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Posts Tagged ‘cow’

Guy steals milk.  Okay.  Guy steals milk while dressed as a cow.  What?  Oh… ok…  Guy steals milk dressed as a cow then runs from the police.  Okay, I guess.  Guy steals milk while dressed as a cow and tries to elude the cops by skipping away.

Oh yeah, way to blend into the crowd.

Can you see the cop trying to get assistance?

“Dispatch, we have a white and black bovine, approximate 5’10” tall, last seen skipping away from the Piggley Wiggley and heading north on Alfalfa Street.  Suspect is teated and presumed dangerous, possibly insane.  Wanted on suspicion of grand theft lactose.”

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Heard about this on the way to work this morning and I gagged up three kittens.  I don’t even eat kittens and I horked up a few.

Superman renouncing his American citizenship.    Great, now even childhood heroes are portrayed as cool if they ditch their country.  Great.

It’s posted all over the place, I know.  But what you won’t read anywhere else is that Superman is she-male and eats bunnies live.

No, he doesn’t do that.  But the very notion of Supes not being American makes me sad and ill at the same time.  He used to be my favorite comic-book hero, alongside Green Arrow and the Hulk.

More later…

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The Summer of ’93, I think it was.

I had not quite met Cruel Wife at that time, being a few months off before that particular Life Story.

There was to be a gathering in my hometown at my folks’ house and everyone was going to be there.  As it turned out my nephew wanted to come and my brother dropped him off in a town on the way and a college buddy/roommate and I picked him up.  The roommate from college, who I’ll call “The Wetback”…

GOV’T CORRECTNESS  POLICE AGENT:  Stop the presses!  STO-O-O-O-P THE PRESSES! Hey, there’s a blogger named… uh… Lemur King… he just used the “W” word… the derogatory term.  You want us to send out a team to bag him and tag him?  What?  He had a disclaimer?  Sure, I’ll read it to the guys…

(and it read like this)

Yes, I called one of my dearest friends “The Wetback”.  We’ve known each other since roughly 1988, we’ve roomed together off and on over the years first in college and then when he moved into the same town I did years later.  His parents were originally from Mexico.  His mom was my second mom.  She was fantastic and she did a great job raising him and his siblings largely by herself, and I miss her terribly.  You could meet her once and you felt like you’d known her forever, she was so genuine.  Cruel Wife could attest to that.

It happened that one day in college we had a particularly rough term, finals were looming, we were on edge, and I needled him with a family joke.  We were watching TV and he noted something that actually was very profound.  A minute later I said “Not bad for a wetback.”  Now, in (most of) my blood family you can say just about anything as long as the other person knows that you mean anything but that.  I would never say this to someone if I didn’t know them and care about them.  Strange but true, that’s the way I am.  I can say to Cruel Wife things that would sound like the most awful stuff and people will be horrified, but they should know that if I had actually meant it, she’d have killed me.

Case #1: She was pregnant.  Lying on the bed on her back to take the load off her back.  I ran into the bedroom with a spray bottle screaming “Keep her wet until we can get her back in the water!  GO GO GO!”  (spritz spritz spritz)

Case #2: She would waddle by (pregnantly) and I would affectionately call out “Moooooooooo”.   And she would mooo back.   One of the church ladies was pissed at me, until Cruel Wife said “relax, he doesn’t mean it and he says that sort of thing if everything is ok, if he stops, something is wrong”.

And she is right.  I mock the situation, the circumstances, the facts, the scenario, I don’t aim to hurt the person.  If she thought I’d meant it, I’d be dead.   She is too good of a shot with a .357 Magnum.

So a few minutes later, his arm pistons out, shoves me violently off the couch and I slam into my butt, causing (additional) minor brain damage.  Very quietly in a Clint Eastwood kind of way (which I really envy to this day) he mutters “Don’t call me a wetback.”

A week later I left my shoes out in the middle of the floor.  Wetback tied the laces permanently through the rungs of a chair.  I cut them off since I was late for class and I used my knife, which was then plunged through Wetback’s calculus book through half the thickness, and left there as a message.   A week after that, we traded punches over and over for about 45 minutes, leaving each other black and blue over 50% of our arms.  It was pretty damned awful looking, my arm, and one of my profs said “WHAT happened to you?”   I pointed at The Wetback and said “He did it.”  Our prof said “WHY?”   The Wetback pointed at me and said “He did it” and raised his shirt arm to show his awful bruises, which didn’t look as bad given that he has dark skin.  Our prof just shook his head and went away because we hadn’t really answered his question.

Three years later, he moved in for a year when he got a job in the same town I lived in.

