Eric Swafford had this old yellow Renault (212?) station wagon that we stoners crammed into and went looking for isolated places to get high. One time when we were filling it with smoke, whoever was in the front passenger seat noticed a region of the dashboard beginning to sag, then to distort wildly, and start producing its own smoke.

“Car’s on fire. Get the fuck out!”

Eric, oblivious to the rich scent of aerosolized long chain polymers, just reached into what used to be the dashboard and cut the heater off. “Nah. It’s just the heater core needs replacing”, he said, wiping the molten vinyl off on his corduroys.

He had a strange faith in that car, and drove it across rain-swollen creeks and tore holes in the floor panels hitting field stones concealed in tall grass. It was the car he drove us up to my uncle and aunt’s farm near an artificial impoundment. Me, Tom, Steve, Rob, Mike, Mark, Marty, Scott, Pete, all stuffed into that thing. I snagged the passenger seat for the ride up.

As we were pulling into the access road that ran in view of the farmhouse and its dependencies, I mentioned that a few years back, when I was working on the farm every now and then, we’d see an albino doe around the fence lines, browsing. We’d just pulled up alongside an old green tarpapered packhouse when the car bottomed out in a big washout. We all were getting out of the car to help it over. Over the noise of the engine Eric was saying “There’s no such thing as a white deer. Get behind the right wheel and push.” Once the car got moving and we all got in again, the ablino deer walked out from behind the packhouse and paused about ten yards in front of the car. It looked directly at us, for a couple of seconds, then walked blithely over to the edge of the track and wove itself into a pine thicket.

“Fuuuuck” said Eric.

Pete slipped into hysterics. I was unaccountably not smug about it, because I figured some trophy obsessed death whore had long ago killed her and nailed her head on the wall by the TV so he could slap his dick to it in the waning days of his worthless life.

That wouldn’t happen for a couple more years.

I always wondered why this song stuck in my favorite Whodangle. Mebbe it’s because we’ve always had the Trump fever.

Pete Townshend is a fucking beast on an accoustic six string guitar, people.

This past Sunday I was inspecting the woodstoves for leaks that could possibly kill us with carbon monoxide. Completely unlikely, given the built-in holes and gaps on most manufactured wood-burning junk that gets hawked in this country with a safety rating of delicious!
My wife walked up behind me and said “We have a guest.”
I was worried someone had breached the driveway gate that separates us from the highway of sad all night store dick-pills and cinnamon flavored ethanol mindfuck-drink. It was worse. She was holding an injured crow.

My initial take was it wasn’t too badly injured. But it was bad. And my wife usually doesn’t bother to bring me the things she thinks she can’t fix, because she’s a fucking magician.

I’m the last line against death sometimes. And I’m wanting. All I’ve got is “The Love Massage”, which is effective in about 10% of extreme cases. And I set about trying, because Crows are smarter than us, and because I missed the last crow we had here so bad I wanted to try and replace her. I held her up on my hands and she had a decent grip, but she was disturbingly calm.

Crows fight. They hate you unless you’ve had a few months together for the crow to describe its parameters. This one was all love. My heart began to sink immediately. I thought about a friend of ours whose husband would go on crow hunts until a baby crow showed up on their place, and they raised it, and they saw how strangely smart it was, and how it loved them. And when it died, how it was like losing a child. That sense of something irrecoverable. These are people who have raised children, so I know I’m not entirely crazy.

I decided at the outset I would invest too much. It would be worth it. I would torment this animal to keep it awake through what I thought was botulism. 48 hours and she’d make it. Initially she responded well to syringes full of egg yolk and sugar and vitamin B, but her strength tapered off after the first twelve hours and I was left just holding her up against me for warmth while she died.

Lumpy capsule of wet starch Larry “Yazoo Yam” Yarborough, formerly known around these parts as “Swamp Tater” because I mistook him for a Louisianan as opposed to where he actually washed up from, the asswaters of America’s Least Educated state, has done took up a willow shoot dipped in the black alluvial mud of his ancestral bed (or more likely his ass) and wrote another thing.

Larry don’t often write a thing, and when he writes one, you can see why. The straight letters come easy enough, but the curvy ones is tricky, and when you string them together you can get yourself a motherfucker of a wind knot. This one’s done wrapped around his neck and cut off his air supply, and as everyone knows, even a yam needs aeration to keep from turning into a puddle of rot.

Like every Republican before or after him, Larry believes history is in a place in his ass that he can access with one or more fingers and dig it out like a half digested peanut of truth. If he can restrain himself from swallowing that peanut long enough to put it in an envelope, he’ll mail it to the Roxboro Courier Times and they’ll dutifully tweeze it out and heliograph it for posterity.

