Why Does A Northeastern Yankee like Myself Hold Such A Strong Bond With The South?
- Thread starter philly rabbit
- Start date
philly rabbit
Verified User
What's this university liberal faggot talking about with his poetry?
Come on genesis .. it's in the blood.
What's the bond?
Professor .. think sex and take a stab at it.
RED LIP
Seventeen years later I sat down on a rock. It was under a
tree next to an old abandoned shack that had a sheriff's
notice nailed like a funeral wreath to the front door.
NO TRESPASSING
4/17 OF A HAIKU
Many rivers had flowed past those seventeen years, and
thousands of trout, and now beside the highway and the sheriff's
notice flowed yet another river, the Klamath, and I was
trying to get thirty-five miles downstream to Steelhead,
the place where I was staying.
It was all very simple. No one would stop and pick me up
even though I was carrying fishing tackle. People usually
stop and pick up a fisherman. I had to wait three hours for a
ride.
The sun was like a huge fifty-cent piece that someone had
poured kerosene on and then had lit with a match and said,
"Here, hold this while I go get a newspaper, " and put the
coin in my hand, but never came back.
I had walked for miles and miles until I came to the rock
under the tree and sat down. Every time a car would come
by, about once every ten minutes, I would get up and stick
out my thumb as if it were a bunch of bananas and then sit
back down on the rock again.
The old shack had a tin roof colored reddish by years of
wear, like a hat worn under the guillotine. A corner of the
roof was loose and a hot wind blew down the river and the
loose corner clanged in the wind.
A car went by. An old couple. The car almost swerved off
the road and into the river. I guess they didn't see many
hitchhikers up there. The car went around the corner
with both of them looking back at me.
I had nothing else to do, so I caught salmon flies in my
landing net. I made up my own game. It went like this: I
couldn't chase after them. I had to let them fly to me. It
was something to do with my mind. I caught six.
A little ways up from the shack was an outhouse with its
door flung violently open. The inside of the outhouse was
exposed like a human face and the outhouse seemed to say,
"The old guy who built me crapped in here 9,745 times and
he's dead now and I don't want anyone else to touch me. He
was a good guy. He built me with loving care. Leave me
alone. I'm a monument now to a good ass gone under. There's
no mystery here. That's why the door's open. If you have to
crap, go in the bushes like the deer. "
"Fuck you, " I said to the outhouse. "All I want is a ride
down the river. "
Seventeen years later I sat down on a rock. It was under a
tree next to an old abandoned shack that had a sheriff's
notice nailed like a funeral wreath to the front door.
NO TRESPASSING
4/17 OF A HAIKU
Many rivers had flowed past those seventeen years, and
thousands of trout, and now beside the highway and the sheriff's
notice flowed yet another river, the Klamath, and I was
trying to get thirty-five miles downstream to Steelhead,
the place where I was staying.
It was all very simple. No one would stop and pick me up
even though I was carrying fishing tackle. People usually
stop and pick up a fisherman. I had to wait three hours for a
ride.
The sun was like a huge fifty-cent piece that someone had
poured kerosene on and then had lit with a match and said,
"Here, hold this while I go get a newspaper, " and put the
coin in my hand, but never came back.
I had walked for miles and miles until I came to the rock
under the tree and sat down. Every time a car would come
by, about once every ten minutes, I would get up and stick
out my thumb as if it were a bunch of bananas and then sit
back down on the rock again.
The old shack had a tin roof colored reddish by years of
wear, like a hat worn under the guillotine. A corner of the
roof was loose and a hot wind blew down the river and the
loose corner clanged in the wind.
A car went by. An old couple. The car almost swerved off
the road and into the river. I guess they didn't see many
hitchhikers up there. The car went around the corner
with both of them looking back at me.
I had nothing else to do, so I caught salmon flies in my
landing net. I made up my own game. It went like this: I
couldn't chase after them. I had to let them fly to me. It
was something to do with my mind. I caught six.
A little ways up from the shack was an outhouse with its
door flung violently open. The inside of the outhouse was
exposed like a human face and the outhouse seemed to say,
"The old guy who built me crapped in here 9,745 times and
he's dead now and I don't want anyone else to touch me. He
was a good guy. He built me with loving care. Leave me
alone. I'm a monument now to a good ass gone under. There's
no mystery here. That's why the door's open. If you have to
crap, go in the bushes like the deer. "
"Fuck you, " I said to the outhouse. "All I want is a ride
down the river. "
philly rabbit
Verified User
How about if you move your little liberal faggot ass off my thread .. you disgrace to American manhood.
