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Category: wildmen

I Just Woke Up From A Long Lunch I Had At Christmas, And Thought I Should Post This

I Just Woke Up From A Long Lunch I Had At Christmas, And Thought I Should Post This


There are these people I read about daily on the Intertunnel. They’re preparing for the apocalypse.

They’re hoarding ammo, of course. Stacks and sacks of MREs in vaults in their bunkers. If you’re not hip to military lingo, MRE stands for Meals Ready to Eat, or more informally, Meals Refused by Ethiopians. Anyway, they’ve got bat caves and safe rooms, generators and survival equipment for every eventuality.  They’re ready for a zombie horde.

If I was a betting man, though, and the apocalypse came, and I had to choose who’d survive the longest between the most Omega Man that ever prepped, hunkered in his bunker with stores galore, and this Finnish dude put out in the middle of a frozen lake in nothing but a loin cloth with nothing but a quart of aquavit, I know which way I’d bet. I’d give you odds, too, because it wouldn’t even be close.

(Thanks to Gerard at American Digest for sending that one along when he awoke from his wassails)

Now Listen, Moosie

Now Listen, Moosie

I wasn’t put on this earth to cringe and run away. There’s a girl with me. I’m a male human. I’ll do most anything to impress a female human. You were put on this earth to carry ticks from one place to another and trim God’s lawn. Man was put on this earth to dig in the ground and find ore and smelt it into an iron rod and wave that thing around at man and beast alike while making LOUD NOISES. I said, LOUD NOISES. Fear my noises. They’re noisy.

Now go home and get your big brother and your shinebox.

Dear Savior, What A Fargin Loon

Dear Savior, What A Fargin Loon

I was half expecting him to say he goes home to Starla every evening.

There’s something about a fellow volunteering to be a human crash test dummy without the crash I find appealing, of course. Check the masthead. And damn if he can’t stab trees near to death, or at least the slow-moving ones. But I have a sneaking suspicion that his suit is of no use in research into grizzly bear behavior, because they must see this guy coming and whisper whoo boy, what a fargin’ loon under their salmon-flavored breath, and pretend they hear their mother calling them and shamble off, before they catch the crazy from him.

That’s before they even get a glimpse of his interplanetary, extraordinary, weapons-grade mullet and porn stache. Nothing could withstand the hirsute firepower he brings.

(Thanks to Gerard at American Digest for bodyslamming that into my inbox)