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Fantastic word game

Don Rickles, were he still alive and contributing to TFWG, might even drive off more players than rosecitymedia with his blistering style of insult humor.

A busy past few days at the Listener Lounge, but all is quiet for now. I'm still catching up on weekend posts, but I can tell you that three demerits have been assessed to rose for the non-word "putdy" in Post #52,203. More to come, perhaps.
 
Humor me just a lil', CT, 'cuz there's always a heap o' "non-words" flowin' from the RCM Ranch-based Motorola keyboard.

If it ain't a word in Texas, we'll just make it one. I reckon that was s'posta be "purdy", CT. Seems to be the same way in yer heavenly part o' Vermont, too. Where, exactly, the hell is this "Listener Lounge" located? That par-ticular boudoir backroom ain't never been spoken of, as of yet.

Glad to see you survived the weekend kerfuffle up there, and Don Rickles was the absolute king. To be mentioned in the very same sentence as him...well, reckon I need to go on n' fish out my handkerchief.
 
Motorola keyboard functions can be modified in a multi-step process that begins with choosing the "Settings" icon.

The Listener Lounge was a three-demerit-worthy slip-up on the part of this humbled (albeit momentarily) DoL. I should have written "Listener Lodge," as I did back last winter when introducing it as the residence of my own critters: Manfred the Moose, Charlize the Chickadee and Lord Vennyson, the whitetail buck and sometimes archery practice target. Manfred and Lord V wound up in the Freezer of Doom, while Charlize flew off to freedom. Not that Ed would be keen on having tiny chickadee drumsticks and wings in the freezer, anyway.
 
The "Settings" icon is where I can launch myself an "incognito tab" for those occasional late night views of another rancher's herd.

Sometimes, you just need an escape from yer own.
 
The two things that come from Oklahoma that he was referring to were not beers and cheers.
 
At the local tavern or saloon, they are all discussing Post #52,219 where rosecity refers to Kayla as a "he" when we all thought Kayla was a chick.

Unless Kayla really is a guy. Or perhaps rosecity was really referring to CT who is a guy. Unless CT really is a chick. This reminds me of the situation from way way way (way way way way....) back, when Silkie first joined us, and we all thought Silkie was a guy. Turns out she is a chick so we all started calling her Miss Silkie. I don't remember all these years later what was said (either by her or someone else) whereby we figured out she is a chick. It was really funny. I guess you had to be there. I miss her.
 
"Kayla was a chick?", the dweller amongst the mayflowers questioned, but then re-read the contribution I wrote n' realized there has been a simple misunderstandin' o' the ol' hayseed enemy in Texas, n' no reassignment, of any kind whatsoever, has been performed in Vermont.

CT is the "he", n' I reckon it was Silkie's initial mention o' her beloved Sweetie Pie that tipped her hand to the collective, WMC.
 
Performed in Vermont and loved throughout the world, the PW band campers give a mean presentation of bottling some good old Vermont maple syrup.

The Silkie thing was years and years and years ago, long before this version of you was a twinkle in anyone's eye here.
 
Bottling some good old Vermont maple syrup, around these here parts, involves that nifty invention from John Landis Mason, the namesake of the Mason jar.

I reckon yer right, WMC. Those would have been durin' the pre-redneckery years o' this here game, when I was still shapin' n' fittin' the ol' Stetson.
 
The Mason jar crossed the Mason-Dixon line in the trunk of a car driven by James Mason who, according to rumor, was a member of the secretive society knows as the Freemasons.
 
Signed into law in 1964 (the year of my birth), the Civil Rights Act outlawed discrimination based on race, color, religion, sex, or national origin.

While not specifically mentioned in this landmark piece of legislation, Rednecks also fall under the protections of the Civil Rights Act.
 
National origin o' this here redneck's ancestry is, I reckon, Italy and India, although the latter half of that mixture is all Christopher Columbus's fault, right there, since he didn't actually know where the hell he was going.

Mama Rose was a Caddo squaw, yet born in the puny, lil' central Texas town o' Mexia (good luck pro-nouncin' that one correctly). Her father, Elder Milks with a Holstein, was born on the Caddo reservation in Broken Bow, Oklahoma, n' (remarkably, given the o-pinion o' Gunnery Sergeant Emil Foley) was never steer, queer, beer, nor cheer.

Papa was a surly, ol' oil man, but began his journey to the Island o' Ellis from Palermo, Sicily at the tender age o' 3. He saw the Statue o' Liberty in his lifetime. I prolly never will. That'd be a trip to New York, n' ain't nobody ready fer that.
 
Milking a cow sounds pretty relaxing for both the milker and the cow but I guess it really depends on the mood of the cow.

And whether the milker has cold hands or not.
 
The mood of the cow
Might have something to do with
The taste of the milk.
 


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