If you haven’t been in the woods these last few delicious days of sunny and warm November, I offer my deepest apologies. They seem most welcoming this year. And I will not be rude and ignore their entreaties.
Besides, it keeps me from thinking about stupid shit. You know, like that dreadful thing they’re calling “health insurance reform.” Or Obama’s Afghanistan escalation.
Frankly. I’d rather be working in the woods. And so I shall.
Easy choice: Alex Cockburn’s rant against fat.
Quick tease:
Of course there’s a lobby that says it’s all prejudice by the slim crowd, and fat people are perfectly normal – just a bit heftier. Websites devoted to this posture prate on unpersuasively about natural heftiness and the vile slurs of the diet industry. You read a lot about fat women being sexy, though not much about the kindred allurements of fat men – a discrimination Titian and Rubens divined centuries ago. I remember picking up a magazine in the lefty book store in Pike Place, Seattle, a few years back called Fat Dykes and the Women Who Love Them and it’s true, on my observation, that a very fat Lesbian will not pine away for lack of slim young baby-dyke admirers of her inviting corpulence.
Read it. And weep.
Here. Something for you to dance to. And keep pretending.
The idiots have gathered (again). See photo for proof.
And I’ve got a solution: If they really don’t want “socialistic healthcare,” or socialization in particular, how about they pledge to opt-out of Medicare, police, fire and military protection, and to stop using the road system? Then – and maybe then – I’ll start to take them seriously.
But, on brighter fronts, it’s good to see there are those on the left still willing to say what needs to be said when it comes to health care: Universal coverage. Yeah, remember that? That was the necessary – and obvious – rallying cry for the sane before the big, bad, and silly Public Option came and ripped the rug out from under logic.
I miss logic. I just can’t seem to remember where we put it.
There is something deeply disturbing about this. Randy George of Red Hen Baking fame (and ownership) dressed up as Boots Wardinski for Halloween this year.
I’ll let that sink in for a moment. I know, I know: Ew.
I didn’t see Randy’s performance. I was only told about it from Boots. And, frankly, I didn’t really believe him.
But this morning my friend Neha sent this photo to me:
Yep, that’s Randy George as Boots Wardinksi – with the trademark shorts, flannel, and some kind of communist slogan hanging from his shirt. But the real giveaway is the reaction from Randy’s daughter. Yes, indeed, move away.
[Special note to Randy: Please, let’s not encourage him.]
Oh hell, my daughter left this morning and forgot to take her cookies. Wanna bet if they’ll be here when she returns?
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Heard on the street: Trick-or-treating was better before corn syrup became king.
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I went to the gun store last week. I hadn’t been to a gun store in quite some time. Long enough ago, in fact, to refer to it awkwardly as a “gun store.” Sorry, but I can’t seem to think of what the fellas really call it. That’s reason number 173 for why I am a bad hunter.
The gun store was filled with guys who looked like they knew what to call it. They gathered in groups in various sections of the store, each seeming to know that I didn’t belong.
I just needed some bullets for some target practice. I maneuvered by the plaid-flannel-dominated gentlemen, noticing the shiny revolvers and slick scopes locked behind the glass counters.
On the wall behind the counter – far out of reach of the customer – were the bullets. It was literally a wall of bullet boxes — 20-bullets per box, arranged in a dizzying array of colors and sizes. Wall to wall bullets.
I squinted at the bullet boxes, hoping one of the plaid-clad gentlemen would step forward as the gun store’s owner. A silver revolver with a 13-inch barrel caught my attention. It was almost cartoonish. And expensive, too: $1700. I’m not sure what you do with that kind of pistol. And I’m pretty sure they weren’t going to let me get silly with it, either.
Finally, one of the gathering hunters called out: “Ned, looks like you got a real customer.”
“Don’t get too excited,” I warned no one in particular, “I’m only looking for bullets.”
Ned got himself behind the counter.
“Whatcha need?”
“308s.”
“Federal or Remington?”
“Not sure.”
“It’s price and quality.”
“Which one is cheaper?”
“Federal.”
“I’ll take them.”
“150 or 180 grain?”
“Not sure.”
Ned looked to the others who were also looking on. I had apparently used up my allotment of stupid questions with Ned. Because Ned wasn’t answering me anymore. Instead, the other fellas took over, serving me up the “grain” explanation and their preferences.
They finished each other’s sentences like old married couples do. The bottom line: the 180 would be better for the cheaper bullet – keeping it straighter. But they all had their stories on the way there.
“I’ll take the 180s.”
Ned handed me my brand new box of Federal 308/180 grain bullets. The sticker said $19.79 per box. Almost $2.00 a bullet – and these were the cheap ones.
“Yikes,” I said, clearly not impressing the plaided ones.
“Ammo’s hard to come by nowadays,” Ned informed me, as I remembered the right-wing radio rants about the need to get your ammo before Obama turned the nation over to some entity “other than” us. I guess that didn’t work out too well for them, huh?
I didn’t bring any of that up, though. I just bought my ammo and carried it out like I think you’re supposed to.
Besides, I didn’t have time to laugh. I had shooting to do.
La-la-la-la-fucking-la
And that should be said in a specific cadence.
As in: La-la-la-la.
Fuh-king-la.
Got it? Good.
Now put on my shoes and skip around the woods.
And chant. You happy lucky idiot.
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I’m happy because the new science says I should be happy. And I’m all about science. Taste this from the Boston Globe:
Activists are dissatisfied with the drift of the times and outraged at the misdeeds of their ideological enemies. But they are also, it turns out, enjoying their lives more than the rest of us. At least if recent research is to be believed, political activism, no matter the cause, seems to make people happy – even if they don’t win an election or triumph in a ballot initiative.
Yeah, and then – before you know it – you change your name to something like…Boots.
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I’ve seen enough of Wes Hamilton for one day, thank you. Smug bastard. Standing in line at the Uncommon Market, smiling broadly because his stupid Dolphins beat my lame Jets, and then heading to work as the co-owner of the best goddamn brew tavern in the region. Snarky Boy sez: Whatever.
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Heard on the street: If it’s pierced, it swells. And when it swells, it hurts. You just gotta know that going in.
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And I didn’t even mention that I hate the Yankees.
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