Smokey Mountain Breakdown

Many times when I've writing, I use something from the natural world as a jumping off point--or as an element in my story. Because I don't like being wrong--a particularly girly thing about me--I usually double check my facts, even if I think I know everything I could possibly want to know about a thing. I'm always amazed by how much I don't know. Take barnacles for instance...

I'm writing a story and bring up barnacles. I'm thinking I'm only going to use the clingyness of them, how they cement themselves to something then proceed to cover themselves with limestone secretions, living their lives in one spot until scraped off or eaten by stone crabs. Because that's what I know about them.

But HOLY MOLY! They gots penises that are 8 times and long as they are high! So, in human terms, that's like a 6 foot tall dude needing to lug around a 48 foot long schlong. Even given dips in too cold water or other shriveling type events, that's just johnson overkill.

The article, Barnacles Can Change Penis Size and Shape, was in Nat Geo over a year ago. Evidently, they had some trouble in the lab because "it's hard to get barnacles to extend their penises on demand..." so "the team artificially inflated the barnacles' genitalia with seawater using a custom-made penis pump built out of tubes and hypodermic syringes." This only after copies of PlayBivalve, Nekkid Stripper Oysters and unhampered access to Internet crustacean porn in their little cubicles failed to do the job.

Also, barnacles are hermaphrodites so they technically don't actually need these enormous snausages, being able to impregnate themselves just fine, but "barnacles prefer to mate with other individuals whenever possible." And I think we all can understand that just fine. Right there with you, buddy.

I've gotten so much done this week since I decided to stay off Facebook. Computer life is nice again now that I'm not waiting 30 seconds for their bloated crap to load. I think I'm going to limit my Facebook time to once a week or something--at least until I get something better than 26K dialup. Been thinking about doing satellite now the the prices seem to have come down a bit. If I can get rid of my AT & T (AKA: The Great Satan), it might be doable.

I've been tentatively venturing into the yard to do yardwork. You know, every spring for the past five years, I've suffered a pretty bad fall. It just seems to be something that happens. So I've been trying really hard not to fall. One year I tried to not go outside and ended up falling in the house. But I have high hopes for spring 2009. I'll let you know in June if I made it.

I've been really disgusted with people who make censorship a way of life. It's not the people you think. It's the entire reason I've backed out of every group I've ever identified with, wiping my mouth like I'd kissed a sewer. Why do people feel the need to control the thoughts, emotions and speech of others? I just so don't get it. Especially marginalized groups of people, who, more often than not are the most intolerant of all. I'm just too weary of the non-stop whining. If you want something just shut up and fucking take it. That's empowerment.

And it was great! Listened to to last night and enjoyed it very much.

"They Made Us Walk to Eat" is read on the Diet Soap Podcast, aka Charles Lain's Podcast. So, if you always wanted to experience one of my stories but were too lazy to read them--you can download the Diet Soap Podcast from Podmatic or from iTunes. I'm linking to Podmatic because I'm on 26K dialup and just loading my iTunes takes forever and I can't have too many things going at once with it or it shuts my computer down.

Doug reads from his intro to the Sabotage issue of Diet Soap, turning the concept of sabotage (which we usually think of as a tool for the underdog), on its head, pointing out how the practice of sabotage has moved from micro to macro. Everything from our government to our economy engaging in self-sabotage or sabotage by the biggest entities on larger constructs.

"They Made Us Walk to Eat" is my fat camp story and it's very appropriate for this theme.

*************

I'm watching The Tudors and am completely hooked! I wish I was well-off enough to afford premium satellite so I didn't have to wait for shows like that to go to DVD--but I'm almost done with season one. It's a complete rape of history, but I knew that when I saw the costumes which are gorgeous interpretations of the period. Love them, but not truly authentic. Sumptuous, nonetheless. As long as you aren't looking for historical accuracy and can just sink into the story, it's very enjoyable. I love all the little jabs at history and art. Definitely more enjoyable if you know your art and history as these writers obviously did, but are willing to have fun with it.

