NAOS once proposed coming to see me, and he always probes new paths through the Great Basin, perhaps hoping to find my cave. It's above the old Lake Bonneville shoreline. We've got another ice age coming, doe, and Brigham's temple built to last a thousand years will need a huge 500-ft dike, and pumps to beat the band, within that time frame. I plan on still being above ground, and high enough to be dry.
My canine body guards, "Wolfie" and "Bear", look askance at silly humans who imagine I'm good for more than a few bones and a pat on the head, but that's enough to make me worth dying for. While there is a sorta cult following trying to find where I hang out, I don't recommend coming in on a high trot in the dark. They're not all just stupid. Some of them have said they'd like to kill me, or at least buy my farm, sentiments I find equally deplorable. Those two concepts don't translate clearly sometimes. "Bought the Farm" sorta means you got planted. I already bought my farm, it's paid for. So I claim exemption from the imperatives presumed in rhetorical jargon, mortality, and the whole job thing.
My wife has asked authorities to find me and put me up in an asylum, I think. So she can visit Europe while she can still do it without Depends. I'd say she just oughta wear a burka and carry a little prayer mat, she could go for free right now.
At any rate, I was suspicious of NAOS. I smelled "woman" in his handle. It takes a woman to intellectually create chaos out of ordinary everyday life and impute meanings into the commonplace male rudiments of a life that inherently means nothing.
But roasting my shins on a little fire in a remote mountain cave is just too boring. Better look for me in Ventura County hangin' out in a roadside fruit stand, eating strawberries and mangos. Did you know dogs like that stuff too? Ever really see some tomatoes actually "wolfed" down in one gulp?
So NAOS hasn't found out how I snore yet, doe.
