March 31, 2009

Going John Galt

I myself have been considering the old trope. Being suspicious of the grasping cocksuckers who run the light farm implement industry these days, and being a cheap bastard to boot, I've been tinkering with the manufacture of a homemade leaf mulcher, four to six hundred dollars being too expensive for such a pedestrian tool when ammunition is so dear.

Not everyone need embark upon the Galt thing, however. I'm sure you've all by now heard of the pudknocker who awarded himself a DUI driving this contraption:


Far be it from me to castigate a person for exhibiting enterprise, but we refuseniks must distance ourselves from the cretinous, despite admirable homages to the ethereal qualities of John Barleycorn.

Likewise, during my research into creating the ultimate $15 leaf mulcher, I happened upon this fellow in India. He suffers from the rare glory of possessing a tiny patch of actual grass in his urban abode, and, not wishing to expend $120 for a lawnmower, created this beautifully blasphemous thing:


For the love of Jesus I'm not even sure which end one pushes, however I am convinced that whichever way this thing mows, the pusher will experience the light, heady feeling of calamitous blood loss due to the severing of his feet just above the tarsi.

Now, I'm not the sharpest knife in the whore, but it seems to me not everyone is cut out for this Galt move. The fascisti will need proles; strong backs and dull minds. These bocephahemians should let those of us with innate talent depart the grid, go dark. The barstool dragster and the footsie amputator belong to the New World Order. I for one relish watching their attempts to throw a railroad switch in a stockyard, or install the soon-to-be-mandatory feces recycler in the 2011 Cadillac SUX. I've already emailed the Shite House a long list of those I consider of inferior mettle, suitable for their corporatist needs. I'm like Napoleon the Berkshire Boar that way.

Exit question: does this make me Elitist? I certainly hope so. Personally, the few neighbors I have are going to be the first to taste my wrath when the deal goes down. Chain link fences? Barking dogs? I have Mexicans at the end of the street who have fucking polka parties every Saturday night. It is an abomination.

I've got him in my sights, Moneypenny.

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March 22, 2009


East is east, and west is west, said Kipling. That goddamned colonialist apologist. How I love him.

And insofar as that sentiment obtains, never the twain shall convince the Other they are not disgusting vermin. Conflict is a primal component of man's nature. One might as well curse the thundershower, or chastise the wind, as to try to eliminate conflict from man's soul. One might even say conflict is healthy for our precious spirit, for at least it is honest, and reduces the necessity for the baser instincts of subterfuge and betrayal.

Now having laid that rather parsimonious throw rug of a qualification before you, I will aver that all conflict is not equal. Nor, obviously, are all propositions, arguments, axioms or moots.

The declaration of a position must have merit, it must emanate in good faith, and it must adhere to basic ground rules of propriety. A proposition must conform to traditional standards of debate, and eschew the notorious and cheap tricks of redefinition of words, reliance on shallow memes and tropes that have long since been proven false, and ad hominem attacks that preclude the possibility of honest and open debate.

In other words, the Left must completely dismantle its false structures of conflict if they choose to have rigorous debate, and join the universe of mature and earnest debaters of moral and political philosophy. Does this declaration appear crass and underhanded? Even, perish the thought, ad hominem?

I would grant the Left that argument if, and only if, they abjure the following style and type of attack passing itself as even-handed debate:

Easy examples: Bush lied about WMD's, and Richard Cheney was the evil puppetmaster of a confused and doltish white-knuckle drunk. These are bald-faced lies, repeated so often without benefit of proof as to make one puke at the fucking ridiculousness of the charges. WMD's were of course believed to be in Saddam's possession for the simple fact he had used them against his own people and the Iranians, for Christ's sake. Bush, in his tepid approach to war, gave the bastard a year to hide them, or move them. Surely those that were not found, and they were found, are buried in the Mesopotamian or Assyrian deserts. Why would they not be? And who could find them if they were? Of course there were WMD's. We fucking found them.

Dick Cheney? He became Vice President after a thirty year career in DC as a man universally acclaimed to be calm, composed, bipartisan, even-handed, kind, and jolly. He was the poster boy of decorum. And yet he was morphed overnight into a fucking vampire, a Machiavellian manipulator interested only in creating financial opportunities for his bloodthirsty friends at Halliburton. A spendthrift of "blood and treasure" to enrich himself and his fat cat buddies.

