General
01 Jul 09
01 Jul 09
Originally posted by Very RustyEverytime Canada Day rolls round, I think fondly back to the igloo I grew up in as a child. With the ice coming of the lake at the end of June and Dad getting ready to move us North on the seasonal trek to hunt the great Elk herds, I often savoured a bowl of beaver tail stew as Mom told us all about the great country to the South, MTV, pornography, Miami Vice, Las Vegas, and all the good things the Ol' Ragged Eagle had to offer. I remember think that the Americans actually kept pet bald eagles and, sometimes, during the darkest winters, as I gnawed on my moccasins, I wondered what bald eagle tasted like.
To all you Canucks out there!
Now, I live in Americuh and try not to think much about you sons of beaches freezing your asses of in the tundra.
01 Jul 09
Originally posted by Hand of HecateAlmost on cue, Knuckles. You're improving.
Everytime Canada Day rolls round, I think fondly back to the igloo I grew up in as a child. With the ice coming of the lake at the end of June and Dad getting ready to move us North on the seasonal trek to hunt the great Elk herds, I often savoured a bowl of beaver tail stew as Mom told us all about the great country to the South, MTV, pornography, M ...[text shortened]... ricuh and try not to think much about you sons of beaches freezing your asses of in the tundra.
Originally posted by Hand of HecateYou don't miss the days of being fit? Hunting with nothing but your speed, agility and hockey stick? Now you complacently and abjectly riddle your food with shells from an automatic rifle but all it's got you is a soggy-ass gut with a belly-button that farts when you finger it. I hope Tim Horton drives drunk into your grandmother, you race traitor.
Everytime Canada Day rolls round, I think fondly back to the igloo I grew up in as a child. With the ice coming of the lake at the end of June and Dad getting ready to move us North on the seasonal trek to hunt the great Elk herds, I often savoured a bowl of beaver tail stew as Mom told us all about the great country to the South, MTV, pornography, M ricuh and try not to think much about you sons of beaches freezing your asses of in the tundra.
02 Jul 09
1 edit
Originally posted by darvlaySometimes I yearn for the wind swept tundra. I vividly remember standing on a hillcock, clad in my loincloth, limbs outstretch, makeshift, hockey stick spear thrust in the air and howling like a wolf to the endless herd of caribou that spread out before me. The wild calls to me like a thing alive.
You don't miss the days of being fit? Hunting with nothing but your speed, agility and hockey stick? Now you complacently and abjectly riddle your food with shells from an automatic rifle but all it's got you is a soggy-ass gut with a belly-button that farts when you finger it. I hope Tim Horton drives drunk into your grandmother, you race traitor.
Still, there's also something very Lord of the Flies about rocketing through the woods on 4 wheelers and unloading on everything that moves with semi-automatic weapons. That KAPOW!, followed by the reassuring CHUNK! as another round is driven into the chamber is addictive. The insanity of "camping" out in the woods, generator humming in the background, the game playing on your portable TV, a metallic shifting as beer cans settle in the cooler, while you spotlight Racoons and shoot them out of trees around your camp with a .44 magnum revolver is distrubingly pleasing. It's not the hunt that has poetry, it's the insanity that accompanies it. The hunt itself, even the anticipation of the kill, the killing strike, pales in comparison to the absolute, refined essence of crazy that permeates the whole experience.
Insanity's the thing and I'm much, much closer to it here. Come on down one of these days and I'll hook you up with a little sample of it.
I'll expect Tim Horton to properly dispose of my Grandmother after he's dug her up and violated her with his truck. Plus, I've always thout Tim Horton's should be a drive through liquor store/daquiri shop (that's how we handle our shizit down South). Give your Grandmother a big kiss and crotch cupping for me you self righteous, slanty eyed SOB.