. Jean lingered, clutching his chest where his bread-lump sat, grinning at the chaos like it was Christmas morn.

Anselm stayed put, femur aloft, preaching to the empty church as smoke thickened. “To the Holy Land, ye daft lot! God’s countin’ yer blisters!” A rafter groaned, sagging under the fire’s weight, and he cackled again, eyes wild with visions of crusades and burning pews. Outside, the bell clanged—bong, bong—a lopsided dirge as the village caught the fever, ready to march or just to flee the blaze. Anselm didn’t care which, so long as they went.

[thelemonzone42]

Holly Santapaws

It was a cold Christmas Eve and Jess and Lily were escorting her grabby and hungry geese from the cabbage patch to a pond. After feeding the rabbits, guinea pigs and tortoises some lettuce and carrots, Mrs. Hart gave the geese the same vegetables. She also told them that they’re pairs for life when they fly down for the winter.

After she left, Jess and Lily remembered that they have to go to the Christmas Wedding of Mr. Cleverfeathwr and his fiance Miss. Sweetbeak.

When Goldie showed up, it was time for the wedding preperations.

When they arrived to Friendship Forest, it was snowing. Goldie introduced the girls to Mr. Cleverfeather’s inventing apprentice. Holly Santapaws, who is a white puppy. She offered them her Toasty Toffees(Which makes the person who eats it warm all day) but they were too warm. Although they didn’t work, they were tasty.  After cheering the pup up, they decided to go and meet the blushing bride.

Friendship Forested was decorated with candles, tinsel and Christmas carolers. It was nothing that Jess and Lily had ever seen.

They arrived at Miss. Sweetbeak’s Unique Boutique, where they met Mr. CLEVERFEATHER’a fiancé, ‘Miss. Sweetbeak’. She is a snow owl who is as beautiful as a blushing bride and has speech-impairment, just like Mr.Cleverfeather. She has desgigned clothes and accessories for the patrons of Friendship Forest and brings out their inner beauty. She has made special dresses for Jess and Lily for Christmas. When Miss. Sweetbeak asked them to be her bridesmaids and Holly to be the flower girl, they accepted the offer. She told the girls to give Mr. Cleverfeather to give him his Christmas present, an embroidered vest she made herself.

By the time they reached his workshop, Mr. Cleverfeather started to get wedding jitters. The ice sculpting machine, the music player and the confetti machine were out of whack and the reindeer to pull the wedding sleigh hasn’t shown up. The girls, Goldie and Holly will assure that it will all be fine by tomorrow.

To start their search, the quartet decided to check Holly’s tool shed for any clues. Unfortunately, they could only find the Dancing Shoes Holly has been inventing for Mr. Cleverfeather. Just as she was about to explain what was wrong with them, they heard an EVIL cackle. It was Grizela, she had come to ruin Christmas and Friendship Forest with her new ice monster henchmen. She grabbed Holly’s confetti machine and turned it into a, ‘Muck Machine’ with her evil magic. With one blast, everything became mucky and gross. Without time to hesitate, the trio decided to head back to the Unique Boutique to check on Miss Sweetbeak.

They passed through the filthy disgusting muck and into the shop where they found Miss. Sweetbeak heartbroken and the dresses for the wedding ruined. Miss. Sweetbeak worked hard on the dresses, she’d even preserved all of her shedded feathers since she was a little owlet. They couldn’t just give up now. Holly came in with a special Bubble Paint Potion that was supposed to make bubbles that pop out in blue paint. Unfortunately, it makes ANYthing clean instead. Hearing the word, ‘Anything’ Jess and Lily suggested thata she should dump it into the river and hope that it’ll clean the entire forest. 

At the river, the ice monsters were having a waater break, much to Grizelda’s dismay. Holly quickly poured the cleaning potion into the blue river and a variety of bubbles came up and about. Everywhere the big blue bubbles went they popped and made Friendship Forest sparkly clean. Grizelda was horrofied by the cleanliness. She tried to make it mucky again, but Holly immediately clogged the machine with her Toasty Toffee. WHAM! Grizelda immediately got covered in muck and flew off with her ice creatures flying behind her.