The Teabaggers came out yesterday in Cocke County to demonstrate at Newport City Park. I hate that I forgot all about it while I was in town--though obviously it was in the back of my mind when I saw that truck with the truck nuts. Really, I wouldn't normally have gone off on the truck nuts like that, but I now realize it was my brain telling me I forgot something. Like maybe I should drive by the Teabaggers and get some piccies or gawk or something. Snicker. Stuff like that. Payback for the glazed months I spent after 2002 curled in a fetal position, retreating into the fantasy world of West Wing.

And I was framing a mockity-mock incorporating "Pie Hole" and "Teabagging." And The Pie Hole did run at least one article--more I think, though there wasn't anything in today's paper. Curious, I thought, since they seemed really gung-ho about it and all starry-eyed about maybe being Rupert Murdoch's bitch. No really. They love Fox News.

But no, being Cocke County, we had to shame ourselves on a national level--and not just because we didn't realize "teabagging" meant something entirely different in today's vernacular. That's totally not our fault--evidently no one at Fox or the Republican Party caught that one. Just don't suggest they follow it up with a rusty trombone parade.

No, we made freaking Daily Kos with this one. Could we just keep our heads down for a few years? Please?

Okay. So, I'm in Walmart today after picking up the lawnmower and having a big ole pity party and a good cry at my therapist's. I leave with my groceries and as I'm walking off to my jeep, I spy a big truck. It has truck nuts. Big black ones. Truck scrotum. Srsly.

WTF is up with truck nuts, anyway? I mean, do they have some sort of purpose? Do they keep your trailer hitch from jouncing off? 'Cause if they do, then I might get some balls for the jeep--though I'd prolly see if they had jeep ovaries. Pink ones. Do truck nuts do anything? Anything, at all? Other than say, "My truck has balls and I have one of those mounted, singing fish hanging in a place of pride back home at the double-wide?"

This is my problem with the implied virile message of truck nuts. They are absurdly small if one was to take the anthropomorphic metaphor to it's ultimate conclusion. I mean, them's some tiny testicles to be dangling from the back of a Dodge Ram. And since they are swinging from the trailer hitch---the implication is the trailer hitch has something to do with it. And the trailer hitch is not the biggest part of the truck--if you get my drift. Maybe not the best thing to be advertising or drawing attention to, if you know what I mean. And they are sort of homoerotic in a Bubbalicious sort of way. I'm sure Scott would totally get what I mean, since he likes a bit of rough.

For one mad moment, there in the crowded Walmart parking lot--I sort of wanted to go over and give them a little squeeze. Just to see what everyone's reaction would be. If anyone would call me on it.

Woke up this morning to stark white snow coating tiny green leaves. House wrens puffed up in outrage on the porch, ruffled featherage. It started to snow yesterday while it was still warm. I had gone out to check the mail and caught a few chunks on my shirtfront. The problem with being bosomy is that everything lands on your shirtfront. It's like you carry around your own crumb receiver. And if you are in the slightest bit messy (and like most creative types, I take messy very seriously, indeed), then there isn't enough coinage in the world to cover your drycleaning. So I wear lots of black, washable garments. But this was just snow, so no harm, no foul. Luckily, it wasn't precipitating gravy.

It's still snowing.

I have two stories out in the current issue of The Birmingham Arts Journal. It's always very gratifying for me when a Southern publication accepts my work. It is my thang, after all. The two stories are: "A Pretty Little House" and "The Best Edible Wax Horse Teeth Ever."

"A Pretty Little House" is an all dialogue, experimental piece that takes place in a laundromat.

"The Best Edible Wax Horse Teeth Ever" is a period piece set in the late 1960's in Bluffton, S.C. Most people will recognize The Mercantile.

You can download a full copy of The Birmingham Arts Journal in .pdf HERE. Or, even better--get a subscription!

