Key figured that apple tree out, I reckon. A Hackworth. Originated in Lavonia, Georgia (40 miles up the road) in the early 1900's when some seeds from the orchards of a horticulturist named Dr. Nicodemus Hackworth floated downstream and hooked up, as the youngsters say. Hackworth eventually developed many varieties.
Here's a description:
...a great summer apple which "bears fruit every day in August." Fruit medium with yellow skin overlaid with a few red stripes and splashes. Flesh is yellow, granular, and aromatic.
That's a perfect description. A guess that makes it an "heirloom". I'll be charging for a piece of that wood, just like all my wood. Meaning, cheap. But you'll be happy satisfied. I garontee.
We've been harvesting a ton of these. An ancient apple tree in Key's yard had never produced in the 8 years she'd been here until we planted a crabapple this spring to pollinate our saplings. Et voilá! as the sweet French girls say in St. Martin. This tree and one next to it arose fecund from the ashheap and produced like welfare mothers.
I can't determine its heritage, though. It's definitely an old Georgia breed, though I wouldn't use an affected term like heirloom. More just old-fashioned, as opposed to the fancy Mendelized Braeburns, Fujis, Mutsus, and the like you buy these days.
I have a guy working for me who has apple orchards with 25 different apples, but he's kind of stumped. The tree next to it he identified as a Red-Striped Early June, and looked very similar, but obviously it produced 6 weeks ago.
So what it is? Not quite red enough for a MacIntosh, or Jonathon. Too early for a winesap. Too tart for a honey crisp. I will say they are slightly tart and medium-sized, but the size is the result of us thinking they were crabapples and not early on thinning the herd, so to speak.
Anyway, we ended up with about 300 of them, but the squirrels took a hundred and the wasps likewise. Still left us about 100. And the slight tartness produces apple pies that will make you slap your gramma down and let a pitbull fuck her, I tell you. That good.
How good the cider is, we shall see. Perhaps a raw youthful jug o' jack is in order for Helen. I'll give it a try. It'll be an experiment, but at least it's better than experimenting on the feral cats around here.
That turned out bad.
Update: Ask and ye shall receive...
I'm really amazed at the knowledge my readers have. I almost feel guilty about calling you Insipids and Retards and such from time to time. RIGS (Retard In Good Standing) PeggyU wanted a picture of the tree. Here it is in all its lack of glory:
To the left you can see the Red Stripe June growing into it. These things need some serious pruning in the fall. But I thought they were sterile crabapples until they produced.
I think I'm going to go with Tbird's Limbertwig identification. Not because it's more plausible than the others. I just like the name.
Limptwig Limbertwig. It's kind of evocative of Eric, you know?
Key's daughter has become quite the videographer. Even constrained by still shots. I'm very impressed. Her take on our summer vacay:
And, no, I didn't give my girls the head up I was posting this, nor have they seen it yet. But they can always sue.
I also like the Kid Rock song. I never would have conflated Werewolves of London with Sweet Home Alabama.
Then again, I never would have conflated mescaline of corrupt provenance with day-old corn liquor, either, until a certain weekend in 1978 went horribly awry. So there.
Democratic Rascals presidential hopeful Barry Obamawheat confirmed his club's longstanding policy of NO GIRLZ ALLOWED! when he chose Joe Alfalfabiden as his Bestus Buddy. Rejected club applicant Darla "The Hill" Hood threatened to have her longtime steady, Spanky McClinton, "beat the fucking tar" out of "that goddam uppity pickaninny".
Photoshop h/t, as always, to the lovely Key Monroe.
Bobby Peru pays a visit. Unfortunately, I couldn't find video for the "You're next..." scene. Guess you'll have to rent the movie.
In an ironic twist of fate I happen to work with a woman who looks exactly like Bobby Peru.
Except he has better teeth.
God's a-testing me, I tell ya.
This here mural is on the ceiling of a McDonald's in Vegas. A nice touch, I think. I feel really bad Key cut off Dino's and Sammy's and Frankie's jowls, but she was looking straight up. It has all the Vegas drunkards in it, though. I like to think of it as the ceiling of the Pisstene Chapel.
You realize they've malled up Fremont Street downtown. Makes it very nice for pedestrians (and of course all my work is pedestrian), but it's lost the Dirty Vegas feel you see in the movies. Why, you can't even drive down Fremont and see someone like me whizzing on the sidewalk. Foresooth!
They Disneyfied the fucking thing. Good, and Bad.
Of course, you can still drive out to the desert with a Mason jar full of scorpions and a .45, and get married, or divorced. Or widowed. There are still a few eternal verities in the City of Sin.
Life's a little different in the public sector. For instance, instead of a company car, or allowance, or mileage, like I had at various instances in the past, I now drive a government car.
