Anthropology: The Answer's Poison

Chapter 17 (1st part) of 25 -- Head Hunters of the Amazon

The Antipas

A short digression on the head-hunters and their mode of life will not be out of place, Up de Graff avers, and naturally in relation to the table I'm belly-up, "Tell me more, O great explorer..." That's no joke, he's a great explorer as far as I'm concerned. I'm here in the Big City with manageable challenges and plenty of police to help if there's something I need. Although I phoned in an abandoned car with a flat tire the other day and it took three notifications and something more than a week for them to get around to it. It was there only three weeks.

But today we're focused on the head-hunters, a living example of Stone Age Man, Up de Graff calls them. They lived apart at the time not because they were introverts or shy but because the terrain was more or less inaccessible. There was plenty of land, a good climate, lots of animals and vegetables, woods and rivers. It just happened to be missing the usual beaten paths. There were missionaries, sure, but at that time there had very little to show for their interference. 

The Antipas are semi-nomadic. The year is divided into three parts, not based on the seasons, but to the capacity of the crops they planted to stay alive. So they went back and forth in relation to sowing and harvest. Yuca takes six months to grow and ripen, Indian corn three months, and yams yearly. Sweet potatoes, peanuts, and tobacco are also cultivated in large quantities. Makes my weekly trip to Walmart sound pathetic, although it's also pathetic apart from comparisons.

Up de Graff sketches how their houses were made, how they were situated, etc., which is way too much to summarize. I'll just assume that's where the folks lived when they were at home, and that little Johnny and Susie had their own room, the walls with posters of the latest South American teen idols, and the Mrs. with a little semi-attached garden foyer like Morticia Addams complete with plants that ate meat, tapir, hedgehog, and anything not too bony. They might take your hand, which would be awful. You'd need a witch-doctor for a quick hand job to get you back to normal. 

Our author went with the Antipas one day to see how they fished. They went to a small stream a couple miles from their settlement. The women cut down barbasco wood along the way, a vine whose sap is deadly poison. Arrived at the water, they looked for a good pool. The barbasco was beaten between heavy stones and thrown into the pool. Within a minute or two the fish came floating to the surface and swam aimlessly. You can guess how easy it was to catch them. Up de Graff says that's the only method of catching fish they know except netting! Hmm, it's interesting, even I know more about fishing than an entire tribe of people!

It looks like the Antipas also kill monkeys with poison, so I don't know, they sound completely lazy. But how about this, Jivaro women also used the same barbasco poison when they committed suicide (p. 216)!

Gelatinous Mass, Happy To See Me

 

Chapter 15 (2nd part) of 25 -- Head Hunters of the Amazon

The Pongo Menseriche

The explorers were on their way back to meet the rest of the team. The water was swift and they made good time. By Up de Graff's watch it was only an hour and a half to get there. They found all was well on Mitaya Isla. Their three fellow explorers had benefited by a good rest. I'll probably take a nap myself after finishing this. I woke up last night at midnight realizing that yesterday's (July 17) "Head Hunters" blog wasn't yet written! So I had to climb out of bed and suffer the slow waking up of my laptop to get it done. And in the middle of the night I don't know Pongo Menseriche from Peter Piper Picked a Peck. But through drowsy eyes and the current heatwave got the bastard done...

Up de Graff remembers the few days there chiefly by having lost his pants. (For the graphic I put pants on him, to stay on the right side of the Blue Laws of decency now or in the future.) He ran up against a tiger armed only with a half-barreled double-barreled shotgun. (It was originally a double-barreled shotgun but down to half barrel since the other one and a half had been blown off another time.) How he lost his pants was this: He was swimming the river with the half-barrel double-barreled gun, looking for turkeys which were settled in the trees. But the tiger was only 15 yards away. The tiger looked at him and slunk off. And his pants must've slunk off too.

Morse later found Up de Graff's "damned old pants" stuck in the mud, and filled them with turtle eggs, probably the less said about that the better. Could've been, "Is that turtle eggs in your pants or are you just happy to see me?" It'd be interesting in a slow dance with Sally Ann back at in high school. She feels the bulge, not hard, not even a consistent clump, but fairly gelatinous and diverse, but so as not to embarrass me thinks, "He's got a package all right, most likely jello and carrots, either that or nasty old turtle eggs..."

