Good bye Mom

This isn't funny or amusing, so go on your way if that's what you're expecting.

I got word today that my best friend's mother passed away. This was a woman who helped raise me and who I always affectionately called "Mom."

I think I've finally run out of tears. A grown man isn't supposed to cry.

Good bye Mom.

Goat Rustlers

Seriously, who in their right mind steals a fucking goat?

In my aunt's mind the answer is "Someone, I don't know who, but they're stealing my goats."

Once I stopped laughing at this dillusion and focused enough to cough and ask why she felt someone was stealing her goats, she'd already convinced me to go sit in the graveyard adjacent to her property and wait for the goat thieves.

Oh what the fuck, it might be fun.

So into the graveyard I went and hid behind a gravestone laughing to myself the entire time. I've come up with a bunch of ludicrous ideas in my time, but this one trumped all of them. Even I couldn't think up something this bat shit insane...

My 70 year old aunt sitting on a chaise lounge with a .12 gauge and me huddled behind a headstone waiting for someone to try and steal her goats.

You don't get much more redneck then that.

Golf Balls

This isn't one of my stories, but rather one that was related to me by a former co-worker who had been a member of the Honolulu police force.

Some guy had gone bat shit insane and barricaded himself in a house with weapons and was threatening to kill himself over some trivial matter.

That is not funny in the least, it's frankly very sad.

However about 10 hours into the standoff it became quite obvious to the boys in blue this guy was not going to kill himself and they were wanting to get home to their families. And this idiot was keeping them from their families. My buddy and a few of his fellow officers had taken up a position in a house directly behind the guy. In a bedroom to be exact. There wasn't a whole lot for them to do to ease their boredom of sitting there hour after hour while this guy went on about the brain police or whatever the hell his problem was.

One of the guys found some golf balls in the closet and apparently after 5 hours he'd had enough and decided to put an end to this silliness. Everytime the negotiator got the guy calmed down a bit this other dude would hurl a couple of golf balls against the house and yell "Go ahead and kill yourself you fucking pussy! DO IT! PUSSY!"

And the guy would flip his shit. Again.

The negotiator couldn't figure out what was going on. Every damn time he had the guy calmed down he would suddenly start screaming like a wounded Nar Whale and begin making random threats against society.

I don't mean to make fun of the mentally ill, but sadly if I was there I would've done the same damned thing. You have to admit that it is pretty damn funny.

A Christmas Story

My sister was born in Thailand. It's a long complicated story, but basically my father was stationed there during the Vietnam War and I ended up having a sister.

OK, so maybe it's not all that complicated.

Anyways, about the time she was 20 or so he started to feel guilty and went searching for her. After about 18 months he found her living in the jungle and presumably swinging from trees flinging bananas and shit every which direction. I suspect that more then anything he realized I had a real aversion to children and if he wanted grandchildren he was going to have to look elsewhere, because none were going to be springing forth from my loins anytime soon. But that's neither here nor there.

She made her way to the US and was quickly assimilated into our way of life. After she'd been here a few years we had a Christmas gathering at her house. A traditional Christmas meal of rice and food so hot it induced heavy breathing and sweat. While she was stirring up Satan's Cauldron of ungodly food she told a story about work.

(My sister is a blackjack dealer in Las Vegas.)

Her story went along these lines: "There was a man at work and I get so mad at him. I tell him he no longer play at my table. He don't go away. I get so mad I 69'd him."

I fell over trying to keep from laughing. Literally. I tipped out of a chair and was on the floor in front my aged aunts and uncles doing everything I could to not throw up one of my lungs. I blamed it on a cramp and they went back to eating. I truly wonder about my family sometimes. A presumably healthy young man is laying on the floor holding his side trying to keep his internal organs internal and they go back to eating like that's a normal occurrence. Then again they just heard a girl say she 69'd someone on a casino floor, so my flopping around like a freshly caught tuna was probably inconsequential.

Her comments went pretty much unnoticed by everyone else except my father. I caught his eye while I was on the floor, he'd heard what she'd said but he was able to contain his laughter a bit better then me. He told me later that he had to tell her she got her numbers mixed up and she probably meant to say she 86'd the dude. Of course my dad wasn't one to leave well enough alone, so he gave her a very graphic description of what 69 is. Thank God I wasn't privy to that little conversation.

I really fucking miss you dad.