Everyone congratulated Holly for her bravery, including Miss. Sweetbeak. Before they could celebrate, they saw a kite flying towards them. The kite was made of invention diagrams made by Mr. Cleverfeather and it had a phrase written in black, ‘Melp He’. That can only mean one thing, he’s in trouble.

They arrived at Mr. Cleverfeather’s treehouse, only to see Grizelda lock him away and making off with his Merry Music Machine. They started to search for Grizelda, her ice monsters and the Merry Music Machine. They searched high and low until Lily heard an out-of-tune version of, ‘Ding Dong, Merrily On High’. Instead of sounding like bells, piano and flute, the music sounded like a screeching violin, rusty trumpets, and outdated drums. The music was so loud that small balls of snowballs  became big ones. It was an AVALANCHE. The girls, Goldie Holly, and Miss. Sweetbeak got away as fast as they could. The snowballs rolled down and covered the houses with snow. 

They needed a way to stop the snowy madness and save the good citizens of Friendship Forest. REmembering the Dancing Shoes that weren’t working, Jess got an idea. She believed that Holly could use the haywire Dancing Shoes to trick Grizelda into leaving. Unfortunately, there was no time to go back to the shed. So they decided to go to the local cobbler, ‘Billy Stroutfoot’ the goat to request a pair that is similar. He made a similar pair with purple gemstones and bells. 

At the river, Grizelda was getting annoyed by the water in her shoes. and it worked. Grizelda shook so hard that the key to Mr. Clever feather’s home fell out. Jess quickly snatched it and ran as fast as she could. Holy still has the kite that Mr. Clever used to get help.

Miss. Sweetbeak said that it’s in her snow owl nature to know about snow. 

They arrived at Mr. Cleverfeather’s . Holly fixed up the Confetti Machine and the Dancing Shoes while she was at it. It was getting late.

They arrived at The Santapaws residents where they found Mrs. Santapaws putting out a plate of gingerbread cookies and strawberry tarts. Holly’s cousins and Mrs. Santapaws’ adoptive family, ‘The Swiftpaws’ were coming over tomorrow for Christmas. For their gift, Holly decided to give her cousins her Cleaning Potion, since they get their paws dirty all the time. 

The next day, Mrs. Santapaws fixed up some chocolate pancakes with berry sauce, toasted buns, cinnamon porridge with honey it and hot cocoa. The Swiftpaws arrived with presents for Holly and her family. However, presents can wait because Jess and Lily have to help with final preperations for the wedding.

Along the way, they saw ice sculptures that looked very convincing. When they arrived at the boutique, they couldn’t help but notice that the entire shop was vacant. The only thing standing in the middle, was a statue of Miss. Sweetbeak in her wedding gown, horrified and frozen. That’s when Jess, Lily, Goldie and Holly knew the statues were real. The girls, Holly and Goldie knew they had to get to Grizelda’s tower, fast. Fortunately, HErmia and her Messenger Butterflies avoided capture by hiding as decorations. Goldie told them to contact The Swiftpaws, because they wouldn’t reach the tower in time if they went on foot. 

A few minutes later, The Swiftpaws arrived in their sled and took our heroes to Grizelda’s tower. They needed a way to get up to the top of the towers. Suddenly, Holly remembered that her Toasted Toffee is extremely sticky. Lily, Jess, Goldie, and Holly covered their hands with Toasted Toffee and climbed their way up. Holly also brought her backpack with her. As they got to the top, Holly got out her Ice Machine, which was suppose to make ice sculptures. Unlike the ones who Grizelda froze. While taking a glance at the poorly-done Christmas tree covered with real bats and broken ornaments, the monsters flew in from above.

Holly fired her Ice Machine, but only to unleash steam and mist, which thawed the monsters. As it turned out, the monsters were the missing Sparklehoofs Sisters, the reindeer who were suppose to carry the happy couple. They consisted of Mistletoe, Ivy, Berry. 

One by one, they hopped onto the reindeers back, Holly activated her machine and they flew off to thaw out the patrons, all while singing, The Holly and The Ivy.

