I don’t have time to Slog today but, shit, I don’t wanna get pushed out of most commented—so, um, bacon-wrapped youth pastors are feeding foie gras to pit bulls on the bus to the airport that I refuse to take because I’m afraid of missing my flight thanks to someone in a wheelchair trying to get on. And I’m feeling all conflicted because while I think bacon is delicious I hate youth pastors and I love foie gras but I hate pit bulls and I spend way too much time flying around the country as is—my carbon footprint is swollen up like some poor tortured goose’s liver—so any wheelchair-bound Metro passengers that caused me to miss my flight would be doing me and the planet a favor probably.

Discuss.

112 replies on “Re: Usurp Savage”

  1. I’d love to buy you a roast pit-bull sandwich with side of foie gras, but I’m busy at the moment cataloging my collection of underage wrestling pics.

  3. Every year on Thanksgiving night we flocked out behind Dad as he
    dragged the Santa suit to the road and draped it over a kind of
    crucifix he’d built out of metal pole in the yard. Super Bowl week the
    pole was dressed in a jersey and Rod’s helmet and Rod had to clear it
    with Dad if he wanted to take the helmet off. On the Fourth of July
    the pole was Uncle Sam, on Veterans Day a soldier, on Halloween a
    ghost. The pole was Dad’s only concession to glee. We were allowed a
    single Crayola from the box at a time. One Christmas Eve he shrieked
    at Kimmie for wasting an apple slice. He hovered over us as we poured
    ketchup saying: good enough good enough good enough. Birthday parties
    consisted of cupcakes, no ice cream. The first time I brought a date
    over she said: what’s with your dad and that pole? and I sat there
    blinking.

    We left home, married, had children of our own, found the seeds of
    meanness blooming also within us. Dad began dressing the pole with
    more complexity and less discernible logic. He draped some kind of fur
    over it on Groundhog Day and lugged out a floodlight to ensure a
    shadow. When an earthquake struck Chile he lay the pole on its side
    and spray painted a rift in the earth. Mom died and he dressed the
    pole as Death and hung from the crossbar photos of Mom as a baby. We’d
    stop by and find odd talismans from his youth arranged around the
    base: army medals, theater tickets, old sweatshirts, tubes of Mom’s
    makeup. One autumn he painted the pole bright yellow. He covered it
    with cotton swabs that winter for warmth and provided offspring by
    hammering in six crossed sticks around the yard. He ran lengths of
    string between the pole and the sticks, and taped to the string
    letters of apology, admissions of error, pleas for understanding, all
    written in a frantic hand on index cards. He painted a sign saying
    LOVE and hung it from the pole and another that said FORGIVE? and then
    he died in the hall with the radio on and we sold the house to a young
    couple who yanked out the pole and the sticks and left them by the
    road on garbage day.

  5. I really think you’re most commented purely because a lot of people only come to The Stranger JUST to read you.. and then get drawn to other things. Sooo yea.. that’s why I’m here. I don’t even live in Seattle! Hell, I haven’t even VISITED!

  9. Dear Faggot,
    Stop hating the pit bulls. It makes me cranky. And nobody likes a cranky lesbian. It’s all estrogen and evil eye and it is BAD NEWS. I love you, but you’re wrong on this one.
    Love,
    Me, my Girlfriend, and our Pit Bulls

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