You're doing nothing but trolling and your little pals will meet you tonight on the same street corner as usual.
THE KOOL-AID WINO
When I was a child I had a friend who became a Kool-Aid
wino as the result of a rupture. He was a member of a very
large and poor German family. All the older children in the
family had to work in the fields during the summer, picking
beans for two-and-one-half cents a pound to keep the family
going. Everyone worked except my friend who couldn't
because he was ruptured. There was no money for an operation.
There wasn't even enough money to buy him a truss.
So he stayed home and became a Kool-Aid wino.
One morning in August I went over to his house. He was
still in bed. He looked up at me from underneath a tattered
revolution of old blankets. He had never slept under a sheet
in his life.
"Did you bring the nickel you promised?" he asked.
"Yeah, " I said. "It's here in my pocket. "
"Good. "
He hopped out of bed and he was already dressed. He had
told me once that he never took off his clothes when he went
to bed.
"Why bother?" he had said. "You're only going to get up,
anyway. Be prepared for it. You're not fooling anyone by
taking your clothes off when you go to bed."
He went into the kitchen, stepping around the littlest
children, whose wet diapers were in various stages of anarchy.
He made his breakfast: a slice of homemade bread covered
with Karo syrup and peanut butter.
"Let's go," he said.
We left the house with him still eating the sandwich. The
store was three blocks away, on the other side of a field
covered with heavy yellow grass. There were many pheasants
in the field. Fat with summer they barely flew away when we
came up to them.
"Hello, " said the grocer. He was bald with a red birthmark
on his head. The birthmark looked just like an old car
parked on his head. He automatically reached for a package
of grape Kool-Aid and put it on the counter.
"Five cents."
"He's got it, " my friend said.
I reached into my pocket and gave the nickel to the grocer. He
nodded and the old red car wobbled back and forth on the road
as if the driverwere having an epileptic seizure.
We left.
My friend led the way across the field. One of the pheasants didn't
even bother to fly. He ran across the field in front of us like a feathered
pig. When we got back to my friend's house the ceremony began. To him
the making of Kool-Aid was a romance and a ceremony. It had to be
performed in an exact manner and with dignity.
First he got a gallon jar and we went around to the side of the
house where the water spigot thrust itself out of the ground like the finger
of a saint, surrounded by a mud puddle.
He opened the Kool-Aid and dumped it into the jar. Putting the
jar under the spigot, he turned the water on. The water spit, splashed and
guzzled out of the spigot.
He was careful to see that the jar did not overflow and the precious
Kool-Aid spill out onto the ground. When the jar was full he turned the
water off with a sudden but delicate motion like a famous brain surgeon
removing a disordered portion of the imagination. Then he screwed the
lid tightly onto the top of the jar and gave it a good shake.
The first part of the ceremony was over.
Like the inspired priest of an exotic cult, he had performed the first part
of the ceremony well.
His mother came around the side of the house and said in a voice filled
with sand and string, "When are you going to do the dishes? . . . Huh?"
"Soon, " he said.
"Well, you better, " she said.
When she left. it was as if she had never been there at all. The second part
of the ceremony began with him carrying the jar Very carefully to an
abandoned chicken house in the back. "The dishes can wait, " he said
to me. Bertrand Russell could not have stated it better.
He opened the chicken house door and we went in. The place was littered
with half-rotten comic books. They were like fruit under a tree. In the
corner was an old mattress and beside the mattress were four quart jars.
He took the gallon jar over to them, and filled them carefully not spilling
a drop. He screwed their caps on tightly and was now ready for a day's
drinking.
You're supposed to make only two quarts of Kool-Aid from a package,
but he always made a gallon, so his Kool-Aid was a mere shadow of
its desired potency. And you're supposed to add a cup of sugar to every
package of Kool-Aid, but he never put any sugar in his Kool-Aid
because there wasn't any sugar to put in it.
He created his own Kool-Aid reality and was able to illuminate
himself by it.
When I was a child I had a friend who became a Kool-Aid
wino as the result of a rupture. He was a member of a very
large and poor German family. All the older children in the
family had to work in the fields during the summer, picking
beans for two-and-one-half cents a pound to keep the family
going. Everyone worked except my friend who couldn't
because he was ruptured. There was no money for an operation.
There wasn't even enough money to buy him a truss.
So he stayed home and became a Kool-Aid wino.