They continued on several trips as two parties during August 1899. About this time they started having some difficulties again with food. Up de Graff saw his hardtack barrel about empty. The last few biscuits had "whiskers" on them, which I think means mold, about two inches in length. Finally they all arrived, both parties, at Borja and were ready to attack the Pongo Menseriche. They erected a permanent camp on an acre of land. They planted Indian corn and yuca. There were no signs "as yet" of headhunters. If someone tells me the headhunters aren't here "yet," I'm concerned. I honestly don't think I'd look great with a detached shrunken head and fake beard a foot below my chin. But you know how it is, we're always our own worst critic.

Ed, Game, and Up de Graff explored the Pongo in the small canoe. Whirlpools and eddies were such that the craft was tossed like a feather, but it was spared destruction by its lightness. The main current of the Pongo initially is indistinguishable, looking like it's going upstream as well as downstream. There's a mighty gorge estimated about 1,000 feet high. Maneuvering corners is hard, with the currents in the center going strongly downstream. But currents on the sides go upstream by a backwash from the main stream's pressure against the ravine's walls. Then whirlpools. In such a kaleidoscope of motion, the lighter the craft, the easier the passage. I would've had to pee, which also would've passed easily.

Rum, Guns, Anarchism

Chapter 14 of 25 -- Head Hunters of the Amazon

Borja

Up de Graff's expedition had use of the steamer to go up-stream as far as the steamer would go. So on they steamed, being the first steamboat in a long time to navigate the Marañon above that particular station. But only two days of hunting and lounging on the deck brought them to the highest point the craft could manage, where they necessarily stopped.

While halted and cutting fuel, Up de Graff had his first disillusionment as to the prowess of Ambusha the cook. He took Ambusha into the woods to look for game, but the latter was so incompetent at reading or making trails and keeping track of his location that in no time he would've been forever lost. For example, he looked at a well-used trail of tapirs and discerned it as having been traversed by "a war-party of Indians with women." To us that'd be like mistaking a cowpath for the interstate highway!

One other night after the steamer had returned downstream, Up de Graff's hunting resulted in four monkeys roasted for supper. They made a paste of the brains which along with hardtack made delicious sandwiches resembling paté de foie gras. Speaking of delicious animals, Jack later bagged a snow-white alligator measuring about five feet and prepared it for supper. They even had leftovers from that particular meal, all white meat of course. But we have a little bad news too, that they lost two dogs that jumped overboard and disappeared into the forest, most likely to be killed by tigers.

A little more of the Ambusha follies was in the offing. Ambusha always remained near the camp, never missing a chance to drink his fill of the rum. Up de Graff noted in his journal, "When he is not occupied with cleaning his rifle, he is busy reading up anarchism." They came to the unanimous decision to relieve Ambusha of cooking duties. Rum, guns, anarchism. They believed he was more proficient at mixing poisons than cooking, so he could be a danger to everyone.

Having broken camp one morning and stowing their stuff in the canoes, one of the guys caught sight of a tapir swimming. Jack had a gun ready, and being a crack shot, raced off and shot it, with everyone going to drag it to the river. Estimated at 600 pounds, it was of course tough to drag, but once in the water Up de Graff got astride it with a paddle and floated it down to camp. They cut it up for meat and cured it in the smoke of the fire, judging the feet and snout of the thing as being the greatest delicacies. You can still get pickled pig's feet, but as far as tapir goes, I haven't seen any in a while.

Another day as they pushed upstream they came to Borja, where a colony (est. population 100) once was. In the years since then it was overgrown and obscure. But it was still recognizable by gigantic limestone boulders, with the place being notable for its closeness to the mouth of the Pongo Menseriche, a gorge through which the Marañon River runs [Wikipedia].

Day After Day, Misery

 

Chapter 7 (2nd part) of 25 -- Head Hunters of the Amazon

Hunger

Of course yesterday they found the canoe, but if you yourself would like to test your jungle sleuthing skills and see how hard it was, I challenge you to traverse the intricacies of the forest maze above. It's not as hard as it looks.

But something seemed hopeless, the outlook Jack and Up de Graff had after the canoe tipped. They had no hope of recovering a single thing from the deep muddy stream. The things that floated were miles away. The rifles and provisions were embedded in the silt under very deep, swift moving water. Had they tried to dive for things, the muddy current would have been too strong. It's hard for me writing the blog today to come up with funny stuff. I have a feeling this is going to be brutal.