This was a goddamn libel of monstrous proportions, and one the Left knew to be so, and yet they shamelessly fostered and promulgated it. Dick Cheney is a fucking stand up guy. Eight years on I have never seen a shred of evidence to prove the calumny showered upon this decent man. If Cheney were the bastard the Left made him out to be he surely would have had his dirty mercenaries carve the fucking hearts out of the cocksuckers who slandered him so. I would have. Hell, I would have eaten those hearts. But I'm not a stand up guy like Dick Cheney.

And about that "blood and treasure" line. A very convenient and psychologically charged term. I would ask the Left at what point they ever cared about the blood of an American soldier or Marine? They promulgated enormous lies through the bastard auspices of The New Republic, and the gutter mouth of John Murtha, but I don't recall any left of center politician visiting Walter Reed Hospital to render kindness to an injured veteran. As for treasure? Since when is taxpayer money considered treasure to a Leftist? It is nothing more than the coin of the realm for socialist policies to them. If taxpayer money is such a fucking treasure to the Left why then do they waste it so heedlessly on their pet projects and social engineering circle jerks, and in such mind boggling quantities? Hell, Barack Obama's Treasury Department just printed over a trillion dollars of "treasure" like fucking green confetti for Saint Patrick's Day, which will serve no purpose other than to buy loyalty and largesse on the cheap while the inflationary backlash of such an infantile and stupid gesture will go unremarked by the chiggering classes in the media. Treasure, indeed.

Let us discuss queer-bashing, a hobby of the Left one could set one's watch by: although heavily populated and suported by the gay establishment, the Left has no compunction about outing or vilifying homosexuals such as Mary Cheney or Larry Craig or Jeff Gannon if it suits the agenda. Hypocrisy knows no bounds when the agenda must be forwarded. Of all the Left's transgressions this is possibly the most disgusting, as it invariably causes, or attempts to cause, great personal harm to not only the individual but their family and close friends. It is an evil tactic, and an abomination. I personally have never read a Leftist deplore this tactic, even as the Left whistled past the graveyard as a totally politically corrupt piece of human garbage such as Barney Frank was busted for having a live-in lover and employee run a gay prostitution ring out of his abode. That disgusting and illegal activity is apparently fine, but that fucking Larry Craig? Tapped a guy's shoes in the toilet. Let us not only crucify him, but humiliate him and his family.

There are so many reasons to abhor the Left for their deceit, treachery, and calumny. I merely point to the tip of the iceberg here. Just a small, small smattering of the corrupt nature of the Infantile Class. But never let it be said I did not call that spade a spade. Are those of the Left who know me, or read me, repulsed? I am sure they are. I do not give a fucking fig about that. More importantly to me, am I repulsed by them? I don't presume you must read between these lines to assume that fact. I am absolutely repulsed by the Left, for they do not engage in adult conversation. They rely upon prevarication, code words, hate, personal attacks, and vitriol to disguise their true reason for the inability to debate on the merits: simply put, they hate individualism, hate those who do not think as they do, and wish to use the plenipotentiary power of the state to force those who disagree with them to toe the fucking line, and get on board with their grandiose schemes to remake the world not as it is, but how in their tiny and unsophisticated minds they wish it to be. And when they lose the debate, because they have no rational facts to sustain them, they will simply play the race card, or fagbash one of your own, or pass a goddamn ex post facto law and take away your money unconstitutionally because they managed to arm a dozen convenient spastics with pitchforks. For they do not believe in a government of laws. They believe in a government of emotions. Which is a dangerous fucking thing, when you have the emotions of a thirteen year old girl. It's one thing to show up for a gun fight with a knife. It's quite another thing to show up for a debate with nothing more than a Che tee, Mao's Little Red Book, and an enema bag with what passes for your brain inside it.

The brainwashed generation that flattered themselves into thinking they were the vanguard of the future in 1967 San Francisco now hold all of the keys to the kingdom, and as power corrupts, so it is no fucking daisy they're sticking in your barrel. The only thing we have to fear is the fucking fearmongers themselves. And their daisies.

As for Repulsion: that rotting hare in the kitchen in Polanski's film rather succinctly sums up my opinion of the State of the Leftists' Union.

There will be blood.