Damn bird

For those of you that don't know I have a pet parrot.

I've had him for about 15 years now and for the most part he's a horrible pet.

Sure, he has his moments when he's a sweet bird and gently saying "I'm a pretty, pretty bird", but for the most part he screams like hell and throws seeds all over my house.

At the moment I'm dodging corn kernels that little SOB is shooting at me, they're ricocheting all over my damn living room. He thinks the corn kernels in his food are a toy and he has it down to an art of pinching those things in his beak and sending them flying all over the house at an astounding velocity. I've destroyed 3 vacuums cleaning up after him and his "Toys". Vacuums don't like dried corn.

I decided to be nice and got up at 6:30 this morning to drive the 20 miles to Wal-Mart to buy him nesting material, food, and a toy.

When I got home I cleaned his cage, hung up his toy and gave him some fresh food. He stood on his favorite perch watching me the entire time and acting excited about this development. As soon as I left him to his own devices he broke his toy, shit all over his freshly cleaned cage, and started throwing seeds all over my house.

Oh well, he'll only live another 20 years or so, but he makes up for all his nastiness every time I walk in the door and he starts dancing and yelling "Hello Dad!"

It melts my heart every time.

Banned from the NBA

Apparently people are actually reading these musings. I may have to take the time to actually write things out before I post them instead of just blathering away.

I'll look into that sometime, just not today.


My mouth and imagination can be a wondrous thing. They get me into trouble and just as quickly get me out of trouble. I've had friends marvel about my ability to walk up to complete strangers and within a few minutes we're talking like old friends and they'll believe the outlandish shit I say.

One night me and some buddies were driving around and met up with a car full of girls. One of the girls (Let's call her Secretariat) was very vocal, actually it was more like she was braying or whatever the fuck it is horses do. Her parents should've entered her in The Preakness. She was far from attractive, unless you were a mare. A very lonely mare.

Anyways Secretariat was braying and stomping the ground like an angry mule while the humans talked, obviously she was upset because no one would give her an apple and stroke her muzzle. These actions were not lost on me and I saw an easy mark to fuck with so I struck up a conversation.

Me: Hey
Secretariat: I think she whinied or some damn thing. At the very least she wagged her tail.

Me: Did you know I used to play for the Houston Rockets? (For those of you that have never met me I'm 6'7"...I can get away with outlandish lies like that)
Secretariat: Bullshit.

Me: No. Seriously. You can look it up. I'm on suspension from the league because we were going to Japan to play some exhibition games and they found cocaine in my luggage. The whole thing got kind of buried in the media because Steve Howe was busted for drugs again and I was just a foot note.
Secretariat: Really? You are pretty tall. Who are your friends?

(It was about the time Secretariat started showing interest I decided that maybe we should get the hell away. Like right now. Before she got in a rutting frame of mind with me as a target. That would be bad.)

I was able to herd my buddies back in the car and make our escape much to their chagrin. The other girls were actually cute, but I had to deal with the loud horse that was apparently the designated cock blocker. Like they had to designate her for that....genetics had granted her that role many years before. Her ugly personality just cemented her position.

Crash

Back in the 80's I played guitar in a bar band and quite honestly we sucked.

But at 22 years old I thought I'd stumbled into the greatest thing since Moses parted the Red Sea. I got to combine the three things I loved the most at that time...playing guitar, free booze, and drunk women of questionable virtue throwing themselves at me. In short, I was in heaven.

One of the mistakes the bars made in our contracts was the free booze. It's usually pretty standard in agreements with the band that the bar will provide all the booze the band wants while they're performing.

In our case, that was a huge, huge mistake on the bar owners part.

We never once hit the stage even remotely sober and by the third set someone was likely to fall off the stage. We were like a bunch of fucked up monkeys that were fed booze and given instruments. And who on this Earth isn't entertained by monkeys? Especially drunk ones.

We weren't very good, but by God we were entertaining, in a fucked up, drunk monkey sort of way.

We hardly ever kept to the playlist and did whatever the hell we individually felt like doing. One night I started playing the opening riff from "Don't Fear the Reaper" just for shits and giggles and the rest of the band joined in. Then people got up and started dancing.

The sad thing is none of us knew the damn song and by the time our singer tried to think of what the hell the lyrics might be the whole thing fell apart and he had to announce "We don't actually know this song."