One morning in August I went over to his house. He was
still in bed. He looked up at me from underneath a tattered
revolution of old blankets. He had never slept under a sheet
in his life.
"Did you bring the nickel you promised?" he asked.
"Yeah, " I said. "It's here in my pocket. "
"Good. "
He hopped out of bed and he was already dressed. He had
told me once that he never took off his clothes when he went
to bed.
"Why bother?" he had said. "You're only going to get up,
anyway. Be prepared for it. You're not fooling anyone by
taking your clothes off when you go to bed."
He went into the kitchen, stepping around the littlest
children, whose wet diapers were in various stages of anarchy.
He made his breakfast: a slice of homemade bread covered
with Karo syrup and peanut butter.
"Let's go," he said.
We left the house with him still eating the sandwich. The
store was three blocks away, on the other side of a field
covered with heavy yellow grass. There were many pheasants
in the field. Fat with summer they barely flew away when we
came up to them.
"Hello, " said the grocer. He was bald with a red birthmark
on his head. The birthmark looked just like an old car
parked on his head. He automatically reached for a package
of grape Kool-Aid and put it on the counter.
"Five cents."
"He's got it, " my friend said.
I reached into my pocket and gave the nickel to the grocer. He
nodded and the old red car wobbled back and forth on the road
as if the driverwere having an epileptic seizure.
We left.
My friend led the way across the field. One of the pheasants didn't
even bother to fly. He ran across the field in front of us like a feathered
pig. When we got back to my friend's house the ceremony began. To him
the making of Kool-Aid was a romance and a ceremony. It had to be
performed in an exact manner and with dignity.
First he got a gallon jar and we went around to the side of the
house where the water spigot thrust itself out of the ground like the finger
of a saint, surrounded by a mud puddle.
He opened the Kool-Aid and dumped it into the jar. Putting the
jar under the spigot, he turned the water on. The water spit, splashed and
guzzled out of the spigot.
He was careful to see that the jar did not overflow and the precious
Kool-Aid spill out onto the ground. When the jar was full he turned the
water off with a sudden but delicate motion like a famous brain surgeon
removing a disordered portion of the imagination. Then he screwed the
lid tightly onto the top of the jar and gave it a good shake.
The first part of the ceremony was over.
Like the inspired priest of an exotic cult, he had performed the first part
of the ceremony well.
His mother came around the side of the house and said in a voice filled
with sand and string, "When are you going to do the dishes? . . . Huh?"
"Soon, " he said.
"Well, you better, " she said.
When she left. it was as if she had never been there at all. The second part
of the ceremony began with him carrying the jar Very carefully to an
abandoned chicken house in the back. "The dishes can wait, " he said
to me. Bertrand Russell could not have stated it better.
He opened the chicken house door and we went in. The place was littered
with half-rotten comic books. They were like fruit under a tree. In the
corner was an old mattress and beside the mattress were four quart jars.
He took the gallon jar over to them, and filled them carefully not spilling
a drop. He screwed their caps on tightly and was now ready for a day's
drinking.
You're supposed to make only two quarts of Kool-Aid from a package,
but he always made a gallon, so his Kool-Aid was a mere shadow of
its desired potency. And you're supposed to add a cup of sugar to every
package of Kool-Aid, but he never put any sugar in his Kool-Aid
because there wasn't any sugar to put in it.
He created his own Kool-Aid reality and was able to illuminate
himself by it.
philly rabbit
Verified User
I'm Scots Irish.
The southerners are my people .. my blood.
We're strong on the second amendment .. we'll fight you .. we're always there for the country's wars.
We detest the group think .. we reject the collectivist leader .. we're strongly independent.
Our moral background is Calvinist Christian.
The southerners are my people .. my blood.
We're strong on the second amendment .. we'll fight you .. we're always there for the country's wars.
We detest the group think .. we reject the collectivist leader .. we're strongly independent.
Our moral background is Calvinist Christian.
ANOTHER METHOD OF MAKING WALNUT CATSUP
And this is a very small cookbook for Trout Fishing in America
as if Trout Fishing in America were a rich gourmet and
Trout Fishing in America had Maria Callas for a girlfriend
and they ate together on a marble table with beautiful candles.
Compote of Apples
Take a dozen of golden pippins, pare them
nicely and take the core out with a small
penknife; put them into some water, and
let them be well scalded; then take a little
of the water with some sugar, and a few
apples which may be sliced into it, and
let the whole boil till it comes to a syrup;
then pour it over your pippins, and garnish
them with dried cherries and lemon-peel
cut fine. You must take care that your
pippins are not split.
