The Road Less Traveled

Alabama is a long state north to south. I jumped off the superslab around Greenville and drove county roads the rest of the way. Woods and hills in the north give way to empty fields where cotton once grew, then further south to lumber plantations thinly dotted with corrugated shacks and decaying automobiles, the side ditches empty save the carcasses of sharp-boned roadkill dried and blackened on the rough pavement, eyes wide open, but seeing nothing.

Had to stop for a band of grim-faced men in rusted pickups probing the underbrush with sharpened sticks, and bloodlust. Their truck beds bore packs of caged hounds, red-eyed and ravenous, their slatted ribs showing through thin and scarred hides, eager for the hunt. I drove on.

Around dusk we pulled off into a nondescript hobo jungle. I entered a building marked “Campground Office” ringing one of those little bells on a coiled spring that hung over the doorframe. A man was seated behind the counter watching a fishing show on an old-school television. He was an older man, big-bellied with a mottled complexion, and greasy hair the color of tossed bathwater. He wore thick-lensed glasses with frames made from antelope bones.

 He barely glanced as I entered, but continued to watch his fishing show. A small poodle at his feet, with a coat of dirty lamb’s wool, stared at me with pink and runny eyes. I cleared my throat and asked if he had a site available for the night. He peered out over his glasses at me with a look of vile contempt and turned back to the TV. After a long, awkward pause he finally said, “Twenty-fi’ dollah’s cash.”

I pulled out my wallet and laid my money on the counter like Doc Holliday and waited for him to raise or call. After another pause, and with great effort, he lifted himself from his chair and approached the counter. He quickly folded the cash into his dirty shirt pocket and pulled out a crude printed map of the campground and said, “Site eighteen, checkout at eleven.”

 I quietly thanked him, and as I turned to leave, looked down at the dog who was sniffing my pant leg. He looked up and growled a soft disapproval, but allowed me to pass.

Monday Badass

My feelings about cats is generally ambivalent. I neither love nor hate them. I don't believe they should live in a domestic setting within the home, an excrement laden sandbox has no appeal for me. However, I gotta' give it up to my boy Shopcat VIII. He is a true North Amërïkän Badass. He terrorizes Mudflap the Wonderdog and ambushes all who pass before him from 'neath the juniper bushes, assaulting ankles and fatted calves with abandon. He is a hunter of the highest order and has decimated the once-bloated field mouse population. I've personally witnessed him eat a still-wiggling grasshopper in less than four seconds. He consumes sun-dried frogs and earthworms, crunching them in his mighty jaws.
He walks around with the presence of a Lord and has a disproportionally large scrotal sac which contain the mysteries of feline reproduction and the origin of Ted Nugent's chronic pyrexia.

For Sale

For Sale

1971 VW Beetle. “Hatch” back, "Coop." Must sell due to illness,(chicken pox.) This car is grade “A.”
Only down once but was over-easy. Now sunny side up. Real chick magnet.

Engine: egg-cellent
Transmission: scrambled
Body: fair
Interior: fowl

No reasonable offer refused.

Call: BR-549




Sorry

Bike Night

Takes a lot to get my reclusive ass outside the house for any kind of socializing, but I reluctantly rode to a “Bike Night’ when invited by old friends to meet up for a few beers. After fortifying myself with shots of whiskey against the summer’s heat, I took off from The Compound feeling the buzz creeping in. Arrived late and parked my rig in the very heart of Small Town Amërïkä, only to find my buddy and his old lady had already left. Inside, his twenty-something kid, on ankle-bracelet-house arrest was throwing down an impromptu party. Young neighborhood girls, in the throes of white-trash estrus, were gyrating to the beat of hillbilly rap. Sweat beads rolled from ‘neath their neon tube tops and followed the ridges of stretch-marked shame into their tight-fitting, tattered Daisy Dukes. Despite the heat and stifling humidity they danced, frenetic and overactive, hoping the unrestrained movement and perspiration would wash away the confusion, rejection and pain.

After being sworn to secrecy, I walked over, fired up the bike, pulled out and rolled through town dodging bare-footed toddlers in drooping diapers and a feral cat, slunk low to the ground, and glaring at me from under a disabled Buick with eyes of burning hatred. As I pulled out on to the State Highway tiny drops of dissolved poison began coursing through my veins, fueling tattered neurons as it mixed with fermented grains and the remnants of Arby‘s.

Got to the bar and found my friends finishing their meal of fried root and decaying fish. A cover band was playing in the parking lot. They played loud, under the mistaken notion that it would compensate for lack of talent and execution. It wasn’t working. The Frito Bandito showed me what was left of his arm, withered and misshapen, pieced together with bolts and steel cable. The rest of it lay on a hot patch of uneven pavement somewhere in Tennessee under a cloud of swirling bot flies

We talked of old times and drank crappy, domestic beer as the local town fuzz made his presence known by eyeballing us suspiciously as he drove by in the fading July light. With no turn signals and way over the legal limit, I made my exit after he made a pass and tiptoed out of town back on the State Highway. I blasted home under the cover of darkness, shirtsleeves and bare headed, comfortable in the heavy night air. My headlights picked up some deer lurking on the side of the road, but I feared not, as a man under the influence, I knew I could cut a deer in half without the slightest wobble of my terrible front-end cycle- sickle.
F^@k you Grim Reaper, not this time.

Woke up Saturday with a terrible headache, bleary and dehydrated. Coors Light is poorly- processed, watered down piss-water, it is the evil brew of demons and unfit for human consumption. Never again.

Snapping Turtle

Snapping turtles are the scourge of the open waters, and by open waters I mean mosquito infested brackish ponds, and prey upon ducklings and full grown ducks alike.

If you see a one-legged duck or goose, it is most likely the work of a snapping turtle.
When I noticed my resident ducks were fearful of going into the pond I suspected a snapper had them spooked. Sure enough, I caught the culprit making his way across dry land one morning, and with lightning quickness and agility, was able to capture it for removal. Of course my son and I had to harass him with a length of PVC pipe after I got it into the bed of the truck and caused me to reflect upon this behavior, and ponder its causation.

What is it about a snapping turtle that brings out the imbecilic twelve-year-old in all men, regardless of age?
For it is true, that when caught, a snapper must be prodded, poked, harassed and humiliated. It is instinctual and crosses all economic, societal and cultural boundaries.
I believe it is the hissing, lumbering prehistoric nature of a snapping turtle that excites a primeval instinct in all men and boys to prove their mettle by fucking with something that, no matter how remote the chance, might hurt them.
In fact, Greek mythology tells the tale of Orion, God of Turtle Prodding, being placed by Zuess among the stars as a constellation.


Deep down we're all just imbecilic twelve year olds.

The Old Man and the Bee

A Hemingway-esque study on man's eternal struggle with Nature

Carpenter Bees are plentiful and destructive around The Compound. These harmful pests bore holes in the unpainted surfaces of both hovel and chicken coop, causing untold damage and misery. These dangerous insects must be approached with extreme caution and cunning.

In this dramatic, never-before-seen video, with only the help of the staff cameraman, I combine the skills of ancient aboriginal blow-gun hunters with the stalwart, audacious bravery of Marlin Perkins to capture one of these elusive and insidious creatures alive and unharmed. All done at great peril with little regard for my own safety.