It's a bit of a beater, missing a hubcap, but it runs like a scalded dog, and at least it isn't a K-Car. And with a government license plate I can speed like all fuck hell and never get pulled over, as long as I'm not slinging liquor bottles out of the window.
It's a professional courtesy thing, just between us girls.
I wish I had a blue light to plop on the roof, though. It's amazing the women you can meet on lonely stretches of highway with a blue light.
I have something better, though. An amber emergency light! Nothing screams Quasi-emergency! Quasi-emergency! like slapping an amber light on the roof and plugging it into the cigarette lighter, believe you me.
Yeah, nothing else says You don't have to follow me, I'm not going anywhere really important like the amber flasher. I do deploy it often, though, just for the
pathetic adrenalin rush. Makes me giddy.
Envy, ye Insipids:
I'm, like, a fucking god. With liquor bottles I have to figure out how to dispose of.
I'm reasonably certain I failed my prostate audition with my new physician today. I won't go into the sordid details, but suffice to say it was humiliating and degrading.
For him. Hell, my back was turned.
Senator Barack Obama was shocked by Russia's invasion of Georgia.
"I thought he was Puddin Tain," the presidential hopeful said ruefully, while strumming an E chord on a Jamaican sugar cane knife. "But he was Putin Tain," the senator said with regret.
"There was no reasoning with him. I asked him his name, he wouldn't tell me the same," the Illinois legislator added dolefully, fingering the sharp edge of what he called his "minichete". "I just hope all sides to this conflict can come to peaceable terms."
The Republican candidate, asked for comment, muttered something about opening a can of McCain Tain on the Russian adventurists.
I heard a radio advertisement today for volunteers for a clinical study. Specifically, they're seeking sufferers of genital warts in the Marietta area.
Don't do it, Elisson! I've seen these scams before. This is likely just a mad ploy by a local warpskull to satiate his disgusting need for wartpix. Those are your string clusters, man. To be fondled and abused in the privacy of your own home.
I know whereof I speak. I tried the same thing a few years ago in the back of a vacant dentist's office with breast implant indignantaries. The examinations were awesome, and the photos I cherish to this day, but eventually they all demanded I remove their funbag saltbags, and pretty soon I was up to my formerly well-scrubbed elbows in blood, saline packets, and suture thread.
I made my brother a waterbed out of the inserts, so all was not lost, but the knifework was brutal. All I had on me at the time was my Swiss Spartan.
Don't worry, Elly May. I glued an old paper wasp nest to my taint meat, and signed up for the clinical study. I'll expose these wart fetishists for the freaks they be.
Zonker and I went a-shooting today at the farm. I showed him the Daniel Boone rock and everything. We're almost lavalier now. Look at this shit, though:
I know what you're thinking. That's pretty sloppy fieldcraft, there, Velociputz. Four handguns and a rifle splayed in cavalier fashion, ammo spilled everywhere, holsters akimbo, an ancient quilt from my childhood with a very questionable smell, beer. What the fuck?
I admit, it looks like sloppy fieldcraft. But there was a method here. This layout was exactly as planned, down to the cheap vodka in the water bottles.
Whoever said guns and booze don't mix is a pussy. They go together like a horse and carriage. Like Kwame Kilpatrick and a Drano'd whore. Like John Edwards and Rielle Lisa Druck Hunter's skaggy cunt. No, this wasn't sloppy fieldcraft.
Neither was this:
That was my weak eye and left hand with the .357 from 7 yards, after we'd pounded the .45's for an hour or so. It's all about steady hands, and nerves. And booze. And being alone in the woods with Zonker. That's what makes it so special.
Anyway, we agreed to meet up again in a couple of weeks. We want to see if the Winchester's pregnant. Zonker worked it purty hard. My hat's off to the lad.
That last post was about the Man from Glad "Mutiny on the Bunty" commercial, Insipids. So, I kind of explained the Bunty post. The Bunty was the boat in the commerical, see? So you can quit speculating in the Mutiny on the Bunty comments now.
Sheesh. Why did God curse me? I feel like the Pied Piper of Moronfuckingville.
I admit my cultural references are too obscure at times. This is sech a time.
The Man from Glad commercials from the early '70's, Insipids. He had silver hair and wore James Bond attire and would swoop in on a jetpack or whirligig to save a homemaker's kitchen from being fouled by her husband, bearing Glad Wrap. It's like Saran, for you Mazola party freaks. Here's an example:
In my example the family was decamping on a tropical beach from their boat when it was discovered the sandwiches were sandy! Goddam dad hadn't used Glad Wrap!
The Man from Glad appears to save the day. He may have arrived on a whirligig. I don't recall.
Really, Insipids. Where the hell did you people grow up? The next thing you know you'll be telling me you never heard of Bosco Bear.
P.S. Glad was apparently owned by Union Carbide at the time. The "Discovery Company". Trying to recall how many dead bodies Union Carbide "discovered" at Bhopal, India.
