I'm thinking I don't need a telescope to appreciate Gia's smile and humor.

Perhaps the point is to get female feedback about how closely the product simulates real anatomy? How real it looks, or how real it feels when touched.

I'm thinking I need to become a product reviewer.

Really good stuff, mig.

I enjoyed watching the reboot on Paramount+.

What did you think of Ryan Gosling as Beavis on SNL?

My zeal for learning how things work, and the ability to fix them when they don't.

I voted for Kamala Harris and Tim Walz, and I invite our fellow American Minglers to join us.

I agree with your outlook, Julie, thanks for sharing it.

Thanks for sharing your thoughts.

Lathered into minions
by lies and spittle
coup coup caws
cuckoo madman.

Gallows stood
America teetered on the brink,
a swinging noose hung
to snap the neck of the Veep.

Flocking from coops
or coupe deville's,
dodo's scratched and scuffled
clawing into the hill.

Bird-brained maneuver
brain dead scheme,
walls smeared with feces
zombies going extinct.

Citizens turned mobsters
all-the-while the Don gloats,
flagpoles as weapons
intruder shot in the throat.

The cuckoo madman's
coup campaign failed.
He's out golfing
his dodo's are in jail.

Jackass wipes his **** hole mouth
with gospel towels pinned to bathroom walls,
scriptures torn from the "good book"
for offering a turned cheek alternative
to tooth yanking or an eye gouge.
The bankrupt money changer banished
the devout, to stage a token bible photo op.
Banker box towers housing dictator's
love letters, and battle plans, flank his porcelain
throne. This ruffian lech pachyderm
stomps on piss ants then he trumpets,
frantically trying to bullhorn browbeat
sycophants and courtrooms into acquittal.

I like the phrasing and cadence in this emotional poem, mig.

Tim Buck Twoh

That's a generous compliment, thanks mig.

Thanks, Robin.

Thanks, Storm.

Thanks, Julie.

Bumping the door knob didn’t hurt,
contact made me mad, not a pain.

Storms dreary my windows in spurts,
confinement makes me sad, not rain.

Whirring wind fires my red alert,
floods amp me up, not the drain.

No olive branch for throaty blurts,
bile burns my gut, not my brain.

I appreciate the sweet sentiment you've expressed, CrazyBitsAsian.

Family, stories that effectively portray the heart of being human, introspection, writing.

Thanks, Julie. This is actually what's called an ekphrastic poem, meaning it was inspired by another piece of art, in this case a painting.

Morning Breakthrough