I ran across this Davey Crickett .22 at Shuler's Great Outdoors after I left the Brenau gym today. I honestly don't believe I've ever seen a rifle in Clitoris Pink before. And my crappy cellphone doesn't do it justice. It was bright pink. Here it is on their website, and that's much closer to actual:
I immediately thought of Steve H. Only he can truly appreciate the aesthetic of this thing. I'm sure it matches his range bag perfectly. I almost picked it up for him, just so he could humiliate the camo poseurs at his range with it.
It was a little gun, too, probably 32 inches total. A Yute gun, I guess. Sure was snazzy, though.
Here's the new R.E.M. single/video, for those who are so inspired.
My take? I think my melancholy fart had more soul than that. But that's just me. You might find it, I don't know, affirming.
I miss the Monster days.
They say family quarrels are the bitterest of all. I don't even want to know what started this one.
Of course, it could be a case of God not eating his carrots. Personally, I think He meant to hit the new Messiah:
Or Ted Rall. It was probably a proximity decision.
When my uncle was a young man he worked for Alabama Power in downtown Birmingham. It was his wont to take his lunch to the park across the street and enjoy the scenery, weather permitting.
This was in the early sixties, during the civil rights upheavals. He said there were demonstrations almost every day then. The crowds were generally passive, if insistent, staying behind the tape line the police had used to demark the accepted zone. Bull Connor was usually present, however I am told he generally kept his peace as long as the crowd of protesters behaved.
Occasionally, however, a firebrand would cross the line, and hurl a bottle or brick at the police. My uncle said on one such occasion the hurler then bolted across the park and slid underneath the crawlspace of an old house. Bull Connor turned around and said "Gimme two dawgs!" and the German Shepherds were dutifully brought out and used to flush the young man from the crawlspace. Insert your own sound effects.
My uncle says this was not uncommon, only that this particular time he remembers quite vividly.
I mention this only in passing. But I do wonder if Barack Obama can relate to this chapter of America in any way.
P.S. The "Two Dawgs, Walking" line is a Varsity reference, of course. Best experienced at 2 a.m. after a Dead concert at the Fox with a headful of the lysergic.
I was fortunate enough to catch the mighty Jonah Goldberg at Oglethorpe University last night. Jonah, of course, is a contributing editor of National Review, and founding editor of National Review Online. He's also the author of the bestselling Liberal Fascism, the brilliant piece of scholarship that traces the bloodlines of modern day liberalism from its roots in collectivist progressivism through Fascism, National Socialism, and the New Deal.
Apres-speech libations were at Pub 71, next door to the infamous Mellow Mushroom of several Jawja mini-meets. Unfortunately Jonah was hijacked by some earnest young wonk types, but I did get to speak to him briefly. I took the Velocisister along in the event of a pub brawl, the Irish being such notorious hooligans:
And, yes, that is a Peruvian foetus in my distended belly. I never told you about my brutal gang rape at the hands of Shining Path revolutionaries? Aye, Li'l Mao is due in April, and we couldn't be happier.
To hell with talk of a brokered convention. I think it's time for a third party run. Maybe on the Deform Party ticket...
He asked me for a campaign slogan. Porning in America, maybe?
Thanks to Key for the campaign material...
Huckabee won West Virginia, Arkansas, and possibly Georgia? Are you kidding me? How does a fucking mutant like that win any presidential primary? It sickens the stomach.
I wanted to vote today, but I Motor Votered my ass on January 15th, and the cutoff for the primary was January 7th here in Georgia. Piss hell, that. I was going to write in Klemens von Metternicht, Thompson having dropped out of the race. A true protest vote. Or maybe George Wallace. The Freshmaker!
Let's face it: McCain is a testy little fucker. Dain bramaged by the Vietnamese. Hot Wife. 20 years ago. She's a bit done now. Romney? Too plasticine. Hollywood has cranked out 20 presidents that look just like Romney over the last 3 decades. And they were all just as goofy as Romney, only they didn't wear holy underbritches and swear Jesus walked Jellystone Park.
Hillary's dick is bigger than mine, and her brain is smaller, and ipso facto I don't vote for jocks. Especially fascist ones. Because they always eventually get into the steroids, then you have to talk 'em off the ledge.
Obama has to be the only black man in the public eye in America who doesn't have a ripped body. That makes him a total pussy. I won't vote for a black man for president who isn't cut like a young Fred Williamson. Sorry.
Think I'll sit this one out. Time to measure my Perimeter of Personal Space, and declare it Velociworld. My rules here. Enter at ye peril, as I've just elected myself God again, and I'm looking for sacrifice. Like Hillary does.
As an aside, Fox News anchor Megyn Kelly may stick her business in my rarified atmosphere any day. My sense of smell being so sharp, and all.
Elisson likes 100-word stories. Here's a true one for him:
Yesterday I vented a fart so sad that I almost cried. It was sorrowful, baleful. It murmured in a low baritone, ever deeper, ever forelorn. It was heart breaking. It started powerfully, but then faded, like Robeson going hoarse.
Towards the last gasp, however, it rose meekly an octave, as if asking a plaintive question. A fillip, so to speak. It was as if it had looked into the abyss of despair, and withdrew a step. Optimism? Had its woeful cry reached a nadir, from which it must arise?
Hard to say. But I felt a little better after that.
We spent the weekend with the girls at George L Smith State Park. I do love a state park. Georgia's are some of the best. A 2-bedroom cabin with fireplace, no intertubes, no election bullshit. We hiked, played games, generally goofed off.
Going and coming I drove by the Iron Horse hard by the Oconee River:
The Iron Hossie, you will recall, is an abstract sculpture made by the artist in residence at the University of Georgia in 1954, in the toddler days of metal sculpture following WWII. The school's first mistake was commissioning it. Its second mistake was placing it in front of Reed Hall. Within hours hay had been stuffed in its mouth, and a mattress set ablaze underneath it. UGA wasn't exactly a hotbed of the avant-garde in the '50's.
After being placed in hiding for four years a horticultural professor offered to place the sculpture in a field on his farm in Greene County, about 20 miles south of Athens. There it has stood for 50 years, visible for a mile on a graceful curve of Highway 15. In 1990 the university made efforts to return it to campus, but the professor's son basically said
Fuck you. You abdicated your responsibility 50 years ago. It belongs here now.
And the school grudgingly gave up the fight.
I used to see the Iron Hossie as a child, traveling to the mountains. It was exciting stuff. Almost as cool as seeing the Goatman. Seeing both in one trip could trigger (heh) a spontaneous orgasm.
Anyway, there the horse still stands. Mute, inscrutable. But you know how it is with horses. They're just like women. They have to be broke in before you can ride 'em properly, eh what? See what I mean below the fold.
Giddyupping the Beast
There now. Don't it look tamer? More contented? I daresay it's been craving a master all along.