My elder brother visited this weekend from the debauched ancestral Indian Territory of Savannah, and we headed north, exploring EOTWAWKI property. It seems he is essentially as unhinged and antisocial as I am. We'd just never discussed it. Our only point of contention is I believe he wants to recreate the Branch Davidian compound, whereas I would be quite happy with a humble Ruby Ridge scenario.
I packed the .45 (of course) and the brutish Soviet rifle, because I am a whimsical fellow, and also optimistic enough to think that Fate would provide an opportunity to discharge some lethality when acreage-lust had run its course.
No opportunities for the Mosin, of course. The risk of striking a begrimed Appalachian idiot man-child playing with dirt clods beyond my field of vision was too great. And so finally, in frustration, I pulled off on a dirt road between two double wide trailers, and we emptied some .45 clips into a target ditch. Ammunition? Expended. Nut? Busted.
I was pleasantly surprised at the land prices, by the by. Four, five gees an acre for nice meadowland with mountain vistas. And hardwoods to boot. The trick, of course, isn't building the cabins, or even the steel-reinforced "root cellar." The trick is making one's perimeter BATFE-safe. Fortunately, my nephew knows some girls who are deer hunters and, more importantly, avid Bigfoot hunters. Stone-cold mammal killers, they are, and even profess to possess some Sasquatch scat. They love hanging out at the base of Currahee Mountain, terrorizing G-Men.
The late Gaddafi had his female praetorians. I don't see why I shouldn't have mine.
I was texting with my buddy Mark M. tonight, and the topic was bloggers who link other bloggers with extraordinary regularity. To the point of the raised eyebrow.
I don't consider these things to be sexual, regardless of gender. I do find them to be sadly self-referential, and at some odd point hilarious. And, amazingly, the blogger so graced by another blogger's staccato links finds themself generating more and more of the same. Shocker: Ivan Pavlov played with dogs.
Me? I tend to write better after an insult or two. Especially if one graces me with a link to prove my parlous lack of intelligence, wit, or relevance.
Not that they are right, of course. I'm the best there ever was. I just hide a bit of it, lest you go all crazy, and form fan clubs and such. Or, God Forbid, start linking me.
As I slid my two one-dollar bills across the counter at the cheapo cinema tonight to watch the latest Sherlock Holmes iteration, and received a penny in return, I thought: if the copper in that penny isn't worth more than the full faith and credit supporting those greenbacks now, it won't be long until it is. Four more years!
And, yes, I know they aren't pennies. They are cents. And, yes, I know they are now copper-plated zinc. Still, like an errant, displaced IUD you might run across in a crack brothel, there's some copper there. Just wear latex gloves, please.
When I was a kid we used to throw away the steel cents from 1943 we came upon. They just looked gay, and we didn't think the Chinaman at the 7-11 would think them legal tender anyway.
Apparently some of you mulletheads don't appreciate my dogged pursuit of the ultimate fudge. You might, in fact, think me a bit fey. This is because you are imbeciles, of course.
You do not appreciate the value of professional-level fudge. Creamy, yet hardened against the elements. Especially when the apocalypse comes, and you are vainly attempting to barter ammunition, unbonded whisky, and offspring for a bit of compact, high-energy foodstuffs.
This does not even take into account the especial high sugar content and sexual ameliorations fudge provides women. Especially the recalcitrant ones in the root cellar. If you don't keep meat on their bones you won't retrieve more than a pittance at the auctions, you know.
But more to the point I'll be trading fudge to the wandering peasant women (we will all be peasants then) for the ammo and whisky you paid so dearly for in the first place.
At any rate, lest you think my loafers are floating, and because you wouldn't know good footwear if it kicked you in the anus, here's a picture of my Natzi killer, in order to re-establish my bona fides:
I call it Cat n Gun, to distinguish it from my earlier masterpiece, Gun n Cat. And if you think my cat makes me que sera sera, I'll throw her on your face, and watch you man down.
