Piggies: a rambling, folksy-type vignette

At sundown, the swineherds ambled good-naturedly from the muddy corrall to the abbattoir where the undocumented migrant workers would slaughter them by night. Randy bull-pigs, great lethargic sows and tender young piglets created a disjointed chorus of grunts, belches and snorting noises, accented by the reliable thump of the herder's lead pipe and the gasping shriek that would follow—indeed, a shriek of the sort only pigs can truly deliver. You know how it is with pigs; such stupid and feces-ridden creatures, yet so full of life and character, and probably the best of all the lower animals at a howlingly funny theatrical-type reaction.

So as they descended the formidable hill that overlooked the slaughterhouse, I mounted the hilltop and tossed after them a one-gallon gasoline can. The rusty metal container clattered happily down into their midst trailing a heavily volatile mixture of diesel fuel and rubbing alcohol in the opulent mat of drying leaves (this was November, you see, just about killing time for the Christmas hams and chops), and of course the pigs knew no better than to grunt in mild irritation and canter around the death-heavy vessel. Ah, the droll rhythym of metal mingled with the crunching of the leaves. After one final drag on one of the Black & Milds I'd stolen from Daddy's coat pocket, I flicked it out and down the hill, transfixed with the potential of the coming conflagration.

I like 'em toasty, God-damn you.

Ode to Tom Ridge

I will miss his square-shaped head, stumpy neck and beady eyes. So I say, in my best Sling Blade voice, "Tom Ridge!" Not that he actually sounds like that, but it somehow seems appropriate. "Tom Ridge! French-fried pataters! Mmm-hmm..." Say it to yourself and it'll make sense. I promise.

According to The Associated Press, he presided over six national "orange alerts," which indicated there was a high risk of terrorist attacks.

Presided over them? C'mon, he made that shit up. No need for fancy words, really. More accurate to say he declared the alerts.

The start to a great English paper

(With special thanks to Andy)

Piers the Plowman works a sixteen-hour shift in the Shropshire fields, goes home to his thatched leaves-and-manure hut and eats a bowl of bland, malnourishing porridge.

Such is life in the Shropshire Ghetto.

Piers, 35, is just one of many impoverished farmers here who are incessantly victimized by corrupt friars, lords, vassals and, um, loan sharks and pyramid schemes....

And so on and so on.

It's 1:45 a.m. Central Time and Santi has inadvertantly motivated me to start this thing up. It previously existed at this location, but it got to feeling sort of shabby. In fact, I was doing a shit job of it in the first place. So I moved up to a new, more convenient joint, like the filthy American crustacean-like creature that I am.

Let us start with a roundup of Thanksgiving weekend.

Sideways, judging from the trailer, threatened to be far too damn cute for my tastes. All that wine goofiness and whatnot. However! it is fantastic. The humor is adequately disturbing, and the serious moments make their marks without dragging too much. Gratuitous flabby male nudity, car sabotage, golfing fights—all these are fine things.

Bubba Ho-tep, now in video release, is quite clever. Bruce Campbell as a decaying Elvis investigating a supernatural presence in his West Texas rest home—that is an idea with potential. But to me, Campbell will always be Ash (housewares).

Saturday Looks Good To Me ripped the shit out of Will's Pub in Orlando Friday night. Retro but not twee. Multi-instrumental but not clumsy. Any band that can sound that good in such a dive is awesome.