I surely did not want to get bogged down in a gun thang discussion, but Redneck's comment on my last post beggars a reply.
To wit: whatever happened to the ubiquitous rifle rack in the back window of a pickup truck?
Or, alternatively, if you are of a serious debating nature, I could pose the question thusly, in true Oxford Union style:
This house believes the American Rifle Rack is an Anachronism. Pro or Con?
Boy, when I was growing up you always saw rifle racks in the back windows of trucks. That's how, as a weed smoking hippie hitchhiker, such as I, you knew who to pass on in order to avoid the cornholing or shotgunning. We'd all seen Easy Rider. We were young enough to believe that.
Anyway, I don't cotton too much to the Brits, or Oxford, they being as a rule at the very least bisexual (see, Cary Grant, Ralph Richardson, ad nauseum) and at the very most full blown fags. Didi mao! as the Viets say.
Anyway, my theory on the demise of the rifle rack is three pronged, like Satan's cock:
1) The smash and grab. When I was a kid and you saw a Remington 1100 in a guy's window you merely admired it. Now they steal it. They're Mexicans, mostly.
2) The sliding window makes the reach-around problematic. Missed another hippie!
3) The standard extended cab makes the shotgun/rifle not only hard to reach, but you now have a damn seat to put it on. Old boys didn't have a back seat.
4) The tool bin: I just look dumb. Locking an $1,100 shotgun in a bin makes sense to me. They didn't have tool bins when I was a kid, too much.
One more Oxford Union Debate:
This house believes Velociman has been drinking entirely too much.
Pro, or pro?
Update: Gee, I guess that was four pronged. Even Satan can't outprong me, I suppose.
I ran across this today:
A used police riot shotgun, well worn. Pump, of course. Think Steve McQueen in The Getaway.
And I says to myself "Velociman, old boy, you need that thing."
The cops use fancier shotguns now, but that one appealed to me. Olde Schoole. So close to being sawed-off I'd need a willing girl to let me shave her to find the two hairs requisite to attest legality.
Anyway, it's only good for zombie work, unless I decide to take it on job interviews, it being so portable and all. I figure I could lay it on the desk at the beginning of the interview, and tap it gently on occasion as I speak to my bias for action.
Step up, Insipids. I don't ask for much. Make me happy.
It takes a lot to rouse me from my somnambulence. Fortunately for you Rosie generally rises to the challenge. She sent me a picture of the Pig-tailed Whatzit. In a rare instance of decency I'll place it below the fold. I may not post again for a month or so, and you wouldn't want to be looking at that for a while.
Is it Photoshopped? Who cares? In fact, the mind that would create such an abomination at a keyboard is far more fascinating and unique to me than the genetic fart that would actually produce such a thing.
It also struck me that Rosie's recent post on preparing cow tongue is appropriate to the Pig-tailed Whatzit. If I could get my Rapala fillet knife near that thing we could have the Feast of Zeus at the next blogmeet. Somebody bring some turnip greens.
I spent untold hours agonizing over this accursed puzzle, because 1) my "compatriots" wouldn't assist me because it was "too much sky and rock" and 2) because my obsessive-compulsive nature cannot abide a card table set up in the middle of the den with a cat sprawling all over it. (Not that it's my house, or anything. But OCD mission creep can be a positive force. Right?)
And so, after much labours, I finished it today. Or almost. I only have one thing to say.
FART! HELL! COCK! PISS! DAMN!
I almost vivisectioned both dogs and the cat to find that missing piece, but then normalcy returned, and I figured it was probably long since shat out, upon a tiny grassy knoll in the front yard.
Right next to the second gunman.
I need a fucking job.
Meaning the University of Georgia foo-ball team. But in the rarified world of crapblogging I suppose that claim has a certain frisson above and beyond gamesmanship, don't it?
As Agent Johnson told Agent Johnson in Die Hard,
I can live with that.
Here's an abandoned windmill outside of McRae, Georgia. The blades still freewheel at the slightest breeze, even though the farmhouse is long gone and the well done probably run dry.
The wheel's still spinning, but nobody's home. There's an apt metaphor for someone. Perhaps some poor displaced soul without a job or a homestead. Just a suggestion, of course.
The more I pass that windmill in my travels, though, the more I like it. I don't know shit from windmills, but it looks like an old Aermotor out of Chicago, the Googlage informs me. I didn't climb it to find out. Those things are supposed to be pretty basic, and indestructible, however. Cheap to rebuild, should one want. So I figured, why not buy that bastard? I'm sure Key wouldn't mind a disassembled windmill in her backyard. Hell, who wouldn't boast of such a thing?
Then, too, I'm always only a well-drained bottle of Wild Turkey away from becoming a full-blowed survivalist. I wonder how a windmill would perform up in the mountains? Given a decent sized meadow, there's probably good wind up there.
The well might be a problem, I guess. Who knows how deep you have to dig up there? You might hit a good fault at 100 feet, it might be 400 feet. You might not ever hit water. But if you did you wouldn't need an electric pump, either.
This looks like a good project, in that it is quixotic, wasteful, probably incredibly expensive, fails all cost-benefit analyses, and has the potential to turn a backyard into a garbage dump. Perfect. Therefore I have to look into it, what with the free time on my hands. I need to find the owner of that old farm. I don't know if the thing would leak, but at least it turns. Then again, I haven't taken it apart and reassembled it. That might fuck it up royally. And the tank? Likely old cedar that rotted through in 1968. Might have to replace that whole thing.
I really should run this by all concerned parties, but that would queer the deal, wouldn't it? Yes it would. This will have to be a stealth project. Yessir. And now that I've posted it I've set the bar reasonably high for failure. Here we go!
Blighted motel on U.S. 1, Boulougne, Florida.
Some old alcoholics still live there on a weekly basis, scrapping for work when they feel up to it. I stop by and have a beer with them from time to time when I'm passing through.
This is apropos of nothing other than the fact my sister was tired of looking at the turd on the previous post.