Beetle, Always nice to get home in time to drink in yet more of your hate juice.
btw, It wasn't Weber I asked about re the mousache, it was furrow, because someone pointed to a moustached guy in Regina, saying they thought it was furrow.
But I will say, when I met Weber at Barley Freedom Day last year for the first time, I liked him with a moustache. Which reminds me, I'll have to create a moustache in my book. When I do read some of the posts on AV, I conjure up pictures of what the person doing the posting might be like.
I think about one bug in particular, his anger black, driving tractor all afternoon, his folds encrusted with fat blood-gorged lice, most of them flattened by the weight of his flat cheeks.The squashed bloody mass sticks to the little hairs in the warm damp creases, and the smell rises slightly as he scratches, again and again, inbetween bites from his canned-meat sandwich.
When he goes to coffee row, the drift of his own festering follows him, and as the guys quietly empty out, his anger builds yet more. Not knowledgeable enough to discuss issues and events, his mood thunderstorms as he drops word bombs on the last ones finshing up their coffee.
Even the children don't want to parrot him. It's not surprsing that no one asks what he does at home, or what he does to those at home, but no one really wants to know; they feel they are much safer not knowing.
Pars
Hyperbole really helps fictional description, doesn't it?
btw, It wasn't Weber I asked about re the mousache, it was furrow, because someone pointed to a moustached guy in Regina, saying they thought it was furrow.
But I will say, when I met Weber at Barley Freedom Day last year for the first time, I liked him with a moustache. Which reminds me, I'll have to create a moustache in my book. When I do read some of the posts on AV, I conjure up pictures of what the person doing the posting might be like.
I think about one bug in particular, his anger black, driving tractor all afternoon, his folds encrusted with fat blood-gorged lice, most of them flattened by the weight of his flat cheeks.The squashed bloody mass sticks to the little hairs in the warm damp creases, and the smell rises slightly as he scratches, again and again, inbetween bites from his canned-meat sandwich.
When he goes to coffee row, the drift of his own festering follows him, and as the guys quietly empty out, his anger builds yet more. Not knowledgeable enough to discuss issues and events, his mood thunderstorms as he drops word bombs on the last ones finshing up their coffee.
Even the children don't want to parrot him. It's not surprsing that no one asks what he does at home, or what he does to those at home, but no one really wants to know; they feel they are much safer not knowing.
Pars
Hyperbole really helps fictional description, doesn't it?
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