Everyone was so sweet to me while I was being fragile. I guess I still am, but the ice pick headaches I've been having have made me cranky---and that's always a good antidote for fragility. It's hard to be fragile when you want to kill something so very badly. I've been plagued by real-time stupid people recently and that does tend to make one cranky.

I see stupid people. Way more than I would like to.

Also, there appears to be a mildew ghost in my home. My wonderful neighbor who built my house is going to see if he can find it to exorcise it. It's very odd--there's a column of air in the middle of my kitchen--not attached to anything in particular--that smells of mildew. I've been sniffing everything trying to find the source. It reminds me of the cold spots ghosts hunters claim they can feel. But mine is smelly, too.

Hughes net sent me a free installation card. Price has come down on those so I'm seriously considering it. But a 2 year commitment is sort of silly. They are going to have to do away with that before most people will consider it.

But I've got several stories out right now. Dogmatika took "Applewhite." It went live on April 1st. I just found it yesterday--I have to keep an eye on these things and sometimes I forget what I have coming out.

In other news, they are going to read "They Made Us Walk to Eat" from Diet Soap #3 on a podcast. I'll let you know where when I find out. I got the copy of the magazine and it's really a beautiful thing. They even found a Shoney's Big Boy graphic for my story.

I am fragile. But fragile like my grandmother’s hands with their veins crossing like purple highways. My mother sat at her bedside holding those hands, she’d trace the veins and watch the blood fill them back up. There was a delay, like the blood was a sluggish river. My grandmother, she was too proud to come back after the stroke, refusing to speak rather than learn again. But I am fragile like her hands with their parchment skin, easily torn and see-through.

I’m standing in the Walmart where I am because I need some big sponges. I broke down in tears during my therapy appointment before coming here and my eyes are still red. I pluck myself up wondering how many of the people here have stood atop Glastonbury Tor and felt the wind try to carry them away…or been chased by gypsies outside the cathedral at Chatres…or made love in a seedy hotel in Versaille…or been torn a new one by a real British dame? It’s not like I don’t know the answer. These were my dangerous choices. The choices I made instead of staying home and living a quiet life. So now I am alone and worried I have nothing new, exciting or different to look forward to. And no one to share it with—whatever ‘it’ turns out to be. I get my sponges and carrot juice and check out, feeling spectacularly alone.

This all hit because the realtor comes by tomorrow to look at the farm. It’s too much for me to take care of by myself. And I can’t get the sort of medical care I need by myself because the doctors take advantage. And I can’t afford to take care of both the place and myself. So I must leave. The “by myself” phrase keeps coming up and I think, now, that I made terrible choices since being me means I am now this fragile, alone thing. The people around me don’t look different from me. I fit in here, externally. But I know what fills me is very different than what fills them.

So I am fragile and papery and vulnerable. Just like my grandmother’s hands.

And I got a very nice personal rejection, which didn’t help matters terribly.

My invisible sheep.

I've been a bit sheepish about writing about Bonnie, the new Jacob Sheep, because after these pictures were taken she disappeared--I presumed into the gullet of some wily coyote. I always feel a deep sense of shame when my livestock fails to thrive. Or just keels over dead which is more common. Actually, I was able to clean her up after this and shear most of the bad wool from her. I had to cut a lamb collar out of her neck that had grown into her throat. And then, that night, her butt got chewed up. I blamed Max but ended up having to shoot the neighbor's pit bulls off the ridge. (Didn't hit them though I totally wouldn't be sorry if I had.) Whosoever chewed up the sheep butt--it was pretty badly chewed, but I was able to doctor her up. But after so much trauma, it's not surprising Bonnie Sheep decided to become invisible.