The band wouldn't allow me to have my own mic because, and I quote "We can't afford it." I offered to buy my own my mic but was told "No, we can't afford what might come out of your mouth." This coming from a bunch of stumbling drunks and they were afraid of what might come out of my mouth? Jesus, did they think I was going to blurt out that I saw the Pope fucking a dog in the parking lot? (Actually I would've said it if the thought had occurred to me because the whole visual is pretty damn funny. How would he have kept that big Pope hat on while rocking a German Shepard's world?)

In a roundabout way I've been leading up to the story of how we are probably the only band in history to be 86'd from a bar.

We were up to our usual shit in some crappy bar in Bum Fuck, Montana. Our drummer was very fond of whiskey and he was drinking heavily that night, much more then the rest of us. As we finished the next to last set he fell over his drum set with a resounding crash. He was done for the night.

The problem was we still had one more set to play and now we had no drummer. We retreated to a table to ponder our situation and I told the waitress to bring two pitchers of beer. I have no idea what the other guys ordered for themselves.

Somehow it was apparently decided that our lead guitarist would play drums and I would play all the guitar parts. I have no memory of agreeing to this as I was trying to down as much booze as I could in an attempt to kill my brain and not be part of the forthcoming train wreck.

I almost succeeded.

According to people who witnessed the event I gamely took the stage and almost immediately fell over like a tree knock down by Paul Bunyon. I went straight down off the stage onto the hardwood dance floor with my beloved Les Paul strapped firmly to my body.

My Les Paul did not survive. I however had a huge bruise on my chest where she met her demise.

The next morning we were awakened in the motel room by a very angry bar owner telling us we were fired. On a Saturday. Who the hells fires a band after a show like that?

Hunting Ghosts

A couple of years ago my niece moved down here and she shared my curiosity about ghosts.

One night about 1AM we were watching TV and I was bored. (You'll notice this is a common theme in my stories. If I get bored, something is bound to happen.) So I suggested we go to the ancient graveyard across the street from my house with a camera and take some pictures to see if we could catch anything. She thought this was a great idea as she was a big brave ghost hunter.

After about 20 minutes of taking pictures of the darkness and gravestones I once again grew bored. I was holding a cigarette and noticed that when I flashed a picture it gave off an eerie effect with the smoke wafting through the view finder. I showed her my "Findings" and she turned white as a sheet. She decided it was time to go home.

Now.

So much for the big, brave ghost hunter.

We headed back for my house with her walking very fast. Then I saw headlights coming towards us and did the first thing that came to mind...I shoved her into a ditch head first and ducked.

To this day I can't fully explain my thought process that night, but it went something along these lines:

"I'm a 42 year old guy walking along the road at one in the morning with a 16 year old girl who looks nothing like me (My niece is Asian), I've got beer in my pockets and a camera. Yeah, we're the picture of innocence here."

So into the ditch she went with a little help from me. Ok, maybe with a lot of help from me. She climbed out of the ditch with a very understandable "What. The. Fuck?" look on her face.

I told her it must of been the ghost that did it.

Teaching Little Shelby to Shoot

Little Shelby is my cousin of sorts. She's half Filipino and half American, but that's neither here nor there, for some reason I adore the little girl and I think of her as a daughter.

As most of my adventures start out...I was bored and giving her a guitar lesson. She was rather disinterested in learning the guitar and my attention was waning. So I suggested we go shoot.

I'm full of brilliant ideas when I get bored.

She readily agreed and the next thing I knew we were standing on a hilltop with loaded weapons.

Being the kind, thoughtful relative that I am I decided the first gun she should shoot was a .12 gauge, screw this fooling around with a .22, she was going to shoot a real gun.

I don't know exactly what kind of loads I was chambering into that thing but they kicked like a fucking mule. She saw me shoot a couple of them and after a couple pointers on gun safety I chambered a round, handed her the gun and told her it was hot.

She put it up to her shoulder....then I had her make a few adjustments so she wouldn't get hurt by the kick...and then she pulled the trigger.

BLAM!

She was all of five foot nothing and weighed about 100lbs at the time. Those loads were knocking me back and I knew they'd really do a number on her, so I placed my hands on her shoulder blades to keep her from being ass first in the dirt when she pulled the trigger and that thing barked.