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March 21, 2009

Singing in the Round

It's Dirty Harry. It's only 53 seconds. Humor me.

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March 18, 2009

I'm a Fleabit Peanut Monkey...

...for which I make no apologies. I do want to share an experience confirming this fact, however.

I have an employee, a horrid little woman, whose life is a sordid melange of hypochondria, neuroses, and paranoia. Other than that she's okay. Except for the fact that she wears the same powder blue sweatpants to work every day (she's a driver, not an office worker, but even so her appearance is borderline Hooverville). I would not be surprised to learn she lives in a shack over to the inert landfill.

At any rate, I knew she was in my boss's office to discuss a minor payroll matter. Something that could have been handled with a phone call, however she chose to address it personally. As the matter was rather trivial, I was surprised when my phone rang, and my boss said "Mr. C-------, could you please come over to my office, sir?" (We stand on a bit of old school southern niceties around here). I quickly replied in the affirmative, mostly out of curiosity. Which curiosity was sated immediately upon my arrival in his office.

My boss is a large, rather grave man, with more than a passing resemblance to Burl Ives. He normally exudes great gravitas. Now imagine the look on my face as I entered, and saw that the employee in question, standing in front of his desk, had a three-inch wide moist brown streak running the length of her buttocks. The woman had shite herself, and was utterly oblivious to this fact.

My boss's face was a stone mask of solemnity, lips pursed in concentration and fingers interlaced across his belly. But his eyes were absolutely swimming in tears. His mirth ducts were in full flower.

He saw that I saw, told me the nature of the payroll issue, and asked if I would be so kind as to resolve it. I looked at the woman and gave her a dismissive wave of my hand, said gesture full of both condescension and noblesse oblige, as if to say the issue had already been handled. It was an unfortunately imperious gesture, having that air of dismissal, but the plain truth is I was terrified of opening my mouth. I too had managed thus far to present a reserved and judicious appearance to this nattering woman, but I fully understood the thin tightope I was precariously perched upon. I had three sharp barks and a rolling guffaw attempting to explode from my throat.

We managed to keep our sober visages until she left the building, no doubt to do some grocery shopping and run other important errands in her blissful ignorance, but of course we collapsed after she left. It was a veritable cartoon scene of fist pounding table, handkerchief dabbing eye. High fives.

Am I ashamed of this conduct? Of course I am. But consider: a person doesn't always see eye to eye with their boss, but a man who will ring you up and have you travel all the way across the building just to see someone who has shit themselves is a fucking hoss. My respect quotient for the man increased dramatically. And to answer your question: of course I've shit myself. But never have I not been immediately aware of that terrible fact. And for God's sake. It wasn't a wet fart. It was goddam bowel movement.

I'm cross-posting this over at Big Dick's Place, because those fuckers live for shit like this.

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March 15, 2009

Theater of the Absurd

The intertubular newsboys are currently hallooing Extra! Extra! over the latest imbroglio from the Daily Show. To wit, the carefully edited take down of CNBC's Jim Cramer for having the Audacity of Doubt. I don't watch the Daily Show for the same reason I don't smell the scours that erupt from a calf's ass: once, or in the case of that show, thrice, is enough. One knows the experience will be repellent, given prior excursions, so there is no reason to continue to return to the bottlefly pile.

I am at a loss as to why anyone of a conservative bent would voluntarily appear on the politburo show trial Stewart emcees, nor even why an Obama-supporting populist such as Cramer would capitulate his pride in such a manner, knowing in advance he was pencilled in for ridicule.

The premise of the Daily Show is what is so farcical: Stewart, a smarmy, glib, unctuous, sanctimonous prick, sets up his guest so that he may utter seemingly piercing one-liners cobbled together by his robust writing staff at his guest, the entire purpose being to shame and humiliate his guest to the delight of his carefully handpicked peanut gallery in the audience. Those guests clever and informed enough to actually debate Stewart and score a telling point will find that particular repartee on the cutting room floor. What the tiny studio audience may see the worldwide audience will certainly not. Stewart isn't smarter than his guests: he's just a shallow one-trick pony with 3 or 4 six-figure gag writers on his staff. He's the Dyke Van Dick of his ilk.