Their immediate problem was food. They decided their only hope was to pick a trail and get going on foot. So, barefoot, no hats, only pants and cotton shirts, blankets, machetes, and a bottle of molasses to their name, they set off. Thorns gave them a lot of trouble. Then it was ceaseless rain. The ground was swampy. They slept on a more or less clear patch of ground, but woke up itching. OK, not too tough, thorns, rain, swampy, itching. OK, yes, it's tough.

On the second day of the march they swam across a swift stream twice, losing their blankets. Their feet were nearly numb from the thorns, it was nearly as bad as you can imagine. A little later they swam the stream a third time and found their own machete marks from before. They'd gone in a complete circle. It's that deja vu feeling all over. My own sense of direction's getting bad too. Where I live, to me south doesn't feel like south, and north feels east but I know 100% that it's north. This is true.

Jack joked, "If you'd only told me you were coming back for another dip, I'd have waited for you." OK, back to the suffering: On the third day, the pangs of hunger left them, but they knew they'd only get weaker if they didn't eat. They tried something from the top of a palm tree, looking like celery. But they couldn't keep it down, being nauseated. Awaking on the fourth morning, their scratches were infected, causing a maddening irritation, breaking out like ring-worms. The third day, the fourth day, everything's getting worse. Probably should've bargained with the Yumbos not to run out on them, had they only known.

They struggled ahead, Jack finally killing a turkey with a machete. But they couldn't eat it for sickness. The fifth morning they woke up in a puddle. Trying to go on, Up de Graff sank to the ground. But Jack went on, then came back excited, shouting, "Get up, for God's sake, man; I've found a trail -- as big as Broadway!" I'm not peeking ahead. I hope his news is as good as it sounds!

The Cordovez Brood

Chapter 2 of 25 -- Head Hunters of The Amazon

A Land of Opportunity

Recall, Up de Graff went to Ecuador on the invitation of a friend from college days and fraternity. Being a guy who loved outdoor living, Up de Graff went hunting. This wasn’t just squirrels or rabbits like I used to hunt, but monkeys, turkeys, wild pigs, parrots, deer and jaguars. He remembered how hunting monkeys (baboons) really excited his enthusiasm. But it was the taste of them that stood out so clearly in his memory, saying, “The gastronomical possibilities of a baboon probably occur to only a very few of the millions who gaze at him through iron bars.” I'm not able to disagree.

Beyond that, he met the rest of the Cordovez family, including a brother most famous for the picturesque cursing of the peons. Which, though I disapprove, it'd still be nice to have a sample, maybe extending to a minute. “You worthless shiftless son of a bitch, I’m cutting you off from rum at the fiesta! You can die of thirst for all I care!”

But it was the father of the clan whom Up de Graff ranked the most egregiously worst of the bunch, and this goes along with modern sensibilities of fairness, honesty, and respect. Meaning, I may as well brag, I am personally more refined than the average Cordovez (of that particular group, now dead). Few of us are as wealthy as they were, but their riches seem to have been amassed in large part via hook or crook.

I’ll try to tamp down my righteous anger and stick the bottle of vitriol back in the cupboard and remain as dispassionate as a person of my sensitive sensibilities can reasonably be expected to muster or attain.

Further, Up de Graff says the Cordovez menage at Riobamba included, in addition to the terrible old man himself and his sons, his wife who kept house. The old man was generally unkempt, having little use for soap and seldom changing his clothes. But my qualms with the old man — it’s something of a simmering rage, threatening to boil over any minute — has to do with his abominable treatment of others. Which Up de Graff also had a hand in, to the extent he could stand it, when he finally quit.

Old Man Cordovez sent him to Salinas. Which is an interesting place for its elevation and views all around. North of there are mountains that rise over 22,000 feet above sea level. Making the average everyday mountain look like a pimple. On a good day, when the sun’s just right, other mountains have to pack it in in frustration.

The main sins of the Cordovez family and the old man in particular have to do with him not paying his workers, and additionally always scheming to keep them in servitude by being indebted to him. I thought I had a bad boss or two, but this guy was scheming people into perpetual slavery. And I have a hard time overlooking that, no matter how pretty the mountains are.

Not Afraid Of Grizzly Bears

 

No. 25 of 30 -- Speaking Ill of The Dead

I haven’t figured out yet what happened, the system of “more-enlightened” times. With hunting completely out. And gigantic elephants, tiger, lions, all the way down to the smallest things, rabbits, squirrels, and even rodents completely running amok. I remember, not very long ago, when a man could “put food on the table” by his own stealth. Sitting in a tree waiting for a deer. Seeing a rabbit in the ditch and hoping it didn't move till you got your .410 shotgun assembled.