As soon as the thing fired she screamed like a banshee and doubled over. Oh God, the neighbors heard a gun shot and a scream from my property, that's never good. I was horrified thinking maybe I'd given her more then she could handle, then she started giggling and looked at me with wide eyes and asked "Can I shoot it again?"

And that's when I knew she was related to me. Well, that and the time I spun my 300ZX in the middle of the road and as I was trying to get my heart to resume beating correctly she said "That was awesome! Let's do it again."

That's my girl.

It finally happened

After years of abuse, I think my body has finally revolted against my treatment of it.

My God damn legs won't work properly. I can deal with a lot of things, but if I can't walk, the fucking game is over. I will not be an invalid relying on others to take care of me. Fuck that noise.

My mother has MS and I can see the warning signs that it's incubating in my system. When your legs quit working that's a pretty big fucking warning flag. Jesus, I can't take more then 7 steps (I know because I counted) without stumbling and losing all muscle control and flailing about like a drunken mentally challenged two year old. This will never do. It's fucking embarrassing.

My body and I are about to go to war. If it thinks I've done horrible things to it in the past, it hasn't seen shit . If it's going to fuck with me then I'm going to fuck back even harder. I believe I have some D-Con in the cupboard. Maybe I'll eat it....how would you like that body?

Jesus, I might be developing schizophrenia on top of everything else. I may just have to go after my brain for revolting too. It is nice to be able to distance yourself from your body and brain though.

Something Evil This Way Comes

A few days ago I put on my mad scientist smock and made what is commonly called a ghost box ( http://angelsghosts.com/ghost_box ) .

It's a simple hack using a Radio Shack pocket radio. I'd bought one a few months ago, paying good money without realizing how easy it was to do myself. (I payed %55 for one off e-bay, this one is the same damn thing but I only paid $30 for the radio, spent 5 minutes of my time to remove 6 screws and do a little Voodoo to.) And by do a little Voodoo I mean I bent a wire. It's that simple.

If I had an inkling of sense I'd be selling these things on e-bay at $55 (Plus shipping) a pop. But God did not grant me that sense.

So now I'm sure you're all wondering if the thing works. I have no idea. I used my last one out in my old cotton field and scared the bloody hell out of my niece.


She was mortified and crying while I was laughing my ass off talking to the thing. She finally demanded that I take her back to my house and spent the rest of her trip not sleeping, which was not an easy task given that it was another week or so.

So, what did the box do that scared her so bad and made me laugh?

Here's a transcript of my "Conversation" with it:

Me: What's your name?
Box: Lucifer

Me: What's your name?
Box; Satan

(At this point I figured it was an anomaly, so I continued asking the same question)

Me: What's your name?
Box: Satan

Me: What's your name?
Box: Lucifer

(Obviously me and the box were going in circles at this time and it was just giving me random names for Beelzebub. There's no way in hell Satan was sitting in my cotton field talking to me through a modified Radio Shack radio.) I decided to throw it a curve with the next question and see if it answered "Satan." It didn't.

Me Where are you from?
Box: Fire

By this point my poor niece was in hysterics and crying like hell. I was laughing my ass off. I got to ask it one more question before she flipped out and demanded to be taken home.

Me: Is it hot where you come from? (Oh c'mon, did you really think I was going to ask it the meaning of life?)
Box: Yep.

That did it. My niece freaked out and demanded between the tears that I take her home. To this day she can't understand why I was laughing so hard.

I'm a horrible uncle.

So There I was....

I was at Wal Mart today and some 60 year old woman dropped a package of ham. Instinctively I reached down to pick it up and handed it to her saying "Here ya go ma'am."

That's just what I was raised to do. Apparently she was raised by wild animals and if she'd had a rape whistle she would've furiously been blowing it like she wished she'd blown frat boys back in 1926 or whenever the hell she was younger then a dinosaur.

I was met by such a look of pure disgust it sent a shiver down my spine. Jesus lady, I'm not hitting on you or trying to inseminate you with what I'm sure you feel are my heathen beliefs, I was simply trying to hand you back something you'd dropped.

For fucks sake, I've seen people take super models home while wearing nothing but galoshes and a rain slicker and babbling about a baby duck that fell down the sewer. I on the other hand get to put up with a veiny old lady giving me the stink eye for picking up her dropped groceries? I may need to modify my approach of interacting with strangers.

In retrospect instead of handing her a package of ham I should've handed her a dead, bloody, baby duck and asked at the top of my lungs "What did you do to my duck?"