Fifteen years ago he was the best man at my wedding.

I’m calling him The Wetback.  Get over it.

GOV’T CORRECTNESS  POLICE AGENT #2: Whoa?  Really?  It says that?  Ok, we can’t wax this guy – let him go.

So where was I?  Oh yes, The Wetback (hereinafter just ‘Wetback’) and I picked up my nephew, who we will call… The Teacher.  Yes, that will work nicely.  We drove six or so hours to my my folks’ house and crashed.  It was a good trip but three guys in a Jeep’s front seat is too friendly for that long of a trip.

Next day was bright and sunny, a great Oregon summer day.  Fourth of July, or was it the 3rd?  Must’ve been the 3rd since we found a hardware store.

My brother-in-law, who we’ll call my brother-in-law (oh fine then, if you must have a name let’s call him BiL) brought a buddy of his along who I will call Six Cans Short of a Six Pack (SCSSP) because the man is totally insane.  So BiL and SCSSP are telling me, Wetback, and Teacher about a New Thing.

We hadn’t heard of one, anyway.

Lemur King:  A Potato Gun?  Oh.  That’s great.  Great, guys.  We carry little plastic pistols around, stick ’em in a spud, and shoot little potato pills at each other.  Great.  I’m going to go get a beer, let me know how that goes.

SCSSP said “No, no, no, no, no…” and starts sketching on a pad of paper what he’s talking about.

I whipped out my wallet and said “Yep, I got cash, let’s go.”

We got the parts mostly to his specs except that I insisted that we make everything a bit bigger.

We were just finishing putting it together when my grandparents drove up.

So Granddad gets out of the car and says “What you got there, Lemur?”   Grandma shakes her head and goes in with the wimminfolk.

“Lemur” was not my grandfather’s name for me.  He used a name that no one else used, it had no profanity laced into it, and he was the only person I’ll ever allow to call me by that name, even as close as it is to my real one.  This was a cool thing.  Just sayin’ he didn’t call me “Lemur”.

Also, Granddad gets to keep his official title.  No false stage names – I respect him too much for that.

Sketches of my grandfather…

  • Telling me when I got hurt in the mill “No offense, Lemur, but there are easier ways to get out of work, and this wasn’t the smartest way, either.”
  • After announcing our engagement, Granddad asking if Cruel Wife’s family was rich. I said no they weren’t rich. “Well, you let me down, Lemur, you were supposed to marry a filthy-rich gal and keep the family well-cared for.” I don’t think it mattered in the least as long as she gave him a big hug whenever we came to visit. Cruel Wife and I came out one time, and Granddad said “Come here and give me a hug. All my girls give me a hug.” She hugged him and gave him a big smack on the cheek and said “I’ll give you one better.” Granddad looked a bit surprised and gave her a smile.
  • One year granddad had been telling mom not to grab a crab the way she was doing it (had been for years).  I heard him tell her several times that one day alone.  Then there was an “AAAAAAH!” and mom was on her knees as this crab mangled her index finger.  Granddad got up really slow and calm-like, reached into his pocket to get his knife, picked the blade he wanted, stepped  over and grabbed mom’s now-bloody hand and pried the claw open.  He whipped the crab around violently and gooshed it silly against the pier.  Then he went over and sat down again and said softly “I told you, Joansey, not to grab ’em that way.”   Boy, let me tell you, that was a thrilling couple of minutes.  Her anger rolled off of him like water off a duck’s back.  He was a master and I wasn’t even a grasshopper.

I said “Granddad, this is a Spud Gun” and bursting with pride I held it up so he could inspect it.

It was black ABS 4″ pipe, the combustion chamber was about 2-1/2 feet long, it narrowed down to a 1-1/2″ section that was about five feet long, maybe six.   Picture a seven to eight foot long black bazooka that fires potatoes.  It glinted darkly in the sunlight.

One of my favorite memories of my granddad, who I’d kill to see this day, was sitting on the deck figuring out the best way to fire this new toy.  Let’s see, he’d have been mid 80’s about then, so you have him, myself, Wetback, Teacher, BiL, SCSSP, and my dad.   Have we named my dad on the Folly yet?  I don’t think so.  We’ll call him Sparky even though we probably won’t use the name in this posting.  So here’s this old gentleman sitting with us younger fellas discussing how much Aqua Net hairspray should be used, how tight the potato should be in the barrel, hand positioning when lighting it, etc.

We learned as a group of men with varying amounts of beer do, through trial and error, and eventually happened upon the perfect mixture to send a potato on a ballistic trajectory that ended up about 150-200 yards away.  It was amazing.