Why, here’s one of those dookie peanuts now:
Reading the “Voices of the Community” editorial on Wednesday, I find some things that I agree with and want to let you know. He is right that the poor and needy come in all shades, races, genders and sizes. He is also right that both liberals and conservatives want freedom, justice and as few people suffering as possible.

But we must make that suffering as deep and intolerable as possible by every means available to our admittedly medieval Republican imaginations. Also, the “justice” thing gets overused sometimes. It’s not like you can really let blacks or poor whites off on a technicality for driving while too drunk to walk. That’s only for my friend Kyle Puryear and the next moneyed Republican with the brass to get behind the wheel pissed to the eyeballs. You want to talk freedom, talk to Kyle. He’ll never see a day in jail for weaponizing one of his daddy’s cars.

We can all agree that we need a safety net to provide the basics of life to our most vulnerable and government can provide that.

As your State representatve, I have worked tirelessly to make sure that vulnerable corporations can safely sweep up your tax dollars to provide the basics they need: A ready source of potable water to foul, a labor pool sufficiently miseducated to take dangerous jobs with minimal compensation, and a little extra so they can slip me a couple of twenties for some buffet liquor and side coochie.

We all agree that government should provide crime free streets and educational opportunity for all, as well as protecting civil liberties and human rights.

But what we disagree on is whose civil liberties get protected, who’s the criminal, and who’s entitled to civil liberties. It’s really mostly a matter of skin tone, and the ability to produce a fistful of twenties (see above). This is why I ran a racist campaign, and continue to try and pitch a dogwhistle, even though I’m an obvious Jim Crow advocate of the filthiest water.

Overall we have done a very good job of providing these things to our most needy and there is no reason to talk about race, creed or religion when discussing the basic needs.

EDITOR: I’ll just leave this here:
Every enslaved prisoner wanted to “rise” at one point or another. Properly closed locks disabled that option. Cuffs bound hands, preventing attack or defense. Chains on men also made it harder for women to resist. Isolated from male allies, individual women were vulnerable. One night at a tavern in Virginia’s Greenbriar County, a traveler watched a group of traders put a coffle of people in one room. Then, wrote the traveler, each white man “took a female from the drove to lodge with him, as is the common practice.”
Ten year old enslaved migrant John Brown saw slave trader Sterling Finney and his assistants gang-rape a young woman in a wagon by a South Carolina road. The other women wept. The chained men sat silently
Remember, Larry Yarborough voted in favor of the bill to preserve monuments to Southern Treason. He is a racist and a traitor sympathizer to his starchy pink core.

The motto of our nation includes, “The Pursuit of Happiness.” We want people to have the opportunity to achieve more than the basic needs to survive.

This is why the Republican legislature and Governor have gutted education funding statewide, so the rest of the state can resemble Person County, NC in all its stunning poverty and illiteracy.

We should strive to help our poorest rise out of poverty and those living on the minimum and give them the opportunity to pursue happiness.

Elsewhere, obviously.

The free enterprise system is the only proven system that allows the largest number of people to pursue their own happiness.
Happiness cannot be found in a government check that provides basic needs. Happiness is found in faith, family and meaningful employment, the esteem of providing for oneself.

Just don’t pay any attention to the government checks that I have waited impatiently for, at my mailbox, the first of every month, for the entirety of my adult life.

The Pursuit of Happiness for all of our citizens is really the goal that we all have no matter what race, religion, or gender.

This is what we are fond of saying. Just ignore what we are actually doing.

Rep. Larry Yarborough
NC House of Representatives

*The Half Has Never Been Told: Slavery And The Making Of American Capitalism. Edward E. Baptist. p.25.

The local Republican party is full of gutter scum like this. They can’t help it. Trashiness is in their blood.

There is a point where your country has ceased to be your country. I’m reminded of  the ways the law tonguefucks useless, ineducable white trash.

And now we have this.

If this is what it takes to keep white garbage on top of the food chain, then white garbage isn’t worth the can.

