Signs

Despite my attempts to adopt a three-year old boxer that I discovered on a pet rescue site, the only new addition to our family this week was the Magic 8 Ball gifted to the girls by Wyatt and Alice.

Not the real 8 ball, but how fun would it be if it was?

Here were Stella's first three questions: 
1. Will my papa see a bear while he's fishing? No, though I definitely started to wonder when he didn't get home from his escapade until midnight.

2. Will graves become real tonight? The 8 ball has a creepy ability to drag even the most innocent over to the dark side...

3. Will my mama start buying milk from my friend's cow? Turns out the kid doesn't actually have a cow, so no.

And Zoey's only, very hopeful, question:

Will I get a lollipop? That's a big Onay. (Might have to polish up on your pig latin for that one.)

Even without a Magic 8 Ball, life here is full of head-scratching messages:

Wow.

I fell for this shirt right away, though I wasn't quite sure what the heck was going on. Turns out it's Bozeman's Far Left's answer to the Tea Party. Let me know if you need one of these under your Christmas tree.

Pretty sure the owner of this sign isn't a Gay Logger for Jesus.

Must be a beautiful course.

Howdy, neighbor. Bet you're lovin' my California plates.

And here's a super odd sign of a different sort, found at the Sinclair gas station in the seemingly middle of nowhere - Emigrant, Montana, population 372.

A sign announcing Jeff  Bridge's upcoming gig.

I was bewildered, but even more confounded when I discovered this in the back of the store:

A whole row of kombucha - the effervescent and tangy drink made of yeast and bacteria and favored by, well, weirdos like myself.

Raisin, really?