Much like the horrifically dangerous time before seat-belts and bicycle helmets we somehow managed to survive this, too.

I clearly remember our failed attempts to hit a cow down in the field.

GOV’T BOVINE PROTECTION AGENCY AGENT:  (dropping his surveillance equipment with a gasp) Whoa!  Whoa, whoa, whoa!  He said WHAT???  Did he say what I thought he said?  We’re gonna go down there and…

GBPA Agent #2:  (Sipping his Diet Tab)  Easy, killer.  This family does this sh*t all the time.  They’ve got a grandfather clause, we can’t touch ’em.

GBPA Agent Chorus:  Aw, man!  This SUCKS!

GBPA Agent #2:  I’m telling you, leave ’em alone unless you like lots of paperwork and public apologies…

Where was I?  Annoying fellas, aren’t they?

Oh yes, I clearly remember our failed attempts to hit a cow down in the field.

Granddad said, “Aim it down a few degrees next time, Lemur…” We did and on the next shot or so, we hit ourselves a cow.  Amazing, the things you can learn from your Granddad.

The cow leapt up in the air about five feet, which is good for a cow at-rest.  Bovine inertia is not like other inertia.   Four hooves went in four directions and then it came down and hit the ground running.  It stopped, went back to where it was, and found a warm meal waiting for it.

Also amazing is how this story started as a story about a spud gun, but ended up about my granddad.  I can think of much worse ways to end up.

****

Epilogue:

The cow was not permanently harmed and in fact got a warm meal of fries for it’s trouble.

The spud gun was christened “The Taternator” and was used that day to fire everything from potatoes, rocks, crabapples, and a handful of mustard packets.  It was last seen in southeastern Washington, west of Walla-walla and has not been seen since.

The cow and its companion were very tasty with ketchup and a pickle.

The Taternator features in several more stories before the time that it was lost.

Lemur’s granddad, Buck, lived for eight more years, lives on in his family’s memories, and is sorely missed by Lemur.

This story is the starting place for a concurrent story called “Cutting the Mustard”.

The Gov’t Bovine Protection Agency now checks that lids of each and every shipment of Play-doh is tightly secured prior to shipping.  They are *that* good.

Lemur and Wetback continue contact to this day.


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Perky Isn’t Always Bad.

Update – Succubus graphic using reader-suggested bat wings.

I suppose I could have tweaked the wings at that “wrist” joint, angled them down a bit and scaled them larger, but honestly, out of 105 cards I’ve only got ten more to go and I’m anxious to get them all done.  A lot of hours went into these damn things.

****

Yep, perky is mostly bad.  Rachel Ray drives me insane.

But this… this new product… ranks up next to Blair’s Death Rain Potato Chips.

What do you get when you combine these two wonderful things?

Mad Cow?  Angry Red Bull?  Pre-fried Beef?  Hell, NO!

You get Perky Jerky!

(click to read all about it)

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All right!  We were being stupid with parasites BEFORE Honk Kong!

Good catch, strangepersons.com!

Again, in response to that kind of weirdness I must post Amusing Bunni‘s Cat.

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Give me a “P”…!

Rumor could be that Mountain Dew will license this new formulation and sell it as “Code Yellow”.

I don’t care how you dress it up, I’m not about to go drink cow piss anytime soon.

code-yellowAbove is my derivative adulteration of a Code Red Logo to match the whole “Code Yellow” idea.

The hypothetical rumor is probably baseless, so I didn’t spend a lot of time on it.

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Art should be part of the free market system, not funds forcibly spent on crap.

Statues of fornicating k-9’s.  Nice.

If the art is worth a damn, it’ll get funded, but the only way this sort of BS gets money is by liberal fart-sniffers sneaking laws in that require percentages of project total dollar amounts to be spent on “art”.

****

FT.com Headline:

Why Obama’s new Tarp will fail to rescue the banks

and then, first sentence:

Has Barack Obama’s presidency already failed? In normal times, this would be a ludicrous question. But these are not normal times.

Given the neverending steamy stream of urine miracles promised by the Obamamessiah and anticipated by his mindless drone worshippers, anything he does will come under the heading of “FAIL” because reality cannot hope to measure up to those promises.

Y’all made your bed, now sleep in it.  I wish I didn’t have to as well.

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Only in Michigan.  I knew things were bad, but this bad?

Zoo charges folks $ to watch animals in coitus.

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John Lott had interesting things to say regarding what Obama promised and what he actually believes and will do.

Quite the jarring discrepancy.