But life is full of contradictions, so in the abundance of animals going to waste we continue raising and slaughtering others. Even though scientific people who don’t weigh as much as the rest of us — when they pick their teeth it’s always bio-engineered scraps— tell us meat is not only unnecessary but actually harmful. Say what you want about animals, as mean as they are, they make up for it by being delicious.

Anyway, it’s obvious true to a point that there’s danger in everything. And yes, we’re all going to bite the dust someday. If it comes from a lifetime of eating, what’s the beef? We’re hungry, of course we’re going to eat. Death is a fact of life period. Nothing to be denied, of course, but nothing to be so afraid of. I get lessons from friends passing. Whatever they died of, I avoid that for a week or so. If they had an unpleasant pallor, I use rouge. (I’m not a female impersonator all the time, I just like to look alive.) And if it’s someone close, I cry like a banshee. Until the pastor steps in, touches my wrist and says, “He’s in a better place.”

Still, friends don’t like friends to die. But we’re not beyond challenging each other. “If you’re a man, do such and such," take this challenge, live your life on the edge, and prove you’re tough enough to go the distance. When we were kids, though, that was the worst thing, being a wimp. It's illustrated there, the whole gamut of childish behavior. Feeling like you can do anything. You actually can, almost, if you get lucky. But when you grow up you realize, just because Superman jumps off buildings and is OK, there’s no guarantee you can. If there's doubt, the default assumption has to be, You can’t.

So they ask the kid, "You wouldn't be afraid to hunt grizzly bears with a club?" No. But if I kill one, that means I have to take on at least one more. Then the second grizzly swipes a big paw out and takes the kid's head off. That kid was stupid. Don't do it. And now that you've done it and died, don't do it again. There's nothing you can do about him. Dumb kid, real stupid. But pretty good skills, if you as a kid could actually kill the first grizzly. That's something to talk about, big praise.

As for the rest of the kids, his funeral meant a day off from school. So there was something worthwhile about it for everyone.

Best Therapy In The World

No. 10 of 30 -- Psycho Squad

Among the great goals of the Psycho Squad is -- raising my right hand and lifting my eyes to heaven -- "To restore precious equilibrium to those unfortunate souls who have had something go wrong with them, be it a short-circuiting, a mainframe failure, the need to mentally update to the latest OS, or trying to compute with punched paper tape in a gigabyte world." It's a huge vow, because think of the tape in those circumstances shredding and catching fire trying to keep up. That's something we hate to risk.

I know, friends, sometimes I come across Machiavellian [an apparent bastard] in the way I describe the things of the Psycho Squad — because, face it, with my level of experience, there’s a certain hardening and even resentment that appears when you can’t just cure everyone and get a decent vacation. But to be completely honest without tooting my own horn, I’m the most compassionate guy in the business. I’ve been told that by some of the patients themselves, the good ones. Because there’s some real dummies who have the wrong idea about me and aren’t afraid to say so, lots of blubbering and one syllable words, most starting with F. Not everyone can be cured, that’s the lesson...

Do I ever finger angrily in their general direction? I'm not going to say I do and I'm not going to say I don't. One guy said he saw me and even phoned it in. But I could've been pointing at a UFO for all he knew. And I could stop anytime I want. UFOs are rare. I'm not that invested in it. I could show the whole lot of them where to get off anytime I want. Or tell them off to their face even with their own grandmother standing there!

Remember, it wasn’t my idea for people to have these mental problems. I just piggybacked on an existing problem that needed workers. And since my dad worked in the Psycho Squad, it was a natural path for me. In fact he’s the one who taught me the great compassion I have. He kept it real. I’ll try to tell you while keeping the blood and gore down to a minimum. He demonstrated it with rabbits. Because we used to do a lot of rabbit hunting and I had to learn the whole gruesome process. Which, on second thought, I better not describe or I won’t have any readers at all… Let's just say that -- blood or no blood -- a certain amount of compassion is good.

And let’s also say I was brought up in a compassionate environment. He lived by those values and that’s the way I operate today. Other guys see our patients and potential patients — if you see a cross-eyed guy staggering down the street you'll also see him later in our ambulance — as just more money, money, money. But I see humanity in a pickle and me as a helper, and the money, money, money comes later. Which I can then righteously frolic in and toss in the air.