In a world which will be rife with deteriorating levels of fresh fruit, red meat, and vaginas, I will stride the pastures a colossus, like the fellow in Rhodes, one side of my belt pouch bulging with high-density fudge, the other with French ticklers. And I will gladly trade for your liquor, cartridges, and young 'uns.
Find the scarcity. Exploit it. If that wasn't LBJ, it should have been.
After 12 iterations of consistently improving fudge, I've created 5 batches of complete shit. It ranges from the grainy to the 'can't cut it with a chainsaw'. Fuck around.
I observe my scientific method, and I had not introduced any dependent variables in the last iterations. The earlier ones had been extremely slight anywhats, a drab of light corn syrup here, the introduction of a walnut there. Nothing to get obsessed over, but duly noted in the diaries.
By the way: I'm not a sweet cool future mass murderer like Che. I don't have a motorcycle diary. I do have a stool event of the day diary. But you don't want to read that.
So back to the fudge: I obviously have unknown independent variables afflicting my experiments.
The only problem is to smoke the little fuckers out. Easy peasy, eh?
Well, not so much. I first ascertained my thermometer was compromised, by careful inspection with optical magnification goggles. Threw that'n away, and went to Bed, Bath, and Beyond. One of those places where you walk out fully screwed, and yet your libido is unsated.
So: I obviously over boiled, and fixed that. But the next batch? Sugary. Grainy. What the fuck? I don't undercook my sugar. I never fucking undercook my sugar.
I don't believe in gremlins, and I don't believe in zombies, but something is fucking with my fudge.
A reasonable man would say Gee, dude, maybe you're being persecuted by the faggot fairy. I refuse to believe this. I'm told Conan made fudge. Not in his barbarian days, but in his destroyer days.
Long story short: I've eliminated all dependent variables, as I am on the original Permelia Futch recipe. There's an independent variable out there, that is fucking with my world. And fucking with my fudge. It's like Predalien, only less gay, more dangerous. I went through three stockpots, and returned to the original, for one decent batch.
Speaking of unforeseen independent variables, how much money did the CEO of Hershey give Obama? They just might be foisting less than stellar crap off on me.
Memo to self: flense the soft tissue off that Jim J. Bullock lookalike who plays gatekeeper for the Hershey guy.
Well, I got the old Mosin-Nagant 91/30 in yesterday. Og would be proud, And I was surprised. For a 70 year-old rifle that had been idling in a Russian armory for 66 of those years it is in excellent condition. The importer had cleaned all the cosmoline off, the walnut stock is impeccable, the bore is bright, the bolt slides open and easy, like Madonna's anus.
A few nicks in the stock. Almost imperceptible. Certainly some scraping around the muzzle from the constant attachment of the bayonet. Those poor Soviet conscripts weren't given scabbards. Hell, only half of them were given rifles. You followed the guy behind you, and picked up his rifle when he got shot. And you never took the bayonet off. It gave you an extra 18 inches reach on them accursed Germans.
Still, a beautiful thang. I'll post pictures tomorrow when I get a better camera. For now, just rest assured VMan is sleeping tight with a weapon built in 1942 that most certainly has at least a little Nazi blood on it.
So no pics tonight. But here's a 91/30 in action from Enemy At The Gates:
From the JohnB collection, entitled Vanity.
In lieu of a tip jar, which I abhor, I would take assistance from anyone with IP sleuthing skilz. I have a nice little slopjar of predalien's, and if you point me in the right direction I can take it from there. It's a tidy sum involved (and some of it in gold!).
Conversely, if you want to go Papa Thorson on your own, well, that's just a tweak of the old exchange of goods and services.
I was watching some old footage of Joseph Goebbels, a rather fascinating speech maker in his own right, and Adolph. And I was fascinated by the overt limp-wristed homosexual overtones these fellows exhibited.
We've all seen Hitler return a hard Prussian Sieg Heil with a rather distracted, effeminate wave of the hand, but Goebbels, I think, perfected that insolent bit of queer requital.
For all their awesome uniforms, and death's heads, and wicked weapons and symbolism, I see a serious case of homoeroticism running rampant through the old Third Reich.