That would've fixed her little wagon.

Yo-Ho Yo-Ho...a Pirate's Life for Me

This has been bothering me for sometime. When we hear about pirates nowadays they're all skinny Somalians running around in power boats with AK47's. What ever happened to real pirates?

Swashbuckling, devil may care, Douglas Fairbanks Jr types. With an eye patch from some long forgotten encounter, a parrot, and a peg leg.

Sure they weren't good guys, but at least they commanded a crew and somehow came in control of a sailing ship. That isn't easy shit to do. It would be the equivalent of seizing an aircraft carrier today and then pillaging and plundering your way across the oceans without someone fucking your shit up. All the while dealing with two handicaps (Being blind in one eye and having one God damn leg)...that could be quite a hindrance when setting off into battle. Unless you had a bunch of fighter aircraft at your command, then you might be able to get away with that shit. But not very likely.

If that wasn't enough of a bother, then you have to figure in the whole world hates you thing and wants to see you dead. You're half blind, you have an annoying parrot blathering on your shoulder that he's hungry, his dick hurts, or whatever problems parrot's have, and you walk like a donkey with 2 legs and use your enormous donkey dick as a third leg. Clump, clump, squish, clump, clump...."OH FUCK! This deck is made of wood! I've got a splinter! Help me. Oh fuck me to tears it hurts!" Then the bird starts yelling and the enemy knows exactly where to shoot. And you being blind and one legged and a huge splinter in your schlong die because your dick hurts. That's not exactly a formula for success. Or a very manly way to die. I'm mean really...I really would hate for my last words to be "Ow! My dick!" Dying because of a hurt pecker is not exactly going out in a blaze of glory. Who wants "He was a brave man, fearless, led his comrades into battle many times, but he was cut down because his penis hurt" emblazoned on their tombstone? That spells failure no matter how you look at it. Not to mention just a wee bit embarrassing.

Come to think of it, that may be how all the real pirates were killed off. They really didn't think this shit through to the end.

No matter how my life punctuates itself I can pretty much guarantee a hurting penis will not be what kills me off. I'd rather be eaten by a rabid possum then have that as my legacy for others to laugh at.

And given my life, being eaten by possums is not entirely out of the realm of possibilities.

Random Thought

I've been through more tornadoes then I can shake a stick at ( Note: If you shake a stick at a tornado you're a fucking idiot. The tornado doesn't care about you or your stick. Don't ask me how I know this, I just do.)

Shaking a stick at a shark however...you might hit him in the nose and he'll go away. Maybe.

With a tornado there is no maybe. You're just pretty much fucked. Your stick too.

Of Mice and Men

I found a dead mouse in my kitchen today.

Granted that's a lot better then seeing a live mouse scurrying across the floor, but live or dead I hate mice. I knew something smelled funny in my house...and that's a hell of a way to find a dead mouse.

Every year when the weather turns cold my house gets invaded by mice. I'll be sitting and watching the TV and one of those rotten bastards will go running across the floor startling the shit out of me. I usually end up standing on the couch screaming like a little girl and upsetting Percy. Then the real noise begins.

Hell hath no noise like a screaming and confused parrot. He has no real need to be upset, but in his small brain neurons are firing telling him to shriek like a banshee with a megaphone and that will make everything better. It doesn't, it just gives me a headache.

I went as far as to get a cat last year to scare the mice away or eat them, either or I really didn't care....and something ate my cat. Probably a big fucking mouse. I didn't even have time to name him. Oh well, if he was eaten by a mouse he would've been pretty much as useless as a normal cat. He had one job to perform, namely keeping my house rid of mice (And a secondary job which involved the simple command of "Leave the fucking bird be.") but he went and got eaten by something.

I'd put it down as a cat thing and just get a dog, but the three dogs I've had down here have all been hit by cars because they were stupid and slept on the highway and chased cars.

Either these animals were all born retarded or they committed suicide so they didn't have to live in Mississippi. If the latter is the case, why don't the fucking mice do the same?

Beer makes for great ideas

I hadn't planned on writing anything else, but then I had a thought....

You know how that weird Indian dude used to drive around in Oregon with his equally weird followers falling to their knees and spitting at each other hoping to swallow some of the dust his Rolls Royce kicked up? They were just a bit fucked in the head weren't they? Well that gave me an idea. History is littered with the bodies of the insane succumbing to those who had just a glimmer more of intelligence.