More smarter people than your humble writer have noticed that Stewart only exists because he can have it both ways: where his dearly-purchased comedy one-liners score a carefully edited point he is The Incisive Debater, cutting through the network bilge to speak Truth to Power. Where his efforts fall flat or he resorts to the ad hominem or sophomoric, well, Hey! It's a comedy show, fer crissakes! What do you expect?

In other words, there is no day of reckoning for this pixelated Iago, no rules of the road of conscience for this faggotty Falstaff.

I leave Cramer to his own comeuppance. He has a very nice forum to rebut his degradation. Likewise Jonah Goldberg, whose apparently clever dialogue with Stewart was so impressive the resultant chop job resembled less an interview than the Hefty Cinch-Sack securing the Picasso-like remains of a partial birth abortion. And I feel for the nomenclatura who must make the unpleasant pilgrimage to the Daily Show in order to hawk their efforts. It's often a tough slog, capitalism. It ain't always champagne and strippers. But I would wager that Daily Show appearance didn't boost Jonah's already impressive book sales more than the widow's mite in the scales of justice.

I, for one, am glad even my fellow conservatives have explained to me, in exasperated and spittle-flecked terms, why Rush Limbaugh is the intemperate buffoon here. Because I was laboring under the misapprehension that the Daily Show, with its deep, deep talent pool of latter day Morey Amsterdams, ready and willing to sandbag, misrepresent, misquote, vilify, and prevaricate, were the true cowardly filth here. Presided over by Jon Stewart, a master of ceremonies so ostentatious, rude, narcissistic, and underhanded a desperate travelling circus would find it beneath its dignity to hire the smug fuck as a ring toss barker. Because even an alcoholic, corrupt, and broken ringmaster still has to sleep at night.

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March 13, 2009

A Face In The Crowd

Watching Barack Obama speak, a pastime I seldom indulge in due to the sheer banality of his rhetoric, my mind often wanders to Lonesome Rhodes, the central character in Elia Kazan's 1957 tour de force film.

For the uninitiated, Andy Griffith plays the homespun Rhodes, discovered by local radio producer Patricia Neal in a jail in Pickett, Arkansas, strumming his guitar and regaling the locals. Rhodes's ride becomes meteoric when his popularity lands him a primetime show on national television, where his stock in trade is the good-natured belittling of his sponsor, the purveyor of a snakeoil bromide called Vitajex. Rhodes's true nature is soon revealed to the filmgoer, as he sheds the forlorn and bitter Neal for the nubile teenage beauty queen Lee Remick, and is an unbearable monster to any who would help or even seek to counsel him.

Like Barry Obama, Larry Rhodes is a two-bit hustler with a perverse knack for swaying public opinion, and winning legions of fans, by glib repartee. Unlike Obama, Rhodes' style is more Will Rogers aw shucks than Barack Obama shuck and jive. Regardless, both characters are venal pretenders, spinning their respective silk to ensnare the gullible. Both find the television camera to be a seductive and successful medium, and both possess the preternatural ability to understand the usefulness of its sheep herding nature.

I can never speak highly enough of Andy Griffith's brilliant portrayal of Lonesome Rhodes. Obama can claim no such chops, however the willing suspension of disbelief in the audience always outweighs mere talent in the actor, don't it?

Like the Neal character, many Americans allowed their hopeful's skillful bullshitting qualities to override their normal antennae of caution. And like Neal, many Americans can find enlightenment to be a true bitch.

Here's a nice touch:

Lonesome Rhodes gets his audience to send in $20,000 in quarters in order to buy a poor black woman a house. Where have we seen that lately?

Here's Lonesome Rhodes Barack Obama selling his Vitajex Stimulus Package, with the bonus of seeing his eventual fall from Grace, and the suicidal reactions of his fans:

History may not repeat itself, but it certainly comes around for sloppy seconds now and then.

Vero possumus! Pray for the Wildcats!

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March 10, 2009

Word, Out

Jeff Goldstein replies to the recent spate of cannibalism within the ranks of the right at Hot Air. An excerpt:

All of which brings us back to those conservative political realists and pragmatists now criticizing Rush over his impolitic (or unclear) remarks: their desire for Limbaugh to be more careful with his phrasings as a way to avoid being misrepresented in a soundbite culture is, frankly, a fool’s game — and, even more frankly, it is indicative of a political strategy that amounts to conceding loss, with the concomitant hope that perhaps we’ll lose more slowly.

