Category: Boblimptock

AS A HUNTER …

I can’t believe you “gun” people … your guns and your gun shows and your ammo reloading … fuck …

I’ll tell you what I do:

I strip down to my loin cloth, and hone a spear with my buck knife and my fire …

I cover myself in mule grease, and then sit out all night, whispering to the trees and moss … connecting with my wolf-self …

Then, at the appointed time, I chase down that hairy beast and consume its munkton-flesh while the moon glows, and the sun is nearly broke upon the horizon.

As a hunter …

I reach for the old style techniques, of monitoring poop flows and assessing the dayglo-sauce of deer-snakes and hester-monkeys …

I gave up on soft-style party living, and now my waters run clean from the mountainside to the prairie hovel … where my hooker bride waits, and my 12 kids hunt possum for dinner.

We wear barley armor and provide LIGHT in the dark woods …

We are true HUNTERS, looking for adventure. Sure, we take it easy when doing “Kentucky Style Love Making” on a Saturday night … but our hearts beat strong for those bong-doodles, and our women wear thongs while singing that song about twerking …

We hunt the grease, we feed on the meat barnacles.

We are hunters.

I started picking at the scar on my arm …

The one from when I broke it a year ago …

The surgical scar, where they taped my humerus back together with aviation tape and form-a-gasket and bondo …

I pick at it, and it bleeds, and I can see the metal wire, rusty, covered in fleas …

You would say “Dan, stop messing around”, but I heard a sound and moved fast. It couldn’t last, not the last of the JERG-WIZARDS, mixing elixirs and ancient pudding. And just like that the smoke cleared and I could see the bare bone and I groaned in pain as I shoved broken glass and wood chips in the wound.

I pulled on the broken plastic clamp holding the bone in place, and scratched at the remodeled bone with my rusty pocketknife …

It spoke, the bone, cursed flesh and marrow:

“The first of the KLUNGIT-ARMIES, being led by LORD JANGIS, is moving on S’compton … they just sacked Grinken Town.”

I’ll blame the SECTOR CHIEFS and the coyote herders.

I’ll take account of those DINGLE farmers, sharecropping the broken hearted no man’s land of BOBLIMPTOCK … Ungoobulating their women folk, greasing their boovulas.

And my bone is CHILLED MAX ICE …

And I pick at it for comfort.

You were right,
I was wrong,
when I stuck that 20,
in your thong.

I was right,
you were weird,
when you called your boovula,
a dirty beard.