I'd despaired of her returning, but she showed up again yesterday and today. I was hopeful she could incorporate herself into the small herd here, but it seems Jacob Sheep have little to no herding instinct. Which is too bad, since my two Shetland boys are badass eunuch warriors worthy of guarding any sheep seraglio. They would protect her if she'd let them and if they weren't just "not that into her." Actually, Mutton tried to beat the crap out of her. I really feel sorry for the poor baby. My place is much more Wild Kingdom than Mr. Greenjeans. And Bonnie is very much a pet.

Anyway, cross your fingers she is able to blend into the herd. It's the best thing for her. Mutton is the thinking sheep and she wouldn't have to do any thinking at all. Sheep are happiest when they don't have to think. Poor Mutton is mad as a hatter from all the thoughts he's had to endure.

Good thing she came with a name. Or I would have prolly named her "Shank". To go with Mutton and Chops.

Popcorn Sutton was found dead in his home today from apparent suicide. He was 61. There will be an autopsy tomorrow at UT to confirm the cause of death. He was scheduled to turn himself in this Friday to begin his 18 month sentence in federal prison for felony possession of a firearm and illegal distilling of liquor.

There have been some accidental deaths in Cocke County recently due to one of the newer prescription pain killers--one that evidently isn't as forgiving as oxycontin to being crushed, snorted or taken with liquor. If they do find drugs in his system--and Lord knows Popcorn had legitimate reasons to take them--there's no telling unless Popcorn left a note. They say he was very afraid of dying in prison. So he may indeed have decided to check out early.

Thus passes a true Cocke County original.

J. J. Stambaugh's Coverage on KnoxNews

Hold onto your hats, knickers, pants or anything you deem worth holding onto, my Sloe-eyed darlin's. I'm working the blogroll tonight--finally.

Blogrolling, while it shows up, has never gone back online and I'm declaring it officially dead. I can't add new or get into my files to edit existing entries.

So here's the deal. If you haven't posted to your blog in six weeks, I'm dumping you. Not to fear, though--if you need the link, just email me and I'll get you back up. I can't promise I won't lose people I didn't intend to lose--but same dealy-bob. Email and I shall put you back up.

I may be reorganizing a bit now that I have all my new lit-rary buddies.

I hung around in town last night to watch Watchmen, which was playing at the local cinema because they probably thought it was a regular type of superhero movie and not a 3 hour steampunked dark vision dripping with irony and all sorts of other smart stuff no one will probably get because they will be too busy being scandalized by Dr. Manhattan's junk.

I had a few hours to kill between my therapy appointment and the movie, so I went to Walmart to get a book and some carrot juice. Then parked behind the theater to read and listen to All Things Considered while I waited for the 7 o'clock showing.

It's funny, because I had been talking with my therapist about how no one looks like what I thought we'd all look like as we aged. I had written a story after looking at pictures of Robert Smith and Morrissey, both of whom are cemented firmly in my brain forever 25 or so--and it was shocking to see current photos of Smith not pulling off the eyeliner and hair (and bless his heart still trying to at 49) and Morrissey looking like a stodgy publican despite his lifelong veganinity. I mean, I always figured I was headed to Hell in a handbasket due to the lupus, poor healthcare, hard living and poor diet. But those beautiful boys and girls from the pages of Spin Magazine wrapped in their moodiness, I sort of would like them enshrined--wrapped in acid free tissue in their original box. None of us have aged like we thought we would, though I'm quite certain we feel the same in our heads.

There's no line in the theater since it's a week night and the show the movie only once during weekdays. The teen-something at the counter's eyes pop when I ask for one ticket to Watchmen. "Ouuu..." she says, "you know it's rated 'R'? It's got lots of blood, gore, nudity and sex."

"Hit me."

Actually what I said--and it sort of came out of my mouth like the ghost of my Aunt Emmy-Jo--was, "That's fine, dear. I'm not from around here."

