Ink, Toner AND Paper

The Rubber Bomb OTB and Gardens is a place of beauty, time, and desparate trifectas—features which make it stand out from other gardeny type places in the area. (Plus, we're now peacock poop free!) Our grounds feature an iconic doublewide mansion, filled with countless bottle caps & matchbook covers, and most famously—sixty sloping feet of lavish gardens that will envelop you with their beauty (NOTE: Not a guarantee or a warranty). Built in 1911, and then again in 1927, 1944 and 1967, the RubberBomb manor was one of the first homes to use coffee grounds for decoration. Known for hosting the areas most legendary parties—it was not uncommon to catch Topo Gigio trying to bum smokes off of Ed Sullivan's bookie. Today, the RubberBomb OTB and Gardens is recognized as being not only a historical eyesore, but also a possible site for a future dogtrack or NFL team. We invite you to make a reservation (fax only, please) while the gettin' is good.

Ewes Smoked Our Mores

Gewdolyn's eyes darted around the room quickly.  Was she followed in here as well?  The fog machine was full blast.  The strobe lights and swirling disco ball didn't help either.  She figured that if her pursuer had eluded her in this haze of flashing color and noise, she could, in turn, elude him.  She shed her lime green slicker and dashed into the undulating frenzy.  The sweat of three hundred bodies hung damply in the electric air overhead. She attempted to cabbage patch to the far side of the floor in an attempt to blend in.  Her slender, bare mid-drift attracted the gaze of hungry shoe-shufflers whose bodies wiggled like hot fusilli in pesto.  She spun and shuffled from one partner to the next, breaking away to hustle alone at half court.  For a moment she felt normal again.  Was that a smile, or a sublimated nervous tick?  Was that a good beat that she could dance to, or the improbable pattern of hoof to hardwood?  Was that a kooky keyboard chord or the shrill bleat of h-- (so as to imply that she gasped without saying as much... damn.) her shadow?  She spun around to spy her mangy-haired haunt absently chewing on her coat in all its goatness.  He'd found her.  My god, he'd found her. She charged toward the door and darted out across the soggy infield toward the bungalows.  She would never be free.

Oh, and then a massive meteor slammed into Earth smashing it into dust.

Thar End