Passages in time

Jailbait

If this chick is 16 years old, then my name is Cenk Değirmencioğlu and I play for the Turkish national badminton team.

I guess every tweaked-out, 16 year-old, plasticized, Barbie look-a-like needs an old, washed up, B-list actor to make her feel special.  Because everyone is special, right?  Mommy says so. . .

Passage in time

Passages in time

Since I don't have much to say these days, let's take a look back of some of my favorite pictures from the past:

More to come. . .

It's what's for dinner

Moulder.





Last year it was Waldrup. This year it's Moulder. One thing is for certain, this cow gets passed around Yazoo City more than a bottle of lube at the Fulton Street Festival in San Francisco.

And before you go looking that up, you must trust me that it is heinous.

So, the question of this whole exercise is: who is the true owner of Election Cow?

And furthermore, who decided that it was savvy electioneering to plaster your name on the side of a 15 foot tall plastic cow?

And lastly, is there a larger market for plastic election cows? What about election goats? Or monkeys?

Something tells me monkeys would have a huge market.

On the road again

Guess what Lucky Travel Lizard? Today we are going to Itta Bena!

Itta Whata?

Itta Bena, it's a small delta town.

Well color me purple and call me eggplant.

Hey now, Itta Bena is a nice little place and the name is derived from the Choctaw phrase "camp together" or "a place in the woods."

Thanks for the language lesson, Chief Humps Like Turtle.

"Enjoy Life"

Forever rest in peace daddy.

Protected

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New News

I have a new post up at The Big Feed, just look for the break dancing kitty.

And then there is this uncanny business. Freaky!




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Equals

This kinda sums up my day:





Just hanging in there.

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Un-usefully

Goddamn liberals. Don't these mouth breathers have jobs?

The other day I was whisking myself to and fro throughout my great state in an effort to stay ahead of the over-whelming workload and the stress of a father in the ICU of the hospital.

I decided to grab a bite of food while on the road and out of convenience elected to get a chicken sandwich from my arch nemesis McDonald's. Now, before you start going apeshit about my own hypocrisy....let me tell you a little secret: Puerto Rico is filled with Ford Escorts and mother's cunts.

But I digress, I needed to eat, so I ate a chicken sandwich. Little did I know that an hour later as I approached to hospital I would encounter this bizarre sight.










Yes indeed, a rather nicely dressed and attractive young woman accompanied by a chicken holding a cane. My first impression was this must be some sort of gonzo advertising by the hospital's marketing department but as I drove closer I realized that both were holding signs castigating McDonald's for the broken legs and wings of chickens during processing.










I could taste the sweet irony of the crispy lunch I just ate and had I thought more quickly I would have hurled the last three bites of my broken leg bone sandwich at the filthy hippy in the chicken suit. The only thing I could manage was a screeching "any-cock-will-do!"

The sad thing is, innocent dopes are being bilked for their money to support this kind of ridiculous and ineffectual protest. But somewhere, in the deep recesses of the liberal mind, a neuron fires, a smile develops, and for a moment the chickens of the world are protected.

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Flow

This is the wing of a Boeing 757-300 powered by the Rolls Royce RB-211-535E4-B turbofan engine.  This has nothing to do with anything other than to satisfy my plane fetish.

Sorry for the long delay in posting.  The Old Popsicle has been in the hospital for the past twelve days.  Thirteen?  I lose count.  Anyway now that we have him stabilized I can return to my normalized duties of sleeping on the fold out couch in his room and eating shitty hospital food.  This place needs a chef.

Stay tuned. . .

Luxury

Limo at 5 in the morning?

You mean, this is abnormal??

For Captain T And Ali

Westerly

The view across the scrubby hills of West Texas is indescribably endless. I look down on the crackled spider's web of dirt roads scratched into the Earth and the vast expanse of nothingness, a never ending canvass of dusty browns and muddled greens. Occasionally, the bright tin roof of an isolated home glints up at me and I wonder who is down there and what are they doing in this empty wasteland?





I see a patchwork of oil wells below, so I suppose that is part of an answer, but just how much work is involved in maintaining the working joints and slow, lazy, trundling bob of an oil pump? Surely there must be more to this spartan place.

But maybe there isn't. Maybe they are just there, subsisting in an unforgivable and little changing place with no eye for a larger life. Simple. Simplistic living that honors a long observed value system of family, religion and being one with the land. Maybe the Indians had it right in their singular reverence for the bounty of nourishment harvested from Mother Earth. They had it right and modern man, some modern men, have forgotten that.

Those survivors below have no concept of a man seven miles above them, who is thinking about them, who is admiring them as he travels to a much different place, an obverse of what is below. A place of fast-paced consumption and decadence where every whimsy and whim can be fulfilled. When I think of that, I realize that they below are the blessed ones. They are the true lifeblood, pure and untouched, and I envy them.





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