I loved the film, which is full of balletic violence and Jackson Pollock blood splatter--and, thank you very much--finally--full frontal male nudity, albeit of the CGI variety for much of the film. The sex was okay--Torchwood has hotter sex scenes and that's for late night Brit TV. It's a very grownup film with stunning art direction. I'm talking Blade Runner gorgeous. The source material is masterful and they don't screw that up. If you are a history buff, there's delightful plays in that direction and wonderful period pop culture references. Costume design was uneven, but where it popped it popped big. Like Ozymandias' purple 80's business suit and the 1940's stuff. Wow. Hard to go wrong, but not appropriate for anyone under 17. Really.

But it was disquieting to see the 80's steampunked on film. I mean, I was twenty-something when Watchmen came out--then, it was an alternate reality. This felt like the first time I heard The Talking Heads rendered into Muzak.

I may go back and watch the movie again--it's that beautiful. Not for everyone, but I love artful blood splatter and realistic violence rendered lovingly. And there's really more subtext than can be absorbed in one viewing. And maybe I just want to get another gander at Dr. Manhattan's package.

This new magazine based out of Pittsburgh, Weave, announced the list of contributors for the upcoming issue on the 5th of this month. I knew my piece was going to be included in this April's issue, but they also emailed me and asked if they could use my story on the website. Of course, I'm thrilled and delighted to have it both online and in print.

It's funny--Pittsburgh is somewhere I always thought I should be. But have only spent extended periods of time in their excellent airport.

In addition to Davka's cover art, they also showcased poet, Karen J. Weyant's "The Girl Who Could Catch Echoes." My piece is "The Cancer Woman's Beautiful Daughters." But you've got to actually buy the issue, if only to read Damien Dressick's "What We Don't Talk About When We Talk About Your Cousin Who's in Prison." Best story title evah!

What is Weave?

Weave is a literary print publication and organization based out of Pittsburgh, PA. We seek to create a space for a cross-section of writers and artists of all walks of life to meet on the page, on the stage, and in workshop. We celebrate diversity in both the creator and their works and strive to showcase both novice and established writers and artists. Weave will host a series of workshops that focus on the writing and submissions processes as well as on bringing poetry to the stage as a viable performance art. Weave will also collaborate with writers from our publication, Weave Magazine, to present readings that will showcase Pittsburgh's young literary talent.

I have a story up on Southern Fried Weirdness for you. Unfortunately, it's the last issue of this zine that fills a niche unlike any other. Southern speculative fiction. Here's wishing T. J. McIntyre, the editor, the best of luck in his future endeavors and I'm hopeful he'll bring the zine back in some form or another, perhaps an anthology.

"Chestnut and Mountain Magnolia" is a "smashed" (multiple source elements smashed together) Appalachian fairy tale. Southern fiction, particularly the Appalachian inspired pieces, lends itself rather well to speculative and magically realistic stories. One of the source prompts for the story was the song, "The Wind and Rain," a haunting and very old murder ballad. You may know it from the Grateful Dead cover of it. Add animism, stir and voila. I hope you enjoy it.

After the blazing leaves fell to the forest floor and toads burrowed deep in cold mud and birds fell mute, he entered the mountain woods to set his traps and snares. In the lean-to shack, pushed against the side of a cliff where Creek tripped beneath Mountain, Joban the Trapper slept.

Perhaps silly Creek, with her gossiping babble told them. Everyone knew she couldn't keep a secret and carried tales both sour and sweet to ears that could hear (Water carrying Sound on her hip as she does). She also carried other things when she fought with Sky and sometimes Rain, howling and screaming, growing grim and foaming in rage--not herself. Perhaps they saw Joban as his boots broke the rime, seeking blood spreading in snow where his traps found their mark. Perhaps Winter Sun cleaved Sky, glanced off Joban's eyes showing the line of his jaw and the set of his brow. (Read the entire story...)

Happy Sunday!

I have a funny story that just went live on Feathertale called "Mrs. Snodderly's Letter to the Editor."