It’s charming — looking at the graphic — what little kids can see when they look at the clouds. Some of the things are easy to imagine. I mentioned rabbits. I can see rabbits in the clouds nearly everyday. Because they’re fluffy and their ears might be straight up, at an angle, or tucked back. The key thing in the clouds is nothing bad's happened to them yet. They're fluffed out, healthy as a horse.

But you can see other things, depending on where your head is: If you see the innocent things kids see, you’ll live long and prosper. But if you see guns, knives, grenades, bags of loot, and other nasties, the Psycho Squad will be seeing you very soon. “Hands behind your back, please, this is a plastic tie. It will not hurt you unless you struggle unnecessarily. We are here to help. Please give up and relax, sir, and this will be much easier for you. You’ll be out before you know it, within the next few months if you're lucky. Remember, we passed the quiz, we are certified, we are your friends."

Groundhog Day -- The Big Hunt

In case you've been wondering where I am, I'm back! It's just now early afternoon here, Feb. 2, Groundhog Day. And I've been out doing what you do on G.D., which is groundhog hunting. It's a big thing here. My family and I have been blasting groundhogs for many years ... and (not to get too morose after such a joyous day) I'm probably the end of the line for this side of the Slump family. After me ... who knows?

Anyway, it's still a lot of fun -- no doubt bringing joy to my ancestors in Heaven -- if you can stand the hours and the cold, which of course I can. I went to bed way early and was up in plenty of time to stake out the holes. Me and some other guys from town. It's on a parcel of ground my aunt owns south of town, a hill we actually call Groundhog Hill. We've been calling it that since 1965, when my aunt and uncle (he's now dead) and cousins moved there. Groundhogs were swarming it then as now...

Just a sidebar to that: The groundhogs were thinned almost to nothing around 1968, thanks to the relentless hunting one of my cousins did back then. Except for a few, I guess, burrowed deep in the bowels of the earth, there wasn't a living thing on that property, nothing but us. Birds rerouted all flights, it was that bad. It wasn't till my cousin married and moved that wildlife made tentative forays back. It looks now like the natural balance is restored. But we still love to get the groundhogs on this Day of Days!

OK, so there we were, way before dark, enduring the darkness and cold. My fingers were getting cold even through my gloves. There was one dramatic moment when I had to take my gloves off and simply blow hot breath on them. I mention that not so much to be bragging of my resourcefulness -- how would I know it'd even work? -- but to pay tribute to my dedication to the annual hunt. Few are more dedicated than I, and of course I pay tribute to the others as well...

Now, when do groundhogs come out? As you may guess, they wait till the crack of dawn. The sun rises literally just inches over the horizon and the first few come out. We let them sit a while and get secure. Then a few more come out, a little better. It's right at the end, then, that the fattest old grandpa pops out. He's more suspicious, sniffing the air for hunters. But being older and apparently having lost the power of smell, he doesn't notice us till it's too late. POW POW POW CRICH POW, that CRICH being one guy's gun jamming.

Picture the scene: Old grandpa, the fattest one is blasted back, eight feet from the hole. Even if he might hope to fall back in the hole and die in dignity, it's too far now. The others are massacred. Only one made it back in, so it was nice that we gave them a sporting chance. We were very happy! The only guy pissed off was the CRICH guy, one of my cousin Roto's grandsons.

I got a big whiff of the gunpowder smell, instantly taking me back to the glory days of my childhood, watching my own grandpa chuckling over a victorious hunt. What memories! I only wish I wasn't the end of the line. I should've married and had kids, if for no other reason than to keep our Groundhog Day traditions alive.

Now Hiring Groomer

You know what is one of the toughest jobs to get someone for? Maybe you'd think it'd have to be ambulance driver, triage nurse, or mortician, something that involves the depths of human pain and suffering. Because who in their right mind, besides Mike Rowe, would want to do those jobs? Someone who's simply in it for the money, that's who! So, no, the toughest job to get someone for is none of those. It's actually ... dog groomer.

There's a dog washing business over on the other side of town that I sometimes drive by. And I've noticed, ever since I first saw the place a few years ago, that they have constantly had a sign in their window advertising for a dog groomer. I can only imagine what the problems are, but I'm sure my imagination isn't too far off the beam. And no doubt you know this for yourself. Because you don't have to think about it for even a second: You'd never want to be a dog groomer!

