Velociworld

Bunking with the Beastmasters

I've had the urge to do something bizarre for a while now. Something out of the ordinary, probably dangerous, definitely as retarded as is humanly fucking possible. Nothing came to mind, however. Except for Russian Roulette. Bizarre, for sure, And definitely retarded. But it doesn't quite fit the modifier in probably dangerous.

Nah. You can't even blog about an unsuccessful round of that game, so what's the point?

I called the Alligator Farm to see if they had a version of Dancing With The Stars. Only wrestling. With alligators. They said nyet.

The New! and Improved! Marineland won't reopen for another couple of weeks, and they wouldn't let me try my hand at artificial insemination with my Monkey Division bazooka anyway. So there's that.

I was running out of possibilities when it struck me. Of course. Slam dunk. The annual Rattlesnake Roundup in godaccursed Whigham, Georgia. Which is about three parsecs past the middle of nowhere. Perfect.

Instead of mere spectating I think I'll try my hand at milking a few of the bastards. No experience with that motion, eh? Maybe some snakehandling and gratuitous speaking in tongues would be in order as well. Nothing like getting multiculti with insanely envenomed reptiles, I say.

January 27th. They have to have these things in the winter sose the beasts are sluggish and less likely to bite your ass. Of course, the downside is the fingly things on the end of your hands are sluggish, too. So there's that.

This thing has enormous potential. Imagine hanging around a herd of horny-handed country drunkards in DeKalb Corn caps and bloodstained overhauls, who started drinking brown liquor at sunrise, then headed out to round up some fuggin' snakes! guddammit! I imagine the previous years of snakebites combined with a dangerous blood alcohol level (.42 on the Old Crow scale) render these guys relatively immune, but you never know.

And there's the young guns, too. Haven't grown out of their fetal alcohol syndrome britches-shitting days yet, but game as, well, game. I'm sure they smell gamy. Trying to show off, upstage the old geezers, cutting the fool with rattlesnakes by the tail, terrifying the littlest ones. The ones with the piss-stained calico diapers.

And don't forget the womenses neither; cackling lewdly no doubt, writhing in loin-lust, driven by some protosatanic serpent fetish so deeply engrained in their mitochondrial DNA even God Almighty Himself steers clear of Grady County that particular week.

And you an outsider. A Stranger to their Ways and deep cult Secrets. Probably take you for a cityslikkin reporter type, come to mock their Holy Days, and flaunt their idiosyncrasies for all the world to see. Happened oncet before, they'll recall. Back in '63. THAT bastard never met another deadline. And the hogs were fat and tasty that year, too.

I'm psyched. I figure it'll be a cross between Deliverance and 2,000 Maniacs! Meaning they'll likely want to cut off my hands and feet before they fuck me. Hell, they'll probably milk me. Not that I'm impugning those idiosyncrasies, mind you.

I don't mind going alone. But it sure would be fun to have some company. I always said I didn't want to die alone.

So there's that, too.