I would imagine one would see the same thing in neo-Nazi encampments in upper Michigan today. I mean, someone has to pierce one's nipples while they are shaving one's head.
Those ASPCA commercials really tear me up. No one likes to see an abused animal.
Unfortunately, I don't have space for these creatures. But you probably do. And I know where many of you live. So if you get a knock on the door and there's a one-eyed, spavined mutt on your stoop, step up to the plate. Because you know you haven't done anything decent for quite a while.
P.S. If I run across any orphaned possums I may bless you with one of those, too.
A Wolff spring set for my 1911 pistola, because the original springs be suffering from old age and metal fatigue, and a Mosin-Nagant 91/30. Because I got the need for bleed. And because Og made me do it. He taunted me. He's like a marionetter, jerking my strings just to watch me lurch about. Actually, the folks who make the marionettes jump are known as manipulators. So there's Og.
So now I have my 1911 slide being returned by Springfield Armory after front site rework, a 60-year-old Russian rifle en route from Ohio (and packed in grease a porn studio would be ashamed of), a can of 440 rounds of questionable decades-old Bulgarian ammunition, and a batch of internal springs from God Knows Where. I have more hardware in the air than the evacuation of Iraq.
And I want it home with daddy.
...it fell to earth, I knew not where.
Longfellow. Underrated in my book. He catches grief for Paul Revere's Ride, but The Song of Hiawatha stands up to any of the Italians to me.
But this isn't about Longfellow. It's about the little fellow with the bow. Valentine's Day, the Great American Shakedown, is nigh upon us.
I am lucky. I haven't had a person one would deem a sweetheart for three Valentine's Days now. No significant other. Therefore I am immune from the degradation this day foists upon men. And my objective observation of the human condition has led me to these premises:
Rule of thumb, fellows: whatever you get her, it will always be slightly less than her expectations. Her expectations being contemporaneously formed at the moment she sees what you gave her.
Another rule of thumb: she'll give you sex. Because she fucking has to (despite your gift that was contemporaneously deemed slightly less than what she felt she deserved) but there will be nuances, slight indications, that it's a favor. Do the right thing and bust a nut before she does. That's the only leverage you have.
Rule of thumb 3: Dude, you shouldn't have busted that nut before she did. Why do you listen to me? You will have sex again in July. Five dollars says she will have sex several times before then. With someone who didn't give her shit on Valentine's Day.
Hope I cleared this all up. Rube.
We are in the dog days of the flu season, and yet the local pharmacies are still pimping the shots. Did you get a flu shot this season? If so, I have two questions.
2) Are you fucking crazy?
Don't get me wrong. I'm certainly not one of those anti-innoculation reprobates who refuse to let their children be protected from the smallpox, and mumps and rubella. Hell, my girls looked like Keith Richard by the time I had them booted up properly.
But the flu shot is a different sort of thing. Strange, in its way.
Vaccination 101: we all understand how innoculation came to be, right? Edward Jenner in 1796 realized he could infect people with the relatively benign cowpox, and they would be immune from the hideous smallpox (and, yes, other people, going back to the Turks, had apparently had some success with this).
The idea of innoculation, in other words, is to infest the host with a relatively benign form of a virus in order to prevent its more demonstrative cousin from manifesting itself. Works great on smallpox, MMR, chicken pox, HPV.
Influenza is a bitch, though. It mutates every year into a new aggressive form. Sometimes not so bad, sometimes velly bad. The 1918-1920 outbreak killed upwards of 100 million people. The world war that had raged for the previous 4 years only killed 15 million.
Here's my point: the 1918 catastrophe induced the Army to create a vaccine in the '40's. Like the Corps of Engineers in the Everglades about that time. Gee. Let's give this crazy-assed problem to the Army. An institution filled with 3/4 shell-shocked warriors bitching for their separation papers and 1/4 grasping officers with no war with which to promote themselves. What could possibly go wrong?
Sorry for the meandering history lesson. Please allow me to redress your incipient grievances.
The point is, all innoculations, by definition, introduce a widda bit of nasty into your bloodstream, so that the big nasty is estopped from gaining a toehold.