Show me any sleek lime-shirted troglodyte who gets liquored up and does his whoring to beach music and I’ll show you a fucker who’s been in the company of a Republican judge. They may have intentionally or unintentionally swapped vesicle fluids at a beach or lake house while hopping from one leather skinned boffbunny to another in one of those weekend vodka shuffles. Could be they done run into one of their old Citadel buddies and had to drop trou and do the Mr. Peanut among the mosquitoes and sand fleas, too.
It’s the same old same old across the whole of the buck-toothed twelve-fingered shithole of the recessive states, and you’d have a harder time not finding a bunch of them with the same moussed-up pompadours, wearing their outsized asses halfway up their back than you would finding the fossil remains linking one of them to modern hominidae.
Here’s this well connected fucker from Charleston who’s set to adjudicate the latest racist murder coughed up like a bloody lung boil from Fox News and the Dixie Swastika waving trash who will be the first to be raptured when malaria makes its triumphant return to treasonland. His story sounds suspiciously like the genital cupping practiced by our local judges and drunkass miscreants.
Here’s the relevant passage, but do read the whole article. It sounds just like old home week here in Bugfuck county, NC.
I keep expecting Kyle Puryear and Judge Gentry to make cameo appearances.

Gosnell feels there was in fact a fifth kind of person in the world, that being a fellow judge.

“There are four kinds of people in this world—black people, white people, red necks, and n—-rs,” Gosnell advised a black defendant.
The defendant in that case was a fellow Charleston judge, Joseph S. Mendelsohn, who had been arrested in the town of Mount Pleasant on the night of November 8, 2003 for driving under the influence and having an open container in his car.

Mendelsohn was processed at the Mount Pleasant police station and informed he would then be transported to the Charleston County Detention Center pending a bond hearing the following morning.

At the prospect of having to spend a night behind bars, Mendelsohn telephoned a Mount Pleasant judge, who essentially said that the law was the law.

Mendelsohn then called Gosnell, and put him on the line with a Mount Pleasant police lieutenant.
“[Gosnell] asked that Judge Mendelsohn be brought directly to bond court rather than first being booked into the detention center,” the finding reports. “The lieutenant refused to bypass the standard booking procedure, stating [Mendelsohn] would be booked like any defendant.”

Gosnell thereupon informed the lieutenant that he was heading for the detention center and would conduct a bail hearing there. Gosnell then called a court supervisor, requesting that staff be dispatched there so he could hold a hearing.

“During the conversation, [Gosnell] and [the supervisor] discussed that if a bond hearing was held at other than normal operating hours, [Gosnell] would be required to hold a bond hearing for all incarcerated defendants,” the finding says. “Respondent elected not to call in staff to hold bond hearings.”

Gosnell headed there on his own.

“[Gosnell] met the arresting officer and Judge Mendelsohn at the detention center,” the finding says. “At some point, [Gosnell] took possession of the ticket, placed a ‘bond hearing’ stamp on the back, and entered the amount of $1,002.00. When detention center officials expressed concerns over Judge Mendelsohn’s release, [Gosnell] remarked ‘this didn’t happen until 8:00 a.m.,’ or words of similar import and effect.”

The finding adds, “[Gosnell] acknowledges it was his intention to facilitate Judge Mendelsohn’s release without waiting for the morning bond hearing and to make it appear that Judge Mendelsohn’s bond was set at 8:00 a.m. in accordance with Mount Pleasant’s bond procedure.”

Are you taking notes, Judge Gentry?

EDIT: Gosnell is out for being a racist fuckwit. Too bad the DOJ can’t come in and sweep the same idiots out of Person County:

Puryear might not be on the road tonight if we’d had a modicum of judicial oversight.

This is what happens when you involve the state party in covering for your lily white ass:

Gentry was too old to serve another term anyway. Maybe the state bar will decide to retire him NOW.

Next time, try not to aim at your own goddamn foot.

If you’re a Person County Republican in bed with a sleaze ass DA, a shitheaded party apparatchik of a judge, and you happen to be a drinkbro of a shyster Hyco lake partyboy Dem lawyer, you can walk on not one, but two DWIs.

I’ll make a brief suggestion to anyone stopped at a DWI checkpoint over the holidays in this white trash funhouse: tell your lawyer that cops can’t just pull a drunk fuckwit without probable cause, and they should go fuck themselves.

There’s precedent.

Kyle Puryear and his friends are on the goddamned road.

I guess it’s slightly better than boning members of your high school wrestling team, or your baby sisters, but it still has that distinctly Republican contempt for the rule of law flavor that the country has yet to gouge out of its throat like a diphtheria membrane.

Here’s an interesting little story from a past ongoing failure of jurisprudence, and how God himself, in the mantle of history, elected to resolve it:

Drinky backwoods cunt Kyle Puryear done blowed himself both a DA and a judge and is now free to drive shitfaced again. Good luck Personians and folks from adjacent counties. If drunk fuckface Larry Yarborough don’t nail you on his way back from some shag motel in Raleigh, Kyle’ll run over your loved ones after spending all day juicing at the Elks’ club. Y’all sure know how to pick ’em.


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