And Maria Callas sang to Trout Fishing in America as
they ate their apples together.
A Standing Crust for Great Pies
Take a peck of flour and six pounds of butter
boiled in a gallon of water: skim it off into
the flour, and as little of the liquor as you
can. Work it up well into a paste, and then
pull it into pieces till it is cold. Then make
it up into what form you please.
And Trout Fishing in America smiled at Maria Callas as
they ate their pie crust together.
A Spoonful Pudding
Take a spoonful of flour, a spoonful of
cream or milk, an egg, a little nutmeg,
ginger, and salt. Mix all together, and
boil it in a little wooden dish half an hour.
If you think proper you may add a few
currants .
And Trout Fishing in America said, "The moon's coming
out." And Maria Callas said, "Yes, it is."
Another Method of Making Walnut Catsup
Take green walnuts before the shell is
formed, and grind them in a crab-mill,
or pound them in a marble mortar.
Squeeze out the juice through a coarse
cloth, and put to every gallon of juice
a pound of anchovies, and the same
quantity of bay-salt, four ounces of
Jamaica pepper, two of long and two of
black pepper; of mace, cloves, and
ginger, each an ounce, and a stick of
horseradish. Boil all together till
reduced to half the quantity, and then
put it into a pot. When it is cold, bottle
it close, and in three months it will be
fit for use.
And Trout Fishing in America and Maria Callas poured
walnut catsup on their hamburgers.
And this is a very small cookbook for Trout Fishing in America
as if Trout Fishing in America were a rich gourmet and
Trout Fishing in America had Maria Callas for a girlfriend
and they ate together on a marble table with beautiful candles.
Compote of Apples
Take a dozen of golden pippins, pare them
nicely and take the core out with a small
penknife; put them into some water, and
let them be well scalded; then take a little
of the water with some sugar, and a few
apples which may be sliced into it, and
let the whole boil till it comes to a syrup;
then pour it over your pippins, and garnish
them with dried cherries and lemon-peel
cut fine. You must take care that your
pippins are not split.
And Maria Callas sang to Trout Fishing in America as
they ate their apples together.
A Standing Crust for Great Pies
Take a peck of flour and six pounds of butter
boiled in a gallon of water: skim it off into
the flour, and as little of the liquor as you
can. Work it up well into a paste, and then
pull it into pieces till it is cold. Then make
it up into what form you please.
And Trout Fishing in America smiled at Maria Callas as
they ate their pie crust together.
A Spoonful Pudding
Take a spoonful of flour, a spoonful of
cream or milk, an egg, a little nutmeg,
ginger, and salt. Mix all together, and
boil it in a little wooden dish half an hour.
If you think proper you may add a few
currants .
And Trout Fishing in America said, "The moon's coming
out." And Maria Callas said, "Yes, it is."
Another Method of Making Walnut Catsup
Take green walnuts before the shell is
formed, and grind them in a crab-mill,
or pound them in a marble mortar.
Squeeze out the juice through a coarse
cloth, and put to every gallon of juice
a pound of anchovies, and the same
quantity of bay-salt, four ounces of
Jamaica pepper, two of long and two of
black pepper; of mace, cloves, and
ginger, each an ounce, and a stick of
horseradish. Boil all together till
reduced to half the quantity, and then
put it into a pot. When it is cold, bottle
it close, and in three months it will be
fit for use.
And Trout Fishing in America and Maria Callas poured
walnut catsup on their hamburgers.
Cancel 2016.11
Darla
Third cousin is okay isn't it?
philly rabbit
Verified User
And your mother (since we are now getting personal and including family members) stuck you in front of a computer and told it to learn you manners while she watched Oprah when she wasn't slinging her big fat ass around the mall and she also kept preaching to you that you were the most important little guy who was ever pro created and your communist professors at university picked up where she left off while your father .. if you have a father was chasing golf balls around the links.
So that's the basic difference between you .. a pathetic mutation of American male perversion who's completely in love with yourself and myself .. a proud Scots Irish patriot.
PROLOGUE TO GRIDER CREEK
Mooresville, Indiana, is the town that John Dillinger came
from, and the town has a John Dillinger Museum. You can
go in and look around.
Some towns are known as the peach capital of America or
the cherry capital or the oyster capital, and there's always
a festival and the photograph of a pretty girl in a bathing suit.