I have my own dog -- Underbrush -- and sometimes I have to groom her. I make the attempt. It's a thankless task, believe me. She has a dog's brain and doesn't understand that I'm trying to do something good for her, undo some of her tangles, the matting, and get out burrs and things. I named her Underbrush for a reason. It's like a thicket in there. For all I know, there's a hidden treasure in there somewhere, which no one will ever find. I've broken the heads off more than one shaver, and I've never once seen skin.

So if the problems you have with your own dog are legion, imagine for a second how terrible it'd be to handle someone else's dog. Dogs are a suspicious animal. They don't like strange hands near them. They're ever on their guard, looking to reach around and bite you off at the wrist. I've heard that the better dog washing businesses try to do their work in a holistic, respectful way, never putting a muzzle on the animal, but always trying to reason with it, or treat it so respectfully that it'll get the positive message and settle down. Fat chance, of course, which is why the muzzle's never too far from reach.

But the owner is standing there, watching his "little baby," in actuality a man-eater, and the groomer want-to-be has to use kid gloves, and baby the silly beast along as best as he can. Before they can get the muzzle, the owner, on average, has to witness four close calls, then they consent. Right there's a mark against the groomer trade, because it should be at least three strikes you're out. No one wants to put up with that. Four times the dog will get lucky.

Then the dog has usually been let go until it's too late to do any good. Because people are poor, their first instinct isn't to waste their money on dog grooming. It's only when they've thrown their hands up for the hundredth time, and given up, that they resort to the dog groomer. So our dog groomer -- this sad sack -- is sitting there and sees the dog come in, looking like an overgrown shrub with or without eyes. It's a thicket, like a giant sticker bush. In the amount of time they can allot to each dog and still make a profit, they can't make it. They'll be working forever, making the dog's owner grouchier. So if they think they're going to make back lost money on tips, they can forget it.

Probably the key thing we're up against here is that a dog is part of nature, like a grizzly bear. It was never meant to be babied and groomed. It was meant to live its life in the wild, and if its grooming became life-threatening, it simply died. Man has actually overcome a lot of the things of a dog's nature -- all the breeds of dogs we have, etc. -- but there's one thing you can't overcome, that grooming is foreign to their nature. Underbrush loves me to death, but she stares daggers if she sees the shaver...

Honestly, the best way to groom a dog is to leave it alone. I went hunting with a guy whose dog came out of the trees with a skunk in its jaws. That dog stunk something fierce. But do you think we could legitimately take it to a dog groomer to get cleaned? That'd be a farce. They can't find a dog groomer, for one; the sign says so. And even if they could, a dog with a skunk is going to fail the entrance exam.

The only way to groom that dog was to leave it there. My friend put his coat in the ditch, so the dog would have a reference point. Then we left. Three days later he went back. By now the dog had found a pond somewhere and bathed. Then he had rolled in the grass of a thousand fields -- we saw the burn-over left by the skunk fumes to prove it -- then he returned to the coat. He was good as new. No groomer would do all that!

Pure Cussedness

I'm meditating today on pure cussedness, the living of life with jagged edges and weird angularities. God dammit! Sweet acidophilus! Pro shiatsu! Shitfire!

Ha ha, were ya expecting a few F bombs? I got em on board, and I probably won't but I could strafe the landscape with em. Most of my followers are women. But it's hard to picture a life of pure cussedness without em.

Whether cussing and cussedness are actually related, I don't know. Why don't you Google it, get the usual million hits, and shove it-- I mean, file it -- where the sun don't shine?! Am I really supposed to care? I'm cussed enough tonight not to.

Pure cussedness means never having to say you care. It's too busy kickassing its way through life and the day. Look at Popeye. He's got about 40 cans of spinach flattened under his shirt, so he's half metal. Anyone  hits him, his chest puffs out like a battleship and he wins again!

Have I ever had my moments of doubt on pure cussedness? Moments? More like decades. And what's it done for me, being Mr. Softy and very congeal? (Ha ha). Pro freaking shiatsu, nothing! I'd like to kick the sweet acidophilus of the guy that turned me off to it.

Grandpa had pure cussedness, and if it wasn't 100% pure it was dam close. He was known for about five things: 1) Hunting, fishing; 2) Digging the meat of the goodie out of hickory nuts all winter; 3) 4) I can't remember 3 and 4; and, 5) Cussing. No doubt he'd kick my sweet acidophilus if he ever heard me say acidophilus, and not the purer "ASS." And for the most part he didn't care, except, as I said it before, he would not drop an F bomb when women or girls were present. Us boys got that extra thrill, which is nice. I felt special as a guy.

