Like a shivery swimmer in a spangled Speedo not so long ago-go, Claire moseyed in the posies on a mission for fission, hoping and groping to deploy a plowboy wow boy. When it was all over but the do-over, there were burdocks in her hamhocks and hayseeds in her misdeeds, but lo and behold-me-squeeze-me when [...]

When — and it Shakespeare writer-not-rod comma Will — comes to snarkle-sparkle, Claire rumble seats to nobody although and behold it like flipping hipsters has-been deep-seated repeated that she will tumble in the rumble at the jettison of a Stetson, a predilection for delectation in dilection which she neither fies nor denies although for every [...]

As if she were with a purr Puss-in-Boots-in-Boa, Claire O. is like peevish bees a supporter and cavorter of cross-pollination in all fields, be they corn, clover or come on over, and yet her brow is plowed by the decision for revision so-so like an unborn electron prevalent in these days of future passed. Everyone [...]

As surely as if as Shirley she had like a ballyhooed ballerina whirly-girled a grand jete above and beyond a dreidel, Claire O. knows a ringy-dingy-thingy or two-by-two about going over the top. She puts the amp in camp. Having said as much as such, she is like an apple skinned in advance prepared to [...]

In album-not-cruise liner wrote-notes jammy-crammied with more arch than six Roman aqueducts and a 15th century European church (Claire knows her naves from her knaves), Les Honky More Tonkies like a dyslexic podiatry fetishist get off on the wrong foot by claiming and faming themselves for having “patented” “Motleycruegrass,” a “honkification and bastardization of…rock ‘n’ [...]

Claire will-not-William tell-not-Tell you right-not-left up-not-down front-not-back that Pat Green poses like a stranded Rodin man a pondery quandary. Furious purists prone to exalt the gestalt of alt find fault by default; Pat-hats rooty-toot-shoot back, frat-a-tat-tat. The fruition of Claire’s suspicion is that irk of the first ilk is due like a library book in [...]

Back not front when the ’80s were like dish soap dawning, Claire O. jammed like huckleberries to the dead-bang head-bang, her poodle-doodle-’do shakin’ like Stevens, and nobody put the rooty-tooty in her booty like Angus forever Young in his short pants. Vile, puerile, and like a youthful river juvenile, AC/DC nonetheless that is to say [...]

Claire I was, perky-perched all parrot-plumey on my peppermint porch, fresh and kale-crispy from a salady cucumber & ginseng facial peelie-dealie, all like-a-mama-fox-preggers kitted up in a Bo-Diddley-dacious en-samba-semble hand-stitcherooed and festerooned by my own dandy-dancing digits. Claire hates like wet woolies to be a brag-drag (or a drag bag), but humble-mumble aside-saddle, no couturier [...]

Like a hypo-hygienic not-so-nice ice cream man, Claire has a dirty little scoop: Linda-doo-ron-Ronstadt has perfected, like a late 19th-century French painter killing the Catskills, the art of the impression. Listen to Bob-not-Jakob-Dylan-not-Thomas’s “Just Like Tom Thumb’s Blues”, and I’ll strangle in my dangling bangles if she’s not singing like a canary but channeling like [...]

Claire is up to her dainties in headlines and deadlines, perpetually prolificking her pulchritudinally printable prosaics, but the missive Mister (in his shummer sorts, no less is more) just hove through my alcove and C-deposited Waylon Jennings’ 72nd like a prisoner release. And so, while I am like Eve apple-tempted to be a first-class lass [...]