You know what really chaps my thighs? I mean really chaps 'em? Like wearing nothing but chaps as you dangle from a rafter at a gay Nazi bullwhip session in a remote clapboard barn outside of Sturgis, South Dakota?
Nevermind. I'm gonna start this one over. You know what really pisses me off? When you're trying to input your address on the Internut and the country drop down menu lists all 254 countries alphabetically. So you have to scroll all the way to the bottom for the United States. Way past Palau and Pitcairn and Tokelau they make you go.
Because it would be imperialist and xenophobic to put the fucking USA at the top, even though 93% of the users of that site are American. Fucking politically correct bullshit inconveniences me all the time.
I ask you: does anyone from Pitcairn's Island really take the goddam GRE? Fuck no, they don't. They're inbred cannibals. Half of 'em are named Fletcher and the other half are named Christian, and they copulate with their sisters, the woggy bastards.
From now on any time I have to scroll down on one of these sites to select the US I'm going to start a flame war with these dilettante cocksuckers.
Pitcairn's Island, indeed.
P.S. Culture quiz: what's that post title from?
My great-grandfather was a blacksmith. He was a blacksmith so my grandfather could open a small supply company. My grandfather opened a small supply company so that my father could be an attorney. My father became an attorney so that I could become a poseur.
The air's pretty rarified up here at the top of the ziggurat.
Who will join me?
Well, I've been using Firefox again after an 8 month hiatus, and I remember what I dislike about it. It's slower than IE7 on every computer I've used. It's history is static, meaning it doesn't re-rank history by most recently accessed. It often neglects to display the easy-links above a post for italimasizing, boldifying, and hyperlinkrituding, so I have to hard code it.
I asked the other day, with all sincerity, for someone to explain these wondrous Obama-like qualities Firefox supposedly brings to the tea party.
Nobody said a fucking thing.
Why? I submit it's because there really aren't any added-value benefits. Insofar as I use a browser that doesn't allow maltrash to infect me, they are semi-perfectly fungible.
It's a fucking web browser, you pompous cunts. That's all. It don't calculate pi, it don't slip me surreptitiously to platinum-standard porn sites, it don't take out my garbage.
It's a fucking browser, losers.
Get a life.
Yesterday's Sitemeter fiasco made this seem appropriate. It's a homemade video of Kraftwerk's title track Computer World, with some kind of Muppet-characters. Pretty funny stuff, if you're a geek like me.
I miss the heady days of 1981, when you could drop a tab and put on some Kraftwerk. Primitive techno dance/electronica. Strangely, only blacks seemed to embrace these Aryan freaks. Every shamming lowrider in town was playing this tape then.
Dieter from Sprockets, of course, sprang fullborn from Kraftwerk's loins. The last decent thing Mike Meyers did.
Excuse me while I go feed Klaus.
What the hell's going on with the Operation Aborted crash when visiting some sites? LGF says it's Sitemeter related, but only using IE7.
Fucking Chinese origin, for sure.
Update: Switched to Firefox from IE7 and no problems so far. Still think it's Sitemeter-related, but I don't know how to disable Sitemeter, just remove it, and the odometer's about to roll over a million. Hate to miss that...
Further thoughts: Everyone has always told me to use Firefox. Fuck that Internet Exploder! they say. As if I was still wiping my ass with 40-grit sandpaper while the rest of the world had long ago switched over to bunny pelts.
I've never seen the value-added to Firefox, to be honest (other than this Sitemeter issue).
So what are these great Mozilla features? Seriously. Clue bat me. Am I, horror of horrors, not extracting all the goody-bonuses from Firefox, or is it just the usual Microsoft bashing? Because that's like mocking cripples. Sure, it's fun for a moment, but ultimately not that satisfying.
Update II: Okay, I killed my Sitemeter (at 959k+ visits, dammit). Go ahead and bash Microsoft, because they DO suck, but this is likely a case of Sitemeter releasing an update without properly checking their code against all browser applications for gremlins. Not exactly Microsoft's fault if true.
Update III: Okay, I placed Sitemeter inside the body of my HTML per Joanie's advice. Appears to be working like a charm. Of course, I could be wrong. Better go fram on my site about 40,000 times, just to be sure.
Here's Velocidaughter One's new Jaguars pic. My God, she has my good looks, doesn't she? Sadly, she doesn't share my intemperate, caustic wordview. But hey, somebody has to be an optimist, right?
Makes a daddy proud, though.
And oh: there won't be any ribald comments on this post, will there? Because I haven't killed anything in two weeks. Not even a rodent. So my blood is up anyhoo. And even if you don't make it to Helen I don't mind driving 1,200 miles or so to shoot you.
I'm glad we cleared that up. Housekeeping is always the crappiest part of blogging.