After that, it was time for the wedding ceremony. Owls don’t exchange rings, so Mr. Cleverfeather and Miss. Sweetbeak exchanged beautiful necklaces made from white and red beads. After they were pronounced married, it was time for the wedding reception at the Toadstool Cafe. The Sparklehoof sisters carried them in their sleigh, leaving behind a trail of sparkles that taste like sugar cookies. 

The Toadstool Cafe looked exactly like a gingerbread house, just like the ones Mrs. Hart makes every year. The wedding colors were Green and red and there were silver bells and mistletoes on each of the tables. One by one, Mr. And Mrs. Cleverfeather gave the guests their party favors. Lily got a wooden lily for her room, Jess got a wooden ball for her cat, ‘Pixie’, Goldie got a wooden jewelry box, and Holly got a wooden picture frame. In the picture was her and Mr. Cleverfeather from last year’s Christmas.

The cafe served Sweet root soup, hazelnut patties, stawberry meringues, rasberry buns, and chocolate cream cake.  Afterwards it was time for the wedding dance. After Mr. And Mrs. Cleverfeather danced to Silent Night, Jess and Lily decided to perk up the wedding with their makeup dance, ‘The Wiggle Jiggle Giggle’..

When the wedding was over, Mr. And Mrs. Cleverfeather flew off to their honeymoon in the Snowcat Mountain.Jess and Lily changed back back into their regular clothes and found silver roses in their jacket pockets. Inside was a note from Mrs. Cleverfeather

Dear Less and Jilly

Thank you for supporting me on my wedding way.

As a token of our affections

Please have these silver roses and you can keep the jesses and drackets.

Love, Mrs. Sweetbeak-Cleverfeather.

Jess and Lily decided that incase their parents ask where they got the jackets and bridesmaids jackets, they’ll say that a boutique owner gave it to them for free.

Back in Brightley, Jess and Lily saw the geese flying off, assuming that they’re going on their honeymoon just like The Cleverfeatahers. Jess and Lily held each other’s hands and took off to the animal hospital with their silver roses in their hands. 

The End.

[scots-gallivanter]

ONE

And lykewise I assure you that our nation will never agree to have an Englishman king of Scotland. And though the whole nobility of the realm would consent, yet our common people, and the stones in the street would rise and rebel against it.

SIR ADAM OTTERBURN of Redhall, The State Papers and Letters of Sir Ralph Sadler, Vol.1 (1809)

THIS GLINTLESS MARCH morning whaups pipe into a wind from the north and a pigeon chuckles from a stunted spruce tree. I tramp into a watering can which was possibly last used in the heyday of Al Jolson. How it ended up buckled in this forgotten scrubland is anyone’s guess. I’m walking Europe’s first artificial frontier: part of the ‘Debatable Land’.

Sentimentality had attracted me here: the call for Scottish independence was the zeitgeist, and it seemed rude not to check out the Scots Dike, part of the border between Scotland and England. Alas, however, Scheduled Ancient Monument number 294 is a ghost of the border that was delineated in 1552; it is a frontier that is hard to find nowadays; and there is nothing to advertise its existence off the busy A7 Carlisle to Edinburgh road near Canonbie.

A few miles away, to ensure that their burgh boundaries have not been encroached, the people of Langholm have symbolically patrolled them at the Common Riding every July for generations. One of the least trumpeted historical monuments in Scotland has clearly been more than encroached; it has been defiled. This is the Scots Dike, a divider of national identities built in accordance with an international treaty to pacify a no-man’s land run by cut-throats; it is vanishing into the topography.

Until the foresters came, the dike was a rampart that ran between the rivers Sark and Esk; a conspicuous memorial to terrain that had been as turbulent as the Hell’s Kitchen of gangster movies would become. Between 10 and 13 miles long by three-and-a-half miles to eight miles wide, the Debatable Land was a hotbed of desperados bounded on the south by the Solway Firth, and in the north by Tarras Moss. Grahams and Armstrongs ran these hag lands – godfathers of rustling and pillage, devoid of patriotism, who switched their allegiance between England and Scotland with the wind. It was a disputed principality ruled by the hoodlums of their day: Clym of the Cleugh, Hobbie Noble, Davy the Lady, and Pig’s Pyntle Elliot.