I think I actually wrote about the experience on the blog that prompted the Snodderly story. I was researching markets and there's this one experimental market I was looking into. The editor has a reputation of being either a genius or a complete and utter tool--depending on who you talk to. I swear to God, I couldn't find a single randomly brought up story on the site that didn't feature penises in some significant way. I spent so much time deciding to NOT submit anything to them that I deserved to get something out of it. Not that I don't do perfectly good experimental work that often gets published--I'm just more likely to feature bugs or something. And paragraph breaks.

Feathertale features literary humor. It's smart stuff and not at all boring like The New Yorker. I probably shouldn't badmouth The New Yorker. Don't tell them I said they were boring. But really--I think there are about 10% of people who actually find TNY's humor amusing and the rest of us try to look intelligent and do our art gallery laugh. Ha, ha, ha! Feathertale is much better.

I drove off the mountain into town today to do a few errands. It's funny, I seem to feel the isolation more when the snow and ice keep me from traveling. I can go for quite long periods without seeing anyone or feeling any need to do more than drive to the mailbox, but I do get stir-crazy if, for some reason, I can't actually leave.

Now, in case you think I'm a huge wuss about the driving in snow/ice (and I absolutely will agree that I am), it's not so much the ice and snow as it's the vertical slog up Thrust Road that has me so trapped. The bridges have been out and they routed us over a treacherous one lane gravel road. And we have to keep calling the highway department to have fresh gravel put down. Yes, the same highway department swimming in Maker's Mark, and boy, are they cranky during work hours (I myself, have been cranky following an evening that involved bourbon and sympathize). Anyway, Thrust Road is underlaid with mud, so the gravel just sinks into it. My jeep hasn't been out of 4WD this winter.

But I digress. You may not know this about me but I have a mouth like a sailor. Not sure how I got it--I remember having it from about age 12. Not sure where I picked it up since profanity wasn't spoken around my home. Perhaps it's just my love of all things word, but I like salty language. I like that it's language uttered with emotion. You spit it out sometimes as a challenge, as a curse. It's a vocalization of pain and frustration and passion. It's rarely whispered. There's nothing subtle about it. I have cleaned my act up since coming here. Such language is frowned upon in Cocke County.

So, I'm in Walmart getting some groceries. The problem with Walmart is that for some unknown reason, every single piece of shelving, every shopping cart, every surface in the store produces a severe static shock. I feel my pants clinging to my knees in fear the moment I walk in. I try to keep the F-bombs to a minimum and my voice down, but it's really hard when you are getting the shit shocked out of you every four feet. Also, I start doing this thing where I stab my finger back and forth before touching anything. It's not like it actually helps--I still get jolted--but I feel compelled to engage in this spastic behavior for some reason.

Everyone stares at me like I'm a candidate for demonic possession. And I can't blame them as I jerk, spit, roll and jump through the aisles. Really, they are fortunate I didn't just shuck all my clothes off and go running, screaming through the store. Some crap like this always happens to me in Walmart. Last time, I had one of my legendary nosebleeds in the magazine racks and had to run to automotive for paper towels.

Maybe it's not me. Maybe the store is possessed. I just wish the little children would stop averting their eyes.

I have to see a woman about a sheep tomorrow.

...inconvenient.

This was the view from my bedroom when I woke up at the crack of noon today. I went to bed early--around 2 a.m. so got up earlier than usual. The snow that fell most of yesterday that then turned to freezing rain and froze overnight made everything sparkle. I doubt I'll even make it to the mailbox to check mail today.

There's a slick little stretch of winding road not far from the house that keeps everyone locked up here when it ices. Not sure why--it may have a wet spring that drains onto it, but when the weather is like this it's a solid sheet of ice. It's our own little luge for 4WD vehicles--'cause even that won't do you no good there. So we are trapped here.

But I love the cleanness of everything when it's frozen. So stark. The switch grass in the pasture, feathering ghosts of this past summer, bend heads to the ground, curving tortuously. The wind has whipped them into that position and the ice has bound them. They wait for me--or someone--to come and free them with blades or fire.