Here's a true incident, as best as I can remember it. I'm not going to remember every word, of course -- it was sometime between 1965-1967, in there -- but I can summarize it close enough that you'll get the idea. (This ain't about my Grandpa, but he was at the campgrounds somewhere.) We were all at a campground, and my cousin was demonstrating through gestures and cussedness how he'd recently shot a bird that jumped up. F bombs galore, no adjectives and barely any nouns that weren't cussedness. One hell of a story.

Then there was this guy -- an adult -- who had a tent that was an ex-parachute, circular and very nice. Him and his wife got to be friends with us and our whole family. We even wrote to them for a few years. This guy saw us gesticulating and reliving some major event, the shooting of the bird, and came up the hill and asked us what we were talking about. It was funny, because since he was an adult, my cousin retold the whole story without a single cussedness, and it came out about the same, the bird jumping up and being shot down.

When we were separated from him -- he was back down close his parachute -- we were walking along and laughing and recalling vividly the difference between the two stories, celebrating both the cussedness and the quick replacement.

Oh boy, ha ha, that's one God dang memory, man ... I don't think I've posted that farking story before ... ha ha, one of the highlights of my kidhood. Pro shiatsu! Sweet acidophilus! Pure cussedness.

What makes the world go round? Cussedness. What makes the weary beaten pro wrestler, who can't even lift his arm, suddenly not only lift his arm but rigify it locked in place, to the dread of his abuser, now begging for mercy that will never come? Pure sweet cussedness. That's it. 

Hunting Groundhog -- A Lotta Fun With Men

I don't want anyone to think I wasted my Groundhog Day holiday. I certainly didn't...

The night before, somehow I fell in with an interesting crowd, all men. I guess I had a little too much to drink. I woke up about 6 o'clock in the morning on Groundhog Day. I was in a strange place, which turned out to be a hunting lodge in parts unknown. I looked around the room and saw a bunch of guys sleeping, most of them in red flannel shirts and in various stages of undress. It was like either a nightmare or a dream come true, depending on how you swing.

Then it started coming back to me. I'd been at one of the local watering holes, playing darts and touching a few too many 25 cent draws. I hit a few lucky bulls-eyes and next thing I knew I was drafted by an all-men's darts team. Sitting later in a booth, one of them got breathy on me, real up close, about some "action" they were going out for. He looked around the room and asked me if I wanted in. I was reluctant, but then with a few more drinks, I was like, "Sure!" I was up for anything. All I remember next is a bunch of guys -- all men -- headed for the country, and I fell asleep.

OK, to make a long story short, as the old saying goes, it turned out the "action" was an all-male groundhog hunt. The best kind, I'd say. I woke up, found the bathroom and did my business -- No. 1 -- and a couple more guys came in. I zipped up quick, but one of them caught my eye. I guess I blushed. Whatever it was, he patted me on the bottom and proceeded to relieve himself, boldly, which he was still doing as I went out the door.

Over breakfast, the rest of them, most of whom I barely knew from the night before, were celebrating my dart playing, saying I put them over the top against the other team. They were all like, "You definitely know where the bulls-eye is!" and "You're no stranger to putting it where it goes!" and the like. I put my hands up, a little abashed, as if to say, "I got lucky..." I guess I was lucky, because here I was, feted by a cabin full of men!

One guy -- these guys were nothing if not bold -- came out of the shower with a towel around his waist and nothing else on. Everyone laughed, it was funny. I expected him to go back in a make himself decent, but instead he proceeded to the stove and started cooking breakfast. I watched as he separated each strip of bacon from three pounds and carefully laid them in hot skillets. He licked his fingers and leered over at us, still being funny. As the strips sizzled, he tossed his head back with a satisfied look.

The morning, then, was topped off by the actual groundhog hunt. Again, this was nothing but men, men with big long guns, shooting all over the place, at whatever moved. I saw a four-legged deer die. But the highlight had to be the group gathering around groundhog holes, sticking our guns down the holes, and blowing the crap out of them.

I skinned a groundhog and made a Davy Crockett hat. I was so excited, the tail hanging down my neck twitched and flipped up whenever one of the guys came up behind me. There's something about the nerves in groundhog tails. It's like a corpse's fingernails growing, their tails twitch even when they're dead!

How Easy Do Rabbit Heads Pull Off?

