Painting With Shotguns XXXVIII
This House Is A Sacrifice Bunt
Been here just shy of four years now, and it’s time to kiss it on the Bilco doors and send it on its merry way. We’ve done quite a bit for you, Old House. The fence. The new kitchen floor. The giant mega-fridge. The walkway. We looked the other way when you had that drinking problem. We didn’t tell anybody when you touched that neighborhood hobo inappropriately.
We’ll miss you.
Except, we won’t. Not really. Basically, this house is just the scapegoat. Like, in the ancient style. We’re heaping our sins upon this bleating mammal and chucking it into an empty void as big as the Guatemala sinkhole. It’s a good house, but of course we’ll be lucky to get all that we’ve put into it (and, quite likely, we’ll be taking a loss, leaving it as a lovely value for any who’d care to snatch it off our hands). It’s the equivalent of a sacrifice bunt. The at bat’s going to get fucked to get a real man further on base. We’ll take the hit on this house to get into something bigger and better while the market’s still a frail, quivering slip of a girl.
Some of the houses we’ve looked at have been on the market for like, 300, 400 days.
Let us all together join in superstitious thinking and pray to our respective deities that this house spends, ohh, a fraction of that on the market.
Silly razza frazza housing market.
And In Better News
It’s time to do a wee bit o’ traveling. I got my travelin’ pants on, which means it’s time to go places. See, come October, Super-Uber-Ultra-Agent Stacia Decker says, “Go to Bouchercon,” and I say, “Isn’t that in San Francisco?” and she nods between sips of, I dunno, Bacon Liqueur or something. I like San Francisco. I like San Francisco a lot. The wife and I, we did our honeymoon out in wine country, with a little time spent there. I smell opportunity.
So, I say to the wife, “Hey, wife, you should come with me.” Then I wink. And nod.
And she says, “I will if you untie me.”
And I exclaim, “Hold on, I’m not done talking. That first part of the trip will be like, a work expense.”
“First part?” the wife asks between attempts to gnaw through the ropes.
“Uh-huh. Like, we’ll go out there. For, mmm, two weeks.”
She almost has the ropes off, but that’s okay, because under the ropes is duct tape, and that shit is the king of tape. Plus, she’s bound to a chair in the center of the room, and I’ve cut a two-foot moat around her, and in that brackish water swims the Pugranha. I’ve been communicating with her over an Intercom and a grainy video feed. So far it’s worked pretty well. “Two weeks?”
“Word. Two weeks. Except, the thing that’s really awesome about San Francisco is that it’s the West Coast. And the thing that’s really awesome about the West Coast is that it’s not the East Coast. You know what’s close to the West Coast?”
“Dinosaurs?” she asks, just trying to get me off-topic. I love dinosaurs.
“It is great,” I say, knowing full well she’s being sarcastic. Hell with that. I don’t have room for sarcasm. “We’re going to Hawaii!”
Which is now officially true. We’re heading to Bouchercon for a few days, and then to the island of Kauai, and then back to San Francisco for a couple more days. Breaks up the trip a little bit. Otherwise, flying to Hawaii from Pennsylvania is basically hell. You’re shoved in an airborne coffin and made to wait for about, ohhh, 10 hours. It’s not so bad going, because at least the end of the hell comes the beauty of Hawaii. Coming back, though? Ugh. That trip’s for assholes. Ten hours in a plane, plus the two hours before boarding, and the hour after waiting for Philadelphia to stop, I dunno, raping your luggage in the back, and that’s a long goddamn day just to come home to, well, Pennsylvania. It’s like waiting a half-a-day for a piece of cake covered in tire rubber and cat shit.
I am, needless to say, geeked about visiting San Francisco and Hawaii.
(A number of my earlier Hawaii photos are right over yonder, if you care.)
Anybody been to Hawaii? Kauai in particular? Taking advice on what to do, where to eat, and so forth.
Same goes for San Francisco, if you care to spare some comments.
Search Term Bingo!
I swear to Christ, anytime I need a smile on my face, I merely need to glance at the search terms. They’ve been really good lately. Juicy, junior. Real juicy. So, hell with it, let’s play another round.
Permission to say “Cock”
Go ahead. We let Julie Summerell say worse things.