– Which is not to say this is a conscious part of the strategy of the realists, just that it is the inevitable effect of backing such a strategy. Because even were Republicans to begin winning elections based on their newly found ability to negotiate a hostile media bent on misrepresenting them, they’d be compelled to maintain the practice of carefully parsing their words, which means they’d always be at the mercy of those looking to attack and discredit. And such has the effect both of chilling speech and of determining in what way a message must necessarily be delivered.

And when your opponents are making the rules, you are necessarily playing their game.

Certainly read the entire thing. And I think Jeff gets it entirely right, and don't presume to wade into that particular morass, as I could not have said it better. Now let us reacquire some more appropriate targets, and feast upon some blue meat.

And, as I've had Tuco on the sidebar since 2003, I believe I can in all modesty proclaim:



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March 8, 2009

Words Almost Fail Me...

Go read this delicious piece of lunacy at the Huffandpuff Post. I'd originally penned a 2,500 word takedown of this useful idiot, then remembered: never get in a pissing contest with an ex-member of the Religious Right whose current occupation is lighting unicorn farts with a Michigan J. Frog embossed Zippo. You will be alternately assailed by someone who knows more about God than you, while being accused of harboring secret theistic impulses. While they perversely proceed to deify Barack Obama. And that kind of exercise in circular logic, daisy-chaining, tail-chasing, and circle-jerking will only leave you dizzy. Especially from a disingenuous fuck like Frank Schaeffer. Whoever he is.

Instead I used that screed to clean out some suet and cage-raised chicken sweetbreads that were clogging my garbage disposal, and was reminded of the immortal words of C.W. Moss in Bonnie and Clyde:

Dirt in the fuel line... just blowed it away.

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Back in the Straddle!

I'm thrilled to report my babe Key is back, thanks to a move from MuNu by Jesse, bless 'im. I confess I'll miss scrolling the spam on her old site for the elasticators, confobulators, Tantric eggbeaters, zipadee beads, and other assorted pornaphilalia I've run across there. Testimonial: some of that stuff really works! But then, it wasn't my 3,000 spam comments that required deleting, either.

Here's hoping I don't get scrubbed from her blog roll after one lousy link. And, if she ever runs out of material, one could have an entire blog devoted to correcting: my, numerous! punctuation - errors. If one were so inclined.

P.S. She told me to make it sticky.

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March 7, 2009

A Good Man is Hard to Find

The mewling classes have been quite vocal of late in the two or three areas that comprise the echo chamber of the week. The Republicans allowed themselves to be drawn into an internicine battle over Rush Limbaugh, as the Obama praetorian skillfully diverted attention from their multiple and numerous failings. Steele, for whom I felt an affinity, appears to be a complete and utter buffoon. A Chicken George more interested in bowing and scraping to the visitors than pleasing the one what feeds him.

The litany of failure from the Obama clique is absolutely astounding. Not since Rutherford Birchard Hayes has an administration so completely fucked up everything it touched. From the wagon train of totally unvetted tax cheats and scoundrels and clueless screwheads (yes, you, Geithner) to the deliberate and malevolent destruction of market confidence to the imperious refusal to work maturely with the opposition to the gangster mentality of forsaking the critical repair of the economy in favor of ramrodding vast and sweeping socialist policies down the throats of an unwilling nation, Barack Obama has proved himself to be a creature so bereft of any decency whatsoever that even I am shocked.

His arrogance, coupled with his shrewish wife's chicken-head sense of Negro victimhood, have humiliated not only our most special ally, but ourselves in the bargain. Deliberately. Consciously. Evilly. Mr. Obama is collected. He's calm. He's a cool cat, man. I'm incessantly told this, so it must be true. Therefore his pissing upon the leg of Gordon Brown was a cold and calculated effort to negate his white past, and embrace his Mau Mau half.

Even Obama's moderate, center-left, and liberal devotees have to be appalled at his naked ambition to turn the world topsy-turvy on his whim. Even they must see that he does not champion their ideals, as he so glibly promised, but is instead focused on implementing a diabolical strategem of transforming this democracy into his anitintellectual conceit of an anarcho-Maoist syndicate. The man has 1) betrayed his loyalists, 2) betrayed his oppositional countrymen, 3) maliciously destroyed the nation's economy through repellent and repetitive doomsaying, and 4) repudiated nearly every campaign promise he made, within weeks of grasping the sceptre and donning the crown and ermine stole.