In 1525 that well-known burner of heretics, Gavin Dunbar, Archbishop of Glasgow, put a profound curse on the reivers. The 1500-word tract of fire and brimstone was read from every pulpit in the borderlands. Here’s a taster:

‘I curse their head and all the hairs of their head; I curse their face, their brain [innermost thoughts], their mouth, their nose, their tongue, their teeth, their forehead, their shoulders, their breast, their heart, their stomach, their back, their wombs, their arms, their legs, their hands, their feet, and every part of their body, from the top of their head to the soles of their feet, before and behind, within and without.

‘I curse them going and I curse them riding; I curse them standing and I curse them sitting; I curse them eating and I curse them drinking; I curse them rising, and I curse them lying; I curse them at home, I curse them away from home; I curse them within the house, I curse them outside of the house.

‘I curse their wives, their children, and their servants who participate in their deeds. I bring ill wishes upon their crops, their cattle, their wool, their sheep, their horses, their swine, their geese, their hens, and all their livestock. I bring ill wishes upon their halls, their chambers, their kitchens, their stanchions, their barns, their cowsheds, their barnyards, their cabbage patches, their plows, their harrows, and the goods and houses that are necessary for their sustenance and welfare.’

The hex went on ad nauseam to invoke all the plagues of Egypt and the pits of Hell, and it willed eternal damnation, bonfires, and perpetual, grisly malevolence, and purgatory.

In 1551 Crown officers of both England and Wales declared: ‘All Englishmen and Scottishmen are and shall be free to rob, burn, spoil, slay, murder and destroy all and every such person or persons, their bodies, buildings, goods and cattle as do remain upon any part of the debatable land, without any redress to be made for the same.’ It was the long goodbye for the likes of Ill Drooned Geordie, Wynking Will, Nebless Clem, Buggerback, Archie Fire-the-Braes, Fingerless Will, and Wee Jok Pott the Bastard.

After the Treaty of Norham in 1552 two parallel ditches were excavated, and the earth was piled in the middle to form a mound between four and six feet high, and eight to nine feet wide. Diggers started at both ends and planned to meet in the centre but they failed to join up by 21 feet. Stones bearing the arms of Scotland and England were erected at either end of this forerunner of the African and US state lines, and eight other sandstone boulders were walloped deep into the bog land.

John Taylor, alias ‘the Kings Majesties Water Poet’, walked from London to Edinburgh in the 1610s and had a book published called The Pennyles Pilgrimage (he freeloaded the whole way, thanks to members of the nobility, whom he flattered –and he extolled the Union of the Crowns whenever he could). He wrote: ‘Some sharking, shifting, cutting throats, and thieving.

Each taking pleasure in the other’s grieving.

And many times he that had wealth to-night,

Was by the morrow morning beggared quite:

Too many years this pell-mell fury lasted,

That all these borders were quite spoil’d and wasted,

Confusion, hurly-burly reign’d and revell’d.

The churches with the lowly ground were levell’d;

All memorable monuments defaced,

All places of defence o’erthrown and razed.’

Stinkhorns rule in this dank fastness now; an uprooted birch trespasses in Scotland like an ent out of Lord of the Rings. Fog belongs here, along with damp-loving organisms that grow out of glaury holes. Brushwood and scrub straddle countries; oaks that grew out of the dike have been reduced to trunks. Several saplings still stand like skinny sentinels. It’s like a scene out of a Mad Max film. You have to zig-zag between Scotland and England to dodge obstacles. A burn gushes out of the dike. Much of the northernmost ditch has been erased, long ago colonised for the drainage of successive plantations. Fences criss-cross the dike and the lack of stiles indicates a dearth of walkers, as does a rickety bridge that cannot have seen human feet for decades.

A deer darts from England into the Duke of Buccleuch’s Scottish acres. I trudge between ditches, neither in England nor in Scotland – in limbo until I get to the next marker stone, which is two-and-a-half-feet proud of the ground next to a decaying jumble of barbed wire and fence posts. Towards the end of this Krypton Factor hangs the ultimate sacrilege: a blue plastic container labelled Teat Dip, nailed to a tree, clearly commandeered as a dispenser of pheasant fodder.

