Off to my sister's for a bit of cheer.
Have a Very Hankey Christmas!
To be honest with you, I'm pretty tired of my Christmas village. It was kind of fun building it up over the years, but somehow it seems to lack a certain something these days. So I decided to remake it into something a little beyond Dickensian. Behold the Whitechapel edition of a Dickens Village:
One will of course notice Jack the Ripper standing over his latest victim, a slain prostitute, while a drunken bobbie stands oblivious in the doorway of the church. In the foreground a waifish 12-year-old whore propositions a couple for some three-way action. The balloons were a discreet Edwardian symbol of debauchery, I
made up am told.
Ain't this mo bettah? I wish I had more figures. A pilloried sneakthief would be nice, and perhaps a tavern brawl spilled into the filthy coal-begrimed alley.
But then I wouldn't have anything to work on next year, now would I?
Here that knife:
It says 440 steel, but I'm sure it must be 440A, not 440C, which means the blade will probably snap in two as soon as I attempt to saw through the femur of that drifter I unfortunately clipped in the Park. It were an accident, but why take a chance? He's keeping nicely in the back of the SUV, awaiting rendering unto a more interrable format.
And if it don't break, it could be just the thing for some Santa Thinks You've Been a Naughty Girl and Those Panties Have to Come Off Crimma Eve role playing. Just a thought.
Note: Artist's conceptualization below the fold:
Went with Key up to Gatlinburg, and we gots roped into not only the Dollywood gig, but the dinner theater at Dolly's Dixie Stampede. Or suppah show, as they call it.
Plenty of people riding hossies around an arena, and little pig races. Then the emcee, he sang a song about how we was all happy 'cause they was feeding us the suppahs. Here dat suppah:
Look good, but they ain't no utensils. That's what separates us from the beasts of the field, says I. That and butt-wiping paper. But the emcee says we have to eat likka da raccoon eats. Grapsed in our tiny grubby hands. Key didn't like having to rip apart her whole chicken with her hands, but she did 'cause she were hongry. You know, I been known to speak like the raccoon from time to time, but I never had to eat like the raccoon.
Speaking of toilet papers, the reason we have to use it and animals don't is because we have buttocks. Every other animal proudly displays its anus, but our anuses are demurely hid by the buttocks. So we cain't get a clean lop off. It smears around the asscheeks coming out. If humans had exposed rectums we wouldn't need no damn toilet paper. But they'd still make us eat like da raccoon at the Stampede, I fear.
Anyway, the pig races was fun. The camels stank. Dollywood would have been better if they'd had pictures of Dolly everywhere with owl eye nipples, like Hooters. But these small complaints.
Next: I spend $12 on a 15-inch knife, and think I gots hornswoggled.
This song reminds me of Eric for some reason... can't quite put my finger on it...
Wasn't I? Yes I was. I saw these poor caged bastards at the Pendergrass Flea Market:
At least I think they're roosters. I don't know from chickens, and I didn't lift any feathers to check.
By the by, although Pendergrass sells itself as Georgia's largest, that ain't no flea market. It's the fucking Wetback Mall. I must have seen 2,000 of 'em. I saw more damned Mexicans there than I did in Cozumel.
I was expecting antiques, baseball cards, gimcracks, gewgaws, you know, junk. What this was was unlicensed, hot off the trailer shit-for-all clothing, sold by Aztec rag merchants to the teeming hordes of chicken pluckers from the nearby poultry plants. I wanted to check for sales tax receipts and green cards, make a few citizen's arrests, but I didn't want the Cold Steel vendor to get caught up in the mass deportations, amigos.
Anyway, I figured Red Hat chickens were roosters, so I thought about getting one for Catfish for his laying hens. They only spoke gutter Spanish, however. Except for the one who kept cackling "We don't need no stinkin' cock-a-doodle-doo's, motherfuckers!" Cheech the Barnyard Pimp, I called him.
Maybe next time, Cat. The fetid smell of illegal, undocumented flatulence wore me down. So I went to El Jinete for lunch. Muy bueno, too!
A life of leisure can be addictive, rubberneckers... mercy. I was hongry this morning, so I had some lunch... meat and three from the local purveyors of fried chicken... the sides were mashed potatoes... macaroni and cheese... and green beans ala Jefferson. It corked the vulcanic action of gastric juices, gentle readers... for sure...
This here is the Crawford W. Long Museum...
It is literally a biscuit throw (mmm... biscuits!) from a commercial building Key owns in downtown Jefferson (the pic is taken from her parking lot)... the first time I ever saw it I said
"That's the Crawford Long Museum?!?!?
"Where the Crawford Long first used anesthesia for surgery?!?!?"
"Yeah, I guess so..."
I don't think Key was too hep to the magnitude of this fact... although those of us who are fans of the recreational uses of ether are in thrall to the good doctor... he is a mighty god to us, rubberneckers...
Anywhats, I found this incredibly profound... and realized when you look into the ether... the ether also looks into you... sometimes a mere biscuit's toss away...
Which makes me ponder: as C.W. was using ether regularly from 1842 onwards, why wasn't it in more prevalent use during the War... when the bone saws sang like viola bows in the string section of Satan's symphony??? Eh, rubberneckers?
Now it's late... and time for supper... no hot dogs today, unfortunately... but perhaps tomorrow... there's always tomorrow... and perhaps, gentle readers, I shall take aforesaid weenies to visit some ancestral graves in Gwinnett County... and cock my head to divine the distant voices of my forebears, shot in the head and left for dead on some grim Civil War battlefield... shot by their own troops, likely... if they possessed my genes...
And speaking of cocks and the cocking of heads, gentle readers... I'm pretty sure I must be related to Crawford W. Long somehow... if not, that still should be my porn name... definitely...
I'm sure you've all seen this video of the tree man:
A wart condition, they call it? I don't see Compound W fixing this. He looks like the bastard offspring of Treebeard and Arwen Evenstar.
Can you imagine those hands running up your thigh, ladies? A woody, indeed.
Come to think of it, I should smuggle this guy into the states and make some Branch Pr0n. I'd pay a dollar myself to see that.
File under: More of My Sick Shit.