My beard kills people
I’m not surprised. The beard must kill. The beard must sup blood. It’s how I get my beard to be robust and shiny. It’s how I make it full. And lush.
oops horse cocks exposed
Oops, indeed. The lack of the possessive here confuses me a little, though. Like, were you pulling a Red Ryder wagon with a blanket over, and as you passed the neighborhood preschool the blanket got caught under the wheel and pulled off, thus revealing a small dragon’s hoard of horse cocks? “Oops! Sorry, kids. I was taking these to donate to Good Will! Oh, the silly embarassment!”
I don’t care if anyone doesn’t like me
That’s the spirit. Besides, this is the Internet. Nobody’s going to like you here. This is a land of negative energy. A realm blasted by hate, scoured of life and light and love by loathing. I know I damn sure don’t like you. Really, it’s that hat. It’s the ugliest fucking hat I’ve ever seen. And those shoes. And that face. And your wagon full of horse cocks.
Siren naked death love
Nympho nudie life luck!
How to destroy the Internet
No problem, reality terrorist. I have you covered. First you summon the Dread Mistress. Then she calls the Mad Blind Idiot God Transvestite. Then the Internet implodes upon itself. A vacuuming butthole sucking the body into itself. Whoompf. Internet? Totally farkin’ destroyed, yo.
Pretty shitty goat fists
That the name of your autobiography? Good for you. Your story must be told.
Is a dog sexy to a goat?
No. But the reverse is true. A goat can be sexy to a dog. We used to have this little poodle? Cindy Lou? And she’d hump everything. I mean, everything. I had this pillow as a young’un, and it was shaped like a cartoon car, and she’d go to town on that thing like a drunk dude humping a city bench. And she’d watch you as she did it. As if to say, “This could be you. This could be you.” So, I figure, a dog will love up a goat. A dog will love up a dead bluefin tuna you give it half a chance.
Okay. Ooookay. Listen, given the number of “turtle penis” searches I get here per day (between 5 and 25), I have to assume that’s what you’re looking for but are in fact just a god-fucked moron with a truly piss-poor spelling ability at your command. Unless, unless, this is some new race of mutant found in the Pine Barrens of New Jersey. They’re called Pinies, right? Now we must fear THE DREAD TURTAL PINIES. Oh noes! They’re coming for my treasure! And my anal virginity!
What is pterodactyl porn called?
I do not believe it yet has a name. And so we shall name it here, for names have power, and the giver of names are divine. We shall call it: PORNODACTYL.
Jurassic Park fanfiction rectal
Man, more with the dinosaur porn. You should see somebody. A professional. A professional suicide assistant, I mean. Do you really want to butt-bang a stegosaurus? Or, do you just want to read about somebody else making the aforementioned dinosaur “take it like a champ?” Really, the addition of the word “rectal” at the end of that search term is going to give me nightmares. It’s like someone asks you, “Hey, what do you want to see?” And you reply loudly, confidently, “Jurassic Park fanfiction!” And then when they turn away, you whisper to yourself, “Rectaaaaaal.” That’s some John Wayne Gacy shit.
By the way, all three Jurassic Park films were filmed in Kauai. We will be staying near that one tree where Sam Neil finds the dino eggs. I hope to be eaten by velociraptors! *giddy clap*
I don’t have a lot of great links. I feel like a failure.
Well, let’s make do.
First, the Internet is rewiring our brains. Good job, cat videos. Good job.
Second, how many Justin Biebers can you take in a fight? It told me I can take 23. Beat that.
Third, I think I already posted this, but eff it, it needs more love. Everything Tracy Jordan Says In Season Four Of 30 Rock. Seriously. It’s a giant list of insane non sequiturs. It’s fantabulous.
Fourth, hey, fuck you, BP, now you’re killing dolphins and turtles. Humans, we’re sort of fucked-up animals and probably need to be drowned in oil now and again. But dolphins and turtles? Man, you’re a dick. Oh, and you’re hiding the evidence, which is some sneaky Snidely Whiplash shit. Oh, and GOP, way to politicize this. And Obama, way to wanna drill. And BP, please explode and die. In an oil fire, appropriately enough.
Sixth, and finally, Doyce says, “Read this book.”