Prediction is very difficult, especially if it's about the future.

I ran. I ran so far away. Bellerive Beach, Bellerive. August 2013.

This Theme Thursday I am thinking that if I were a LIP, which LIP would I be?

Labium superius oris is nice, but Labium inferius oris is surely only inferius in nóminis only. The cupid's bow has autant de charme and the tuberculum labii superioris the kind of stout reliability only found in Hungarian washerwomen Golden Retrievers.

I am told that women are attracted to men with masculine LIPS. That is, LIPS that are not too big or not too small, can chop firewood and know where and when to take her in hand.

So if I were a LIP, I'd be a proud LIP. A LIP worth loving. A LIP worth loving, living and dying for.

Comments

kaykuala said…

A LIP worth loving,
living and dying for

That would have been perfect for any lips! Nicely!

Hank

30 August 2013 at 01:38

Mrsupole said…

Hi Kris,

I agree with Hank, that is such a great saying. Any woman would be happy to have a set of lips attached to any man that is worth loving, living and dying for. I also think you are correct in what kind of lips women are interested in. Tiny or small lips might make a man seem weak and big lips might make him seem too aggressive. But what matters most is the man that they get to know who is attached to those lips. And as long as those lips are willing to kiss us every day then we are happy.

I hope you are having a great week and using your lips to kiss those two beautiful boys and your fantastic wife. Although they probably know those lips love them.

God bless.

4 September 2013 at 21:22

Kris McCracken said…

The birds! Thanks all. We've been busy for the past week. Nary a moment to sit down!

9 September 2013 at 21:27

Hold me now, oh hold me now, until this hour has gone around. And I'm gone on the rising tide, to face Van Dieman's Land

Theme Thursday again, and this one is rather easy. I am Tasmanian, you see, and aside from being all around general geniuses - as I have amply described previously - we are also very familiar with the concept of WATER. Tasmania is the ONLY island state of an ISLAND continent. That means, we're surrounded by WATER. That should help explain why I take so many photographs of water . Tasmania was for a long time the place where the British (an island race terrified of water) sent their poor people most vile and horrid criminals. The sort of folk who would face the stark choice of a death sentence , or transportation to the other end of the world. Their catalogue of crimes is horrifying : stealing bread assault stealing gentlemen's handkerchiefs drunken assault being poor affray ladies being overly friendly with gentlemen for money hitting people having a drink and a laugh public drunkenness being Irish Fenian terrorist activities being Catholic religious subversion. ...

Something unpleasant is coming when men are anxious to tell the truth.

This is the moon. Have I mentioned how much I adore the zoom on my camera? It's Theme Thursday you see, and after last week's limp effort, I have been thinking about how I might redeem myself. Then I clicked on the topic and discover that it was BUTTON. We've been hearing a lot about the moon in the past couple of weeks. Apparently some fellas went up there and played golf and what-not forty-odd years ago. The desire to get to the moon, however, was not simply about enhancing opportunities for Meg and Mog titles and skirting local planning by-laws in the construction of new and innovative golf courses. No, all of your Sputniks , "One small steps" and freeze dried ice cream was about one thing , and one thing only : MAD Now, I don't mean mad in terms of "bloke breaks record for number of scorpions he can get up his bum", no I mean MAD as in Mutual assured destruction . When I was a young man you see, there was a lot of talk about the type of m...

Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it...

I still have the robot on the job. Here you can see the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery . And here is a poem: Soliloquy for One Dead Bruce Dawe Ah, no, Joe, you never knew the whole of it, the whistling which is only the wind in the chimney's smoking belly, the footsteps on the muddy path that are always somebody else's. I think of your limbs down there, softly becoming mineral, the life of grasses, and the old love of you thrusts the tears up into my eyes, with the family aware and looking everywhere else. Sometimes when summer is over the land, when the heat quickens the deaf timbers, and birds are thick in the plumbs again, my heart sickens, Joe, calling for the water of your voice and the gone agony of your nearness. I try hard to forget, saying: If God wills, it must be so, because of His goodness, because- but the grasshopper memory leaps in the long thicket, knowing no ease. Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it... I like Bruce Dawe. He just my be my favourite Austral...

This will hurt me...

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