But I didn't want to wake up this morning. I feel better after a shower. The dogs are inside. The sun is shining, melting what it can. 36 degrees.

It’s finally here! Diet Soap #3 is now available for purchase or download.

Diet Soap issue #3 features fiction, non-fiction, poetry and art by Doug Lain, William Peacock, Genevieve Valentine, Brian Brown, Rosanne Griffeth, Howard Waldrop, Steven Utley, Patricia Russo, Joshua Siegal, Heather Bell, James Maxwell, Gord Sellar, Brandon Chan-Yung, Louise Norlie, the Against Sleep and Nightmare collective, and Tara Bush.

The story I have in this issue is "They Made Us Walk to Eat." It's a bit of an experimental piece. A fat camp story. 'Cause, you know I write very authoritative fat camp stories. Here's a little taste:

Even if it rained, they made us walk to eat. Even if you were sick, you had to walk to eat. We walked to eat food that tasted of dust and tears and lemon juice. We walked to eat because it was all they offered and if you refused to walk, they made you.

You can purchase the issue in print or for download in .pdf format HERE.

I have a lovely Appalachian fairy tale that will be available online soon for you--so that's something to look forward to as well.

Oh. I think I’m going to get in trouble for this post. But sometimes, things just seem to burst forth and I can’t stop myself.

M’kay, Newport Plain Talk Pie Hole. I’ve been pretty gentle with them and genuinely admiring of the Police and Sheriff’s Department reportage. But the gloves sort of came off based on their head-up-their-asses non-coverage of the presidential election. You know. The little thing where we elected the U.S.’s first African American president and they decided it merited 400 words—not just below the fold but at the bottom of the page. They will never live that down, even if they make every day Black History Month.

So, the paper has been losing its integrity with a string of unpopular and sometimes nonsensical decisions, most notably ceasing printing the Sunday funny papers because the ink costs too much. (huh?) Then they changed the format to a long, skinny Barbie’s Dreamhouse size newspaper. I know what’s going on. The Pie Hole, like all newspapers around the nation is fighting for its life. But it being Newport and all, the panicked decisions just result in alienating more customers.

My alternate theory has to do with dementia.

This past Sunday’s paper was a hot tub of irony worth lolling in for a while. See, they arrested the Cocke County Superintendent of Highways in the Exxon station parking lot, drunk as a lord on Maker’s Mark. Good to know our tax dollars provide county employees a better class of whiskey. I’d have been offended if they’d found him drinking Old Granddad. It’s his second arrest involving the combination alcohol and highways. It’s widely known that job drives people over the edge. Something bad happened with the previous superintendent as well if I remember correctly.

I get to the editorial pages and find that they’ve given a column (and I use that term loosely since most of their “columns” are longer than my fiction--brevity isn't something they do well or maybe they are padding) complete with byline to some guy handing out really long Ted Kaczynski rants. The sort of thing we usually find on shady militia Internet web sites or the label of a Dr. Bronner’s Magic Soap All-One. An absolutely nonsensical, Looney Tunes, cuckoo-for-cocoa pops manifesto. All on gun control. Now, I love things that go boom as much as the next red-blooded American girl. I like guns because sometimes, you know, a girl needs to kill something or someone. Guns are real good at that. And I’m quite sure there are cogent, articulate arguments to be made in favor of the 2nd Amendment. THIS WAS NOT ONE OF THEM. In fact, a more eloquent argument for removing guns from the hands of the obviously addled could not have been made.

He’s going to inflict a “Darwinian Evolution” (Yeah, he wrote that just like the church lady! Swear to God!) rant on us next time. I can’t wait read about that—and how we’uns are going to hell if we don’t follow K-K-Kreashunism.

Am I canceling my subscription?

No. Hell, no. Not because I want to support the Pie Hole, but because I love a good train wreck.