It’s like Obama is a magician.  If you were stupid enough to vote for him, what you think you were getting was not reality.  Too late now, eh?

copperfield

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Does it just not interest anyone at all that California will cut schools, roads, parks, etc. – all things for citizens to partake of yet they will not move on the drain of illegal aliens leeching them dry?

The Wall Street Journal article (linked above) says:

As Sacramento squabbles over the state’s $42 billion deficit…

Lets look at some of that deficit, shall we?  The estimation in the next paragraph says:

A study by the Federation for American Immigration Reform estimated that in 2004 the annual uncompensated cost of medical care for illegal immigrants in California was $1.4 billion. Total uncompensated educational, health care and incarceration costs were estimated to be 10.5 billion.  (source:  NewsMax)

If we take it at face value, 25% of California’s burden is due to illegals.  Like I want federal money (my tax dollars) to go to support their low wage laborers who siphon off the system?

more later…

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A while back we were on the topic of sexy handguns (Springfield XD, for one). A longer while back I was sitting around one day – which is very in-character – and was thinking about Glazer Safety Bullets. The whole idea is that they are frangible ammunition, that is, when they hit something solid they disperse or break up so that there are no harmful ricochet that could hurt the innocent bystander.

Ok, so if you get all nutso about global warming and want a green solution to every freakin’ problem… Grazer Safety Bullets™ are what you should insist on, and you should buy them alongside your crappy CFL bulbs.

So, enjoying programs such as GIMP and Blender, I set out to render a box of bullets in 3D (.357 Mag – my favoritest caliber in the whole wide world alongside the 12ga shotgun shell w/ magnum load), and then use those images to put together a mock data sheet (ad, actually) for sporty new Green Ammunition™. I’m particularly happy with the idea of floral-scented ammunition so when the bad guy gets shot, he isn’t all grossed out by the smell. LAST thing you want is some gunshot-wounded guy barfing all over the place and complaining about the smell.

Grazer Safety Bullets
Click on it for the larger image

Yeah, ok, so it’s weird, but gosh-darn-it, I had fun. So in keeping with St. (Dennis) Leary, I’m just gonna be an asshole ’cause I wanna be weird.

Enjoy –

LK

Addendum:

One serious bitch I have…

Telegraph.CO.UK Link

Ok… so they are bitching that moving to ethanol via corn (which really is and always was a stupid idea for a host of reasons) is or soon will be causing massive starvation. Wait an effin’ minute… is this or is this not the corn that the EU, Britain, and certain African countries all bitch about and refuse to use because it is considered “Frankenfood”? There are stories of massive quantities of it sitting in warehouses and not being distributed because it isn’t safe to feed to the people who are busy starving to death.

To the rest of the world that finds fault with everything the US does (and to the Fifth Column self-loathers here in the US as well): If y’all wanna sit around and slam the US, just come right out and do it and stop finding self-contradictory things to polish your halos with.

Read more on GM crops here.

Update #2 –

Appendix operation through the mouth
Last updated at 11:50am on 16.04.08

Surgeons have removed a man’s appendix through his mouth in a radical world first.

The pioneering operation – dubbed “cakehole surgery” – means no unsightly scars, and the patient was doing sit-ups three days afterwards.

Today, doctors released the first pictures of the bizarre-looking procedure on Jeff Scholz, which was undertaken using miniaturised surgical tools.

It is hoped this new approach could slash waiting times, cut down on infection and reduce post-operative pain.

Doctors say Mr Scholz, 42, an ex-US marine, has made a speedier recovery than he would have done with standard keyhole surgery.

Surgeons at the University of California San Diego Medical Centre threaded tiny instruments, including a camera, down Mr Scholz’s throat. After emptying his stomach they cut into its lining to cut away the inflamed appendix. The rogue organ was placed in a bag and pulled back up though Mr Scholz’s stomach and throat and out of his mouth.

Amazingly, he was discharged after just 17 hours in hospital and claimed to be back at work the day after.

Mr Scholz said: “I was eating pizza and doing sit-ups three days later. You’d think the way it was done, going through the stomach wall, I’d have stomach pains, but there was nothing.”

It is the first time the procedure has been publicly shown, although a team of Indian surgeons claim to have carried out a similar one.

Through-the-mouth surgery is still in the experimental stages, but surgeons are confident their new methods reduce the risk of infections like MRSA.

Centre director Professor Santiago Horgan said: “My dad was a surgeon and back then the larger the incision, the better the surgeon. Today we’re moving away from that to minimise trauma. We can improve pain and complications.”

Source: ThisIsLondon

Next week – A special covering world’s first hemorrhoid surgery done via mouth.

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