Our border is obliterated; but the rot set in many years ago. The easternmost stone had long disappeared by the time of the first world war when James Logan Mack, an Edinburgh academic, recorded the vandalism. Astonishingly, a service railway line had been lain down on top of the dike. Mack recalled in his book The Border Line in 1924: ‘The method of dealing with the removal of tree trunks was to fasten chains to them, which in turn were attached to a locomotive, and as they were dragged away, they tore to its very foundation this precious old relic of the sixteenth century.’

Had the destruction of this relic been deliberate, it could hardly have been done in a more effective manner. I rang the press offices of Historic Environment Scotland and English Heritage, but I would have been as well asking for the exact chemical composition of Martian rock, and who can blame them? South of the dike, English Heritage said it had been scheduled as an ancient monument in 1949. The organisation advocated ‘good management’ and its spokesman was concerned to hear of any dereliction.

The Registrars of Scotland have no recorded title. Theoretically, ownership runs to the middle of the mound, but what mound? Scheduling came too late for this significant part of our national heritage, and uncertainty over who owns what in the border scrubland proves that it is still debatable land.

‘With the explosion of interest in walking, to say nothing of history, its restoration would prove an attraction,’ suggested Alistair Moffat in The Reivers (2007). ‘The Scots Dike is one of the most substantial and tangible memories from the age of the Reivers.’

Dumfries and Galloway was one of only two regions of Scotland to say no to tax-raising powers for a Scottish parliament. Perhaps the ruination of south-west Scotland’s own mini-Hadrian’s Wall serves the populace right.

Were he alive today the poet Hugh MacDiarmid, who was born in nearby Langholm, may well have had something vituperative or polemical to say about such cultural vandalism. MacDiarmid loved Eskdale, although he wasn’t encouraged to return to his native ‘Muckle Toon’ after he spread his wings: his waywardness and outspokenness, his irreverence and radical politics made him unpopular among the burgh’s ‘grocerocracy’ (a term coined by the late Dougie Rome, with whom I worked on the Cumberland News). MacDiarmid wrote of the delights ‘of sledging on the Lamb Hill or Muirholm Brae; of gathering hines in the Langfall; of going through the fields of Bascara hedged in honeysuckle and wild roses, through knee-deep meadowsweet to the Scrog-nit Wood and gathering nuts or crab-apples there; of blaeberrying on Warblaw or the Castle Hill; of dookin and guddlin or making islands in the Esk or Ewes or Wauchope and lighting stick fires on them and cooking potatoes in tin cans.’ (My Native Place, 1931).

[weizhentian]

[ image description: A black guinea pig facing left, with a bald patch on her flank showing spotted skin. She is resting on the belly of a person wearing a gray shirt. ]

[ image description: A black guinea pig on two legs leaning on a hand with a bald spot on her side showing spotted skin. She is standing on a person wearing a gray shirt who has the right leg crossed over the other. ]

So these were photos taken back when Eggplant was losing her hair from ovarian cysts.

Vitiligo is rare in guinea pigs but my vet was familiar enough to point it out. Her lips, ears, and feet were all spotty like this.

[ image description: A black guinea pig facing left, with white streaks in her fur. She is sitting on a brightly-colored towel on someone's lap that is green orange, and blue. There is a stuffed animal shaped like a mushroom to the left in the background. ]

[ image description: a top-down view of a black guinea pig on a teal fleece. To her right is a paper plate with tomato, cucumber, and cabbage on it. Her fur is streaked with white.

Her hair was streaked with white. She had a white eyebrow marking above her left eye.

[ image description: a black guinea pig with her head raised so that her nose and lips are visible while her eyes are not. Her lips are pulled back to show her teeth. The black lips have gray spots on them. ]

Her lips were spotty.