I would call the man a joke, but his waving of his magic wand and the obeisance of our callow and compromised legislators portend a maelström from which we will not soon recover, and it is no fucking joke.

A simple sanity test: is there anything Obama has done that would not please the brutish Mongol Lenin, the withered armed Stalin, or the diseased and pedophilic Mao? Or Billy Ayers, for that matter? Goddamn. The Red Chinese and the Russians are bristling with rage over Obama's hamfisted destruction of the global economy. That in itself speaks volumes.

In days of distemper the discriminating reader is aware that I will occasionally pull my Flannery O'Connor from the bookshelf for solace, and answers. I found that solace in the post title story, naturally. I see parallels in Obama and The Misfit. The asocial behavior. The reliance on drastic and unnecessary measures in time of crisis. And, of course, their shared belief that

They would of been a good people... if it had been somebody there to shoot them every minute of their life.

It is no real pleasure in life, as The Misfit says. At least until someone, somewhere, stands up to this little Caesar, this Mulatto Mussolini, and brings him round with a slap or two to his downy, Stalinist cheek.

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March 6, 2009

Hypotheses Non Fingo

For those of us who are not of an innate scientific mind, but who still consider Ike Newton to have had gargantuan intellectual nutsack, I feign no hypotheses. I was a miserable student of the natural philosophies at university, primarily because it offered me no immediate gratification. I was incensed that Uncle Sam only wanted to produce warrior-engineers instead of warrior-poets, and my studies reflected my blasé attitude to the rigors of knuckling under, and burning the midnight oil. There were also the twin impediments of binge drinking and skirt-chasing. Never underestimate these distractions when totting up a man's lifesong. I was, in fact, a roué, destined to be the goat of my class.

In later years I've rediscovered, if not the joys of calculus and quantum mechanics, at least the assistance a basic understanding of them brings to my new field of dilettantism: civil engineering. Or perhaps, more properly, construction engineering. A well-rounded man should be able to build things. Modest things. I hold no erection for the more esoteric engineering sciences. EEE ain't for me. Nor chemical, nanotech, or computer engineering. My mind is too feeble for these advanced platforms.

I'd just like to create from mud and sand and wood and steel: a wine cellar, disguised as a fallout shelter/safe room. A well-anchored utility building perched upon a grievous slope. An ornamental arched bridge to span my nebulous little creek.

I remembered naught from my college engineering classes. No design, statics and strengths, materials science. So the avocation is slow, and new, and ponderous. But I'll wade through it. Fucking Ada, in the olde days my only computational device was a slide rule. Surely I'll do better with a laptop.

I'm going to start with a birdhouse, I think. Because one always throws away the first ill-conceived effort, anyhow, and I actually have no real desire to make the goddam caged bird sing. Then perhaps a holding cell in the crawlspace. Running rudimentary plumbing and fresh water to my visitors would be an excellent second step. Then to the big time.

If all goes well, I'll be pouring cement for my observatory in two years. I'll need an ironworks for that, though. Something about the domey thing rotating. Hell. It's a plan. And as of last week I didn't even have a plan for my breakfasts for the next ten days.

Pilgrim, thy name is Progress. Hubris, thy name is Principia Velocimatica.

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March 1, 2009

Snow Day

As a sometime devotee of spree drinking on the sabbath I'm pretty down with this snow fall. A judicious phone call has confirmed there will be no work in the Monday Velocihood.

Here's the view from the back deck. The goat shed looks pretty lonely down there. The baby pygmies aren't supposed to be borned for a couple of more weeks, but this cold snap might cause a few to drop prematurely. Then I shall stock the yard with a few of the little brutes.


More pics be below the fold. I had nothing better to do today than traipse the property with Key, admire the scenery, and make yellow snow.

The creek is back. The Prince of Peace Obama cast back the drought, and brought the heavenly waters to bear upon my humble abode. Bless Him:


A peak at the pond through a deadfall:


A view of the house from the goat shed. The hike back up is infinitely more taxing than the walk down:


One of the falls on the creek. It's a watershed creek, not spring fed, therefore I must pray to Father Barack to keep the goodness cascading from the heavens:


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I had to get that picture off the screen.


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