Monday, September 8, 2014

Wild Thing

After repeated duck egg theft I endeavored to put an end to the robbery. The ducks themselves were picked off one by one, and the sole survivor had been mangled fairly severely, but recovered. I had lost a few chickens as well, and suspecting ‘coons I set the live catch trap and baited it with cheap Dollar Store cat food. After several nights with no luck I had all but given up when I caught a red fox. Foxes are usually hard to trap, particularly in a live catch, but this was a spring born pup and he paid the price for his inexperience.

Trapped animals will often thrash wildly, throwing themselves against the wire and steel enclosure, bloody snouts and skin rubbed raw of hide. This pup was different. He was scared, but not panicked, coolly looking at me through the wire with aloof detachment. I couldn’t bring myself to shoot the thief, and if I were to relocate him it would have to be thirty or more miles away. A fox can cover a lot of ground making his way back to familiar territory.

There is a certain, inborn arrogance among we humans. The need to tame and conquer lies deep within our psyche. As I stood there weighing my options, I determined to put him in a pen for a while and see if I could chasten his wild nature to some small degree. To own him, subdue him, forcibly befriend him. I knew it was wrong.

Donning my thickest pair of welding gloves I carefully transferred him to a small chicken enclosure I had built to house aggressive roosters. He bolted into the pen, and after quickly searching for a way out, retreated to the farthest corner. I pulled up a bench in front of his prison and observed him with fascination. A beautiful specimen in the prime of health. Large erect ears and tiny needle teeth. The fox, in turn, coiled up in the corner staring furtively at me with his cat-eyes, burning with hatred. Boring twin holes into my soul.

I checked on him often, talking softly and feeding him through the wires. At first he wouldn’t eat when I was in his presence. I’d drop some food in front of him, he’d sniff, lick his lips but kept his eyes on me. I’d walk out of his sight for a few seconds, and the food was gone when I returned. He would eventually eat, reluctantly, if I’d back away from the pen, but it was becoming clear that he would never trust me. By night, he’d piss in his water bowl and chew on his cage. By day, he’d sulk in his corner. I liked the little bastard too much to shoot him, so I started formulating a plan to get him in a cage without getting bit, for a long journey of relocation.

Turns out I needn’t concern myself with a mission of mercy. One night he somehow managed to tear up enough of the galvanized hardware cloth to slip away into the night, savvier, and a lot wiser in the ways of Man.

I admire his pluck and determination. I weigh 190 pounds and can’t separate that wire with my bare hands, but at fifteen pounds he shredded it enough to escape. I probably haven’t seen the last of him. I managed to educate him, and the long cold winter is coming and he knows exactly where several plump, tasty hens sleep.

Thursday, August 28, 2014

Tuesday, August 19, 2014

Wednesday, August 13, 2014

Where has all the Teflon Gone?

Pictured are two nearly identical Teflon pans. The one on the right is about twelve years old, on the left, a brand new one. One might ask regarding the pan on the right, where did all the Teflon go? Sadly, the answer becomes quite clear when simple physics and basic logic are applied. There's only one place it could be. All that Teflon was ingested by me over the course of years, subtly seasoning my fried eggs, and sausage with its deadly contaminant.
Fragments of this insidious material are lodged within my body, doing incremental damage to internal organs every day. Or possibly, a legion of tiny, synthetic fluoropolymer (had to Google that) particles wait in the deep recesses of the digestive tract preparing to enter my bloodstream, and mount a full frontal assault on my central nervous system.

Maybe it already has, which might explain the tremors, drooling and some other things.

Oh Teflon, with your flowery promises of non-stick cooking and easy clean-up, you are a wicked deceiver!

Thursday, August 7, 2014

Tuesday, August 5, 2014

Hog Wild

Why doesn't anyone call Harleys "Hogs" anymore?

Always had an affinity for hogs, both two-wheeled and four-legged. When I was a young, too poor to afford the two-wheeled variety, man raising a family on a meager income I always raised and butchered a few hogs for the freezer.

Monday, August 4, 2014

Nigerian Princess

Sometimes I fancy myself a Nigerian Princess sitting upon a throne of jackal skeletons and wearing a flowing robe of stone-washed Cape buffalo hides. There'd be be eleven pigmy house servants hand-feeding me seedless grapes and a pair of matched hyenas tethered to my bedpost. Balanced upon my regal head would be a five-gallon bucket of latex house paint and a pasta strainer, because my posture would be impeccable and my nipples in a constant state of stimulated readiness.
Sometimes, on the other hand, I just sit alone in the dark, drinking warm beer, and wondering if I left my phone in the truck.

