Neanderpundit

Had a greeaat! time at the auto show.

I figured i’d get to go to the auto show, or else the gun show in Valpo. THe gun show gave serious likelihood of offering something I could maybe afford, the auto show, never. I could look without any danger of even being TEMPTED to buy. A Lincoln Zephyr which was really an upscale Ford 500? For $38,000? Not bloodly likely. An International pickup? Maybe if I’d won the lotto.Which i did not.

On the other hand, I got to hang wiht Dude, with Biloxi, and with the Machete of Truth, and we even got an approving nod from M. Teri O’Brien, who came down and shook hands, said hi, autographed pictures.

On that note: the esteemed M. O’Brien has never been done justice by ANY of her photographs. Nephiew to me ‘She’s HOT!” And I could not but agree. If I were not already married to a woman far better than myself I would SO be stalking this woman. Well, that and if she wasn’t such an excellent shot. Hell, I’d hate to just have her point that brain at me for a half hour. Scary bright, and takes no shit from nobody.

We had a promise from one of Biloxi’s readers, Dagon, to show- we had fourteen people walking the show on the lookout for a bald black man wearing a Public Enemy Tshirt, and never saw anyone. Pity, we had a cold beer just waiting for him. Ah, well.

Going tomorrow to see the Auto Show, not so much to look at cars but to meet friends- anyone interested, we’ll be visiting in front of the WLS broadcast booth, so by all means, stop in if you can between noon and three! Barking moonbats too- we’re interested to see who has the balls to spout their horrid opinions in person.

C’mon down!

you earned this

Catjokeblogging.

Dale Evans and Roy Rogers move their home from California to Branson, Mo.

At the end of the move, Roy is tired and wasted, sits on the porch of his new home, leans back in his chair, takes of his very expensive handmade boots, wanders inside for a good night’s sleep.

Morning comes, and Roy steps outside to find the boots have been gnawed to bits by some feline or another, as is evidenced by the size and shape of the footprints leading off down the path. Roy, in a bad mood anyway, takes off and in short order has caught up with the cougar, and lacking a gun or even a pocketknife wrestles with the cougar for what must seem like ages.

Late that morning, Roy comes back to the front porch. He’s scratched to hell, hair ripped out, clothes in tatters, one sock missing, dragging a lifeless cougar who apparently got the worst of the fight. Dale, sitting on the porch, glances over and says:
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