Which brings me back to the flu: I have never had influenza. Not the real deal. Oh, I've have funks. Spungs of the lung. Feebs of the liver areas. Green alien newborns erupting from the tracheal areas. But not influenza.
And so: I am supposed to visit my local CVS, and allow a strange mustachioed woman to inject me with a mild case of this accursed filth?
Here's the real deal: how do you think they come up with the flu shot? Hell, this year's flu hasn't even come out yet. They have no idea what this year's mutation will look like. The sad fact is, the flu shot is a gaggle of epidemiologists' best guess as to what this year's flu will be. Their best guess.
I'm sure they use the finest regression analyses, and such, but at the end of the day this year's flu shot is just a Stupid Wild Assed Guess as to what this year's flu will actually be. The epidemiologists' best dart-throwing whack as to what the mutation this year might be. It might go Avian. It might go N1H1. Who knows? Most flu grows in Chinee pig guts. This year's might not. It might grow in a goddam chicken's heart!
And yet my government's Department of Health and Human Services tells me I should inject this crapshoot of a bit of pig spoot into my veins.
Not gonna happen. My slowly degenerating white body has enough issues. If you are happy getting your flu shot, God Bless You. Me? I'm still trying to figure out why people pay extra money for bottled water that don't have any fucking fluoride in it.
I have a retirement plan. Well, I have several. The legitimate ones are looking tits up at the moment, the others, well, not so much.
One plan that pleases me is my fudge. After numerous iterations, I feel I have hit upon the ultimate mixture of earth, heat, and time. Creamy, yet firm. Sweet, without being cloying. Nuts? I got your nuts right here.
All that is left now is the marketing. I shall be a purveyor of fudge via the internet, whence go rubes in search of delight.
1st: The Maker: Witnesseth:
"I am Permelia Futch. I been making this here fudge in Smut Eye, Tennessee since 1938. Never changed a thing, and folks just tell me they love it!"
2nd: The Artisanal Bent. Americans are by and large suckers for anything "artisanal." It bespeaks a bygone age they never knew, it gives them an opportunity to have something the negroes down the street don't have (after all, they have Black History Month), and it gives vaporheads something to talk to each other about in the line at Trader Joe's.
I'm not sure precisely how to skew this old-fashioned fudge as artisanal, but perhaps a hint it was bottomed with dog urine. White women love that sort of thing.
3rd: Nuts. Pecans are so expensive these days! Granny Permelia would have to charge $20 a pound for the sweet, sweet goodness that is pecan. And so will ye. Granny Permelia ordains it. You want walnuts? $13.50 a pound of fudge. Artisanal macadamia nuts? $15.50. It's a game. A game I play well.
So that's my retirement plan. Unless I ever get my hands on predalien. Then, well, Granny Permelia's hatpins and the predascrotum come into play. That has to be worth gazillions. At least to me. At least on Pay-Per-View.
And, ah, P.S. Lest you think I'm going to lose my ravishing good looks slaving over a boiling pot of strangely coalescing sugars and cocoas you are sadly mistaken. I've already hired the young girl down the street to cook for me. It's merely my recipe. I'm the Professor Moriarty here. I figure if she can cook meth, she can cook fudge. I do wish I knew the Ebonics for "cups" and "ounces," though.
And, perhaps, "Big Daddy."
So I went into my new boss's office today and said "I have a question for you. But remember: there are no stupid questions. Only stupid answers. So think very hard before you reply."
He scribbled something on his memo pad. I don't read very well upside down, but it appeared to say "Smart-ass cocksucker."
When he asked me what the question was, I said "Never mind. I think I have the answer."
This particular vector of my life will most assuredly be a tribulation to someone. Probably me.
Ever seen this film? A white hunter in Africa upsets a local tribe, who in turn torture/murder his companions, strip him bare, and give him a head start to avoid a similar fate.
The Senator called it a Watts movie, which went completely over my head. I just wondered why Tarzan wasn't saving this poor, naked fool. I'd been fed a script for years. Umbebwe eating the protagonist's heart didn't fit the script.