I have a bunch of rabbits in my yard. I see them everyday. They haven't been thinned out now for generations, meaning rabbit generations. Grandpa used to make traps for them, and we'd eat a lot of rabbit. But since his death, I have pretty much given up the old ways. Now I eat store-bought food, and I can't think of the last time the store had rabbit.

I used to go hunting for rabbits. Of course this was an activity that came from my grandpa and the other male members of the family. We'd get up bright and early, between September and February, and head out to the ditches in the country. You needed a .410 shotgun for rabbits. But you couldn't legally have your shotgun already put together in the car, so you needed to stop, get the gun pieces, put it together, and get it loaded, and hope, in all that time, that the rabbit wasn't already gone. Rabbits must be very dumb, because we'd still get lots of them.

As for the skinning of a rabbit, naturally it was the same whether you shot them or caught them in a trap. The first thing you do is pull their head off. And it's remarkable, but there's nothing easier in the world than pulling off a rabbit's head. You put it under your shoe or boot, holding it by the back legs, and pull. You don't even need to strain yourself, because their heads come off like they're held on by a single thread. Nothing easier. Maybe waving hi.

These days, to tell the truth, I hate killing anything. The other day I destroyed the appearance of an iPod player to rescue a gnat. That's how much I hate killing. Although, to be honest, I've killed a few bugs that have suddenly landed on me. It's just an instinctual reaction, happening just that quick, and didn't come from my considered judgment. A small spider was in the sink and I was very considerate of its well-being. But back then, we ate rabbits, squirrels, pheasants, turtles, raccoons, 'possums, and every variety of fish. I was raised by people who lived through the Depression. We ate dandelion plants from the yard! And it was all good, too...

That meant I'd personally get a rabbit every now and then. And it was actually not that disagreeable to pull off their heads. They're obviously designed to come off easily. God knew they'd be way down the food chain, so why give them good neck muscles? Connect them with the sinew equivalent of Scotch tape and be done with it. A rabbit gets up in the middle of the night for a midnight snack and trips over a rock ... whoops, lost his head!

I said that about God and the food chain. That might be the real story on rabbits' heads. But there's other critters down there with them, squirrels and fish come to mind, and their heads are on good and secure. I can't remember what we did with squirrels, but obviously their heads don't come off as easily as rabbits, because that's something I would remember.

Rabbits' heads are barely attached. We can go our whole lives without seeing another human decapitated. Not rabbits.

Three Cheers For Brains

The Wizard of Oz famously said, "Every pusillanimous creature that crawls on the earth or slinks through slimy seas has a brain!"

To which I say, "Hallelujah! Someone finally gets it!" Because I've been saying a version of that for years. And not only about brains but lots of other body parts, too. This realization came to me early on, which, frankly, might not be something a kid would think of today. They're not as close to nature as we were back then, since we were always going fishing and hunting, then cleaning/dressing the fish and other animals.

I'd look at the animals and point it out to my proud dad that a rabbit has two eyes, a nose, ears, etc., just like we do. And I'd do the same for squirrels, deer, dogs, and even fish. Fish are a little different but the same basic body parts and functions are there. When we'd clean fish, it was one of my least favorite things to cut out their digestive track. But I held my nose and did it anyway. And now I'm glad I did, because it made me aware very early in life that fish also excreted waste.

Of course we had pets, mostly dogs. I really learned a lot about life by observing dogs. One, they appeared to have a brain, just like the man said. Then there were all the other things I'd come to expect, including eyes, a nose, and so forth. Now that I'm thinking back, I actually remembering pointing out to someone that dogs had heads and the basic design of their heads were just like ours.

If you want to think of differences in dogs, between them and us, look where their nipples are. If we were built like that, our nipples would have to be near our waistline! Thankfully it's not that way! Imagine what it'd do for cleavage! The thing about dogs in this regard, though, speaking in practical terms, with evolution in mind, is that they generally have multiple young. So they adapted, the ones with nipples where the young could get to them tending to pass on their genes. Thankfully, they found a happy medium, i.e., where they're located now, since clearly they were running out of room, stopping just shy of the genitals.

I'm sure glad I have a brain. I use it all the time, really for everything. There's not a day goes by that I'm not using it. But I still don't know how to spell pusillanimous without looking it up. Although, since I'm a man, I can come a lot closer than every pusillanimous creature that crawls on the earth or slinks through slimy seas, which also, regardless of their inability to spell, still have brains.