Friday, August 1, 2014

The Road

Gay, Michigan 2008
Flamingo, Florida 2004
Naples, Florida 2006
Mitchell, South Dakota 2007
US 52 West Virginia 2008

While others embark on their journeys, I'm reduced to remembering past trips. Maybe September?

Tuesday, July 1, 2014

Jěrkwătər Sunrise

As the sun rises over another Jerkwater morning the faux Studebaker will rest comfortably in the shade of the leafless maple.
In the distance a baby cries as mother sets down her cigarette and lowers her dirty tube-top to suckle the next generation. 

After all, children are our future.

Monday, June 30, 2014

Small Town Amərįkå

Sorry for my blog negligence.  As we approach Independence Day I present a tidbit from my beloved Jerkwater.

Friday, June 13, 2014

Classic Popeye Video

In the continuing study of Popeye, I present this video for your approval. In this episode our hero sails into port on a captured whale, mast shoved forcibly down its blowhole, no doubt subjugated out on the open ocean with bull whips and lashing rope by the Master of the Seven Seas. Popeye docks his vessel and proceeds to purchase a bouquet of flowers as he sets out to rendezvous with his longtime love interest Olive Oyl. In this episode the temptress is a seductive pole dancer working the Tijuana whorehouse district, performing the erotic “Dance of the Twin Spittoons.”
Walking boldly down the mean, back streets of some third world hell-hole, he fears no evil. A bushwhacker’s bullet bounces off the back of his head and drops to the dirty sidewalk, ineffectual and impotent. One of the locals dares to leer at him from behind a door and promptly loses his f@#kin’ teeth. Even without the spinach bolstering his confidence, Popeye is brash and audacious. The quintessential, swaggering ugly American.

Wednesday, June 11, 2014

Hump Day Olive Oyl

Popeye’s relationship with Olive Oyl was a curious one, and quite Forrest Gumpian in nature. Flat-chested, fractious and rope thin, Olive was bawdy and lecherous. Their unlikely romance was always vexing. While Popeye was handsome, strong and dependable, Olive was flighty and unpredictable and quite simply a slut. Every time the odious Bluto would woo her with chocolates or flowers, she would succumb, leaving the faithful Popeye alone, frustrated and broken-hearted. Inevitably Bluto's deviant sexual appetite would get the better of him and he would begin to force himself on the hapless Olive. Brutish groping would quickly turn to a savage attack and Olive would find herself fighting to protect her sullen womanhood once again. Popeye would come faithfully to the rescue, and after being beaten nearly to death by his much larger adversary, would produce a can of spinach from under his shirt and incapacitate the would-be rapist, saving the day.
No matter how many times she betrayed him Popeye would rescue and forgive her. Popeye’s love for her was absolute and unconditional, which showcased a softer side to the sailor's many-faceted personality.

Monday, June 9, 2014

Monday Badass-Popeye the Sailor

Popeye was one bad seaman. I recall rainy summer days as a young impressionable schoolboy, waiting for the afternoon soaps to finish and the Popeye and Janie Show to begin. I credit those many hours spent watching cartoons in front of the old black and white Magnavox for molding and shaping me into the solid Amërïkän citizen I am today. Never cared much for sixties-era, toned-down, made-for-TV version. I preferred the original, gritty, thirties-era Popeye. Produced as “shorts” to be played between movie features in stuffy, un-air conditioned movie theaters, the early episodes are distinguished by the ominous sliding door introduction and distinctly politically-incorrect themes. Popeye spent his days jacked up on cheap Jamaican rum and canned spinach, muttering incoherent gibberish while flexing his forearms and searching for his next fix. Each of those early episodes were classic, hand-drawn works of art.
Today’s cartoons are weak and uninspired by comparison. Japanese anime, SpongeBob Square Pants, poorly-animated talking dogs and computer-generated stalks of broccoli, all with the thinly-veiled undercurrent of totalitarian propaganda lying just beneath the surface. These unimaginative cartoons, complete with their hidden agenda, spawned a generation of unemployable slackers and confused, manicured metrosexuals hiding in their parent's house communicating with each other by way of mindless text messages on expensive phones mommy bought for them. The newest generation of cartoons are in no small way responsible for the increase in ADHD, the growing national debt and the continuing downward spiral of our once-proud nation.
Popeye had no agenda beyond throwing down cans of spinach and getting busy with Olive Oyl. Also, never forget, this dude could cut through half-inch plate steel using his pipe as a torch.
I hope to explore this issue in the coming days and weeks unless I’m overcome with laziness and apathy, as I am wont to do.

Wednesday, May 28, 2014

Old School Hump Day Honey

Long before twitter and instagram hot babes were posing and flashing skin on expensive automobiles with awkward, "come hither" smirks. Terms like "Twerking" and anachronyms such as "LOL" were meaningless to this flapper, and for that she she's fortunate.