Mooresville, Indiana, is the John Dillinger capital of America.
Recently a man moved there with his wife, and he discovered
hundreds of rats in his basement. They were huge, slowmoving
child-eyed rats.
When his wife had to visit some of her relatives for a few
days, the man went out and bought a .38 revolver and a lot
of ammunition. Then he went down to the basement where
the rats were, and he started shooting them. It didn't bother
the rats at all. They acted as if it were a movie and started
eating their dead companions for popcorn.
The man walked over to a rat that was busy eating a friend
and placed the pistol against the rat's head. The rat did not
move and continued eating away. When the hammer clicked
back, the rat paused between bites and looked out of the corner
of its eye. First at the pistol and then at the man. It was a kind
of friendly look as if to say, "When my mother was young she
sang like Deanna Durbin. "
The man pulled the trigger.
He had no sense of humor.
There's always a single feature, a double feature and an
eternal feature playing at the Great Theater in Mooresville,
Indiana: the John Dillinger capital of America.
Mooresville, Indiana, is the town that John Dillinger came
from, and the town has a John Dillinger Museum. You can
go in and look around.
Some towns are known as the peach capital of America or
the cherry capital or the oyster capital, and there's always
a festival and the photograph of a pretty girl in a bathing suit.
Mooresville, Indiana, is the John Dillinger capital of America.
Recently a man moved there with his wife, and he discovered
hundreds of rats in his basement. They were huge, slowmoving
child-eyed rats.
When his wife had to visit some of her relatives for a few
days, the man went out and bought a .38 revolver and a lot
of ammunition. Then he went down to the basement where
the rats were, and he started shooting them. It didn't bother
the rats at all. They acted as if it were a movie and started
eating their dead companions for popcorn.
The man walked over to a rat that was busy eating a friend
and placed the pistol against the rat's head. The rat did not
move and continued eating away. When the hammer clicked
back, the rat paused between bites and looked out of the corner
of its eye. First at the pistol and then at the man. It was a kind
of friendly look as if to say, "When my mother was young she
sang like Deanna Durbin. "
The man pulled the trigger.
He had no sense of humor.
There's always a single feature, a double feature and an
eternal feature playing at the Great Theater in Mooresville,
Indiana: the John Dillinger capital of America.
Mott the Hoople
Sweet Jane
That you've probably never lived there.
philly rabbit
Verified User
Darla meanwhile keeps finding mementos from her mother around the house where she grew up like love beads and roach clips and earth colored clothing and Jimmi Hendrix faded 8X 10's and Joan biaz photo ops.
She also has a shot of Jane Fonda sitting on a North Vietnamese anti aircraft gun personally autographed by Janey to mommy.
philly rabbit
Verified User
I already said that.
Cancel 2016.11
Darla
philly rabbit
Verified User
I just sent you a pm about this trolling .. you little twit.
Re: Why Does A Northeastern Yankee like Myself Such A Strong Bond With The South?
Is compulsory education your excuse for that incoherent sentence?
Is compulsory education your excuse for that incoherent sentence?
GRIDER CREEK
I had heard there was some good fishing in there and it was
running clear while all the other large creeks were running
muddy from the snow melting off the Marble Mountains.
I also heard there were some Eastern brook trout in there,
high up in the mountains, living in the wakes of beaver darns.
The guy who drove the school bus drew a map of Grider
Creek, showing where the good fishing was. We were standing
in front of Steelhead Lodge when he drew the map. It was
a very hot day. I'd imagine it was a hundred degrees.
You had to have a car to get to Grider Creek where the
good fishing was, and I didn't have a car. The map was nice,
though. Drawn with a heavy dull pencil on a piece of paper
bag. With a little square for a sawmill.
I had heard there was some good fishing in there and it was
running clear while all the other large creeks were running
muddy from the snow melting off the Marble Mountains.
I also heard there were some Eastern brook trout in there,
high up in the mountains, living in the wakes of beaver darns.
The guy who drove the school bus drew a map of Grider
Creek, showing where the good fishing was. We were standing
in front of Steelhead Lodge when he drew the map. It was
a very hot day. I'd imagine it was a hundred degrees.
You had to have a car to get to Grider Creek where the
good fishing was, and I didn't have a car. The map was nice,
though. Drawn with a heavy dull pencil on a piece of paper
bag. With a little square for a sawmill.
Socrtease
Verified User
Actually, when it comes to birth defects and such, 2d cousin is okay. First cousin but only if'n she's really hot.