If you crave to rave, come to the Rant Ranch where you can raise your own beef.
Cultivate your vineyard of sour grapes where there’s cheese to go with your whine brewed from the grapes of wrath.
In crab-apple cove you can make something out of it, belly ache cakes, sour grapes and sweet revenge.
At blowing of your own horn by the ocean of emotions, where there’s axes to grind, bubbles to burst, rain to fall on parades. No hatchets to bury, bones to pick. If you itch to bitch while you pitch, you are ripe to gripe, from grave to rave.
The Rant Ranch is for you to spew your stew, and rant till you can’t!