No, I'm not going to provide references. I'm not on trial here.

Anyways, that's beside the point...here's my plan:

* Start a completely fucked up church with a doctrine so screwed up no one can make head or tails of it. Then if people are fighting over eating the dust from my car and acting like primal monkeys for the right to do so I think I may have a ripe bunch of idiots to be my followers.

* If you're worth over $100K, you can join my church.

* You must sign everything over to me...errr... "The Church"

* If you're worth under $100K. Fuck you.

* Unless you are a hot girl with tits out to here...*Holding my hands out as far as they can reach*

* Fuck that. If your tits defy gravity you're in, 100K or not. Unless you're a guy. Dear God man, go drink some Slim Fast and get the hell out of your parent's basement. And for God's sake keep your shirt on, no one wants to see that shit.

What's expected of you:

* Pretty much horrible poverty.

* Running water will happen when it rains. I tell God when to bring the rains.

* Electricity? Hahahahaha....ummmm no

* You kiss the ground when I drive by on my tractor until we can buy a Rolls Royce. For me. Then you'll kiss the ground thanking our 6 legged God with 2 heads, one thats spews out fish entrails (I hate that head) for providing me with a big expensive car and yourself with that huge carrot that you pulled up this morning. Then you'll go home and eat carrot soup with your wretched and stupid family that actually thinks carrot peelings and boiled water=carrot soup.

Yep...only $100K a head and I ...errr...by "I" I mean it in a spiritual way to include all of us, however I won't be eating the mud and dust thrown up by my tractor. That is a special privilege for the pilgrims. That would be you.

Mud Licker.

That's just a euphemism for "Bless you." I swear.

Send your money to Church of Toytoy (Big fucking car fund)3242 Some field, Somewhere, MS.

This ain't a reality show

Since hundreds of people have told me my life deserves a reality show and tens have told me to shut the fuck up and die, I figured I'd make everyone happy and tell most of the mundane shit that happens in my life here. It seems to delight some and infuriate others to the point of irrational hatred and wishing a pox on my first born. Chances are those of y'all wishing for a reality show are never going to get one, so this is the next best thing.

But first I had to wait for something, anything, to happen that would even be worth writing about and thankfully it didn't take long.

I went down to the barn today to check and see just what I had down there that is going to need to be moved if and when my father's widow sells the land. I was greeted by a smell that can only be described as a combination of diesel, fertilizer, and apples.

What the fuck?

This is a barn full of old equipment. The diesel and fertilizer can be explained, but apples? It honestly smelled like I'd kept my tractor in there and in my absence it had shit fertilizer, and pissed diesel all over the floor after running over a Mexican selling a 20lb bag of apples at a Southern California intersection.

After a few minutes of scratching my head (And my balls, because...well, because I am a guy and I scratch my balls when I can't think of anything better to do) it finally hit me. I'd stored 5 bottles of corked homemade cider down there. I went over to where they'd been placed and found 5 nearly empty bottles of homemade cider.

Hmmmm.

Hobos are not a real problem in this place, so it had to be woodland creatures. I put on my detective hat (Not literally, I just turned my Ole' Miss baseball cap backwards so I didn't miss any clues.) I found two corks that had apparently popped and 1 with tiny tooth marks in it. Clearly this was not the work of a homeless drifter unless he had a mouthful of fucked up baby vampire teeth. Using deductive reasoning I quickly asserted that this was indeed a stupid, furry critter with the ability to hoist a bottle and drain the contents. If it had been a deer it would've got its rack stuck in something after drinking that poison and stomped the bottles with it's devil like hooves to open them, which is not a very good plan if you want to get away with stealing a hillbilly's booze.

I was to late to fire off indiscriminate shots hoping to blow the bloody fuck out of the robbers, but it warms the cockles of my heart to know that somewhere out there in the woods is a family of raccoons, skunks, or possums with pounding headaches and retching their guts out like a donkey giving birth to a tractor.

I picture momma critter saying to poppa critter "Dude! What the (Blragh...as a stream of vile homemade wine is violently ejected from her digestive system) fuck?

Welcome to my world you little fuzzy thieves.

Besides that, how awesome would it be if a possible main ingredient in hillbilly stew referred to each other as "Dude?"