[the-firebird69]

🚨 Irish Guy Get's Knockout By Puerto Rican At Edgar Berlanga Fight❗️

This happened 10 minutes ago as a result of BG and his show about Comic-Con. He's a little weasel and he weasels his way in front of people and ruins their day and takes what they want I'm tired of our son having the bow and cow to and now to this little teeny guy is ridiculous it's getting stupid and people have children coming up and saying dumb things and he has to defend himself against a little b**** kid and that kid got wrecked and died. And it's gone it was the cabbage patch kid and who cares we don't want to hear that s*** and they're disgusting and it's kids of BG and he's decided to try to do something about it they invited him to karaoke and messed him up and took his clothes in and for tons of stuff Anderson says the pachico I mean Jesus Christ you don't get around to you you sit there and say you're my friend and s*** and I don't believe you the whole time it's just annoying a****** and a pile of assholes following me around. And Stan yeah he's a winner too good for you he's an a****** I don't like you people in the first place but boy did you mistake with your f****** role is. And people have to be nice to the Future what weaponry and you're not going to get any bG no inventions you're cut off and you're dead too for what you're saying I'm putting a hit on you now. And I got to take over your bicycle company because apparently you won't have said any parts if I need them so it's not going to be yours it shouldn't be because it's my idea. Oh boy what a f****** loser. And your sales campaign is mine it's something you did only part of it cuz you're a loser you think it's going to your people or something you can see everybody riding them and what an idiot

Zues Hera

I say make it up to him but he's telling you you've been out for a long time I'm done for a long time I believe him too you just sit there saying it's your friend and stuff you're a f****** moron and a mongoloid you have no f****** clue at all like most of these idiots I'm trying to be friendly and it's impossible I'm doing a similar thing but we sit there and help him and give him stuff and get him stuff and you're not and he says we're in trouble and we appreciate the post and we don't like this guy he's such a dick you don't want to go to comic Con and have a little fantasy life at all he's living the real thing and he's getting rid of you now that's his job it's one of the other he has a life and we make what it is so he's doing what he's doing the back proper wrong too to allow you to do it he says it's all true and going through this now is not that hard he's starting to not like to talk because it works for him but really it's not necessary it's a lot worse than that now he's saying because he has to take over in order for his people or himself to have anything and he learned it from this treatment that people like you do PG you're not a hero at all you're a pig

Crissy

It's very true that's what he is and he's a loser just like Trump

Thor Freya

Olympus

[houseofcabral]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Cabbage Patch Soft Body Baby Doll.

[eremorte]

I could get past the growls myself as she will always have the excuse of a sore throat. (Her voice also has a slight rasp in it which makes it more believable). What has set me off is the constant wolf-centric phrases in conjunction with the constant growling. Possible alternatives below the cut.

Sewing/fabric puns:

”Not to go against the grain but…”

(after sitting for too long) “My legs feel like pins and needles”

“There’s a loose thread here”/"Tying up loose threads"

(to Ramona) “I will shred you into coleslaw” credit to Bernadette Banner. (Cabbage was a a term in ye olden days for fabric scraps. She had a pile of even scrappier fabric hence coleslaw) also if Cerise just had the curse/catch phrase of “Cabbage” that would have been so funny.

“That’s warped” (warp, weft, weaving)

“Stick a pin in it”

“Pin-tuck and roll” (Ramona for when she gets cooked by the pigs) (pintucks are the tiny folds in clothing which can be let out as the wearer grows. Think old blouse)

"To make a picnic-blanket statement"

"I'm sure it'll mend itself"

"I'll patch it up"

"I'll be back in a stitch"

"Darn it" (mending technique)

"To piece all this together"

"I'll be subtle." (https://www.etymonline.com/word/subtle also KristinaVike)

Hood-centric puns (narrative)

(Grimm’s version) “Red, cap it off please. There are other people waiting”

“You’re going off trail”/"Stick to the pathway please"

“I’ve got this in the basket”

“You’re a basket case”

"My what *insert objective, but condescendingly said observation* you have"

Wolf-centric puns (narrative)

(Grimm’s version, but since it’s cannon that the three little pigs do this it’s fine) (Ramona) “She knows how to light a fire under someone” (On that note, "Measure twice cut once")

(Grimm’s version) “there’s always a silver lining” (reference to gray fur and a reference to the second wolf referred to as gray beard/head) https://sites.pitt.edu/~dash/grimm026.html

"I'm just going to blow it off for later. It's fine"

Can we talk about how Cerise is actually kinda bad about hiding her wolf side? Girl’s growling more than my neighbor’s asshole dog. That secret is kept safe simply because of a hood and the fact no one expected Little Red was a furry.