Neanderpundit

Find and post in comments the most interesting ways the left try to blame Katrina on George W Bush.

Winner gets.. Winner gets the privelege of being the winner.

is hanging up his spurs.

Or,at least sitting them on a shelf, to be polished off from time to time.

He has the disease that all bloggers get in that his real life has intruded upon his blogging. he doesn’t have the luxury of a 9-5 job like many of us, with “spare time’ to spend blogging. Wish him luck and success, so he can return to blogging again, he’s one of the most important voices in the blogosphere.

Thirty five years ago this weekend, I was, as I was every labor day weekend, at my uncle calvin’s farm, participating in the annual Family reunion.

For many years, the reunion had been in the local city park, but this year we had neglected to reserve it, so we did the next best, which was to come to Calvin’s place and party it up.

Now, Calvin had one indoor john. Way in the back of the property, there was an outdoor three-holer. I had used an outdoor john, though these were crude, so rather than pinching my asscheeks together, I waddled off to the three holer.

Brushing aside the spiders, spiderwebs, and a blue tick hound, I sat down to do my business. I had been eating corn on the cob, watermelon, green apples, southern fried chicken, and gobs of other reunion-style food. I was ready. The force fair lifted me off the seat, and to this day, I am convinced that under the correct circumstances (say, the arrival of a bear in a three holer) I could take off and hover to safety on a concentrated jetstream of my own feces. I had been holding it for a while, too, and that exacerbated the effect.

Anyway, as I sat there reading the old Sears Roebuck and piles of telephone books, (wondering why there would be telephone books in an outhouse) I noticed, there was no asswipe.

I looked and looked

I never bothered to look into the hole, so as to see the other leaves of telephone book, otherwise I’d have a clue as to their purpose. As it was, I was short. I had just released a Brown Katrina, to steal from Vman. I needed to wipe.

Several more minutes of frantic searching revealed not so much as a tissue. I yelled some but nobody came, and those who might have heard were plenty liquored up.

So i did the only thing I could think of. I slipped out of my tenner shoes, slid my pants and underwear down, and wiped with my BVD’s. I put the jeans back on and my tenners, and went out to where there was breathable air.

Now, I’m faced with a dillema. I have finished my business, but now I have a handful of shit covered underwear. What to do; how to hide the evidence. In the outhouse? no. Garbage? no. In a fit of frustration I let them fly, and the wind caught them and they hung up in the branches of an ancient oak. Fine, I thought, stay there.

I walk back up to the house, where the line for the indoor crapper is still plenty long, and sit down next to mom and dad in the backyard.

“Got something you want to tell me, boy?” dad says.
Sensing trouble,I resorted to normal kid tactics “Should I have something I want to tell you?” I don’t know why I didn”t end up a lawyer. Dad lifts his arm with deliberation, and points south. There, in the ancient oak, in plain view of the whole Og Clan, my underwear fluttered gently in the breeze, shitstain prominent as the rising sun in the old Nip flag. Silence was the only option, at this point, and I tried to mentally calculate the extra pain I would incur with only my worn jeans between me and dad’s razore strop. “Boy, the catalogs and phone books are there to wipe your ass with, didn’t you know that?”

Well, once in a while, you have to be a source of laughter for 143 people.

35 years ago this weekend, man and boy. No catalogs for me, having graduated to powder puff.