Even a one-legged man puts his pants on one leg at a time.
Doing Tsutsugamushi with my wife and drinkin' buddies.
I miss this place real desperate-like now that I'm in NYC, makin' a go of it as a male hustler. They always did my pizza right. Their large pizzas routinely weighed a ton, and had the finest, freshest ingredients; good value there. Their pizza sauce is some of the dad-blamedest stuff I have ever tasted in my life; fresh, tangy, right hearty and homemade-tastin'. Try findin' its like in NYC. I guaruntee, you'll sooner find a friendly New Yorker.
Also the mozzereller they use has a consistency you either don't get out here in Fun City or pay a King's Ransom for; creamy yet with a whole kit-and-kaboodle of spring and snap.
Now if they'd only bring in some strippers, the place'd be perfect.
Count yer blessin's, Stumptowners.
And thanks for the memories, American Dream Pizza.
Like I say, I don't know a whole good deal about rhetorical "straw men," or Add Hominy Grits, or, whatchacall, "general purpose lazy/stupid" ... argumentational ... things ... ... ...
But I used to box in the Army. Fort Huachuca, 1954-1957. And I do know a good punchin' bag when I see one.
Y'know, I was discussin' this silly little thread with my Cousin Walsh whilst we was sloppin' the hogs tonight. Now Cousin Walsh didn't finish grade school. He was kicked in the head by a horse when he was six or so, and I always made it my duty to look after him.
You know what Cousin Walsh said about A-Cat? It 'bout brings tears to my eyes to even type it.
"That Cat Man may be smart, but he should try being funny or witty or entertaining or even a little bit nice once in a while."
I couldn't help it, and I'm man enough to admit it: I dropped that slop bucket, and gave Cousin Walsh the hardest, biggest hug you ever saw. You shoulda seen the smile on that boy's face, like the biggest, brightest sunrise you ever seen.
Actually, I do know who Matt Davis is, though only Jesus Christ above knows why I should, as your whole life and its complications ain't worth the stain on yesterday's Fruit of the Looms. (Guess I'm a quick read, and picked up that some Matt feller regularly got your shorts twisted.) If you insist on proof I ain't Matt, such can easily be provided, even though contact with you even on this thread puts my shorthairs in a mighty pinch.
I guess it must be pretty embarrassing to have yer paranoia exposed here, by you yerself, yet. Sometimes, son, a man can be his own worst enemy, and I say that with Christian love in my heart. I'm tellin' ya, it ain't too late to fix the nosedive yer in. The Lord Jesus Christ has been a great help to me, and I humbly suggest you get to know The Lamb.
Unlike Mr. Spudboy, I will refrain from even remotely suggestin' that you are a "Douchey Bitch." I don't think that was kind, and I try to follow the Golden Rule.
I take A-Cat for the playground bully type. I've seen his whatchacall "profile" and the endless snipin' remarks he's left for others in the past, and it's clear as day that "the facts" the boy keeps harpin' on are just an excuse to step up to folks and give 'em a little spit in the eye. Too bad the boy didn't get his hind quarters properly kicked at an age it mighta done him some good. I don't presume to tell Mr. Spudboy or anybody else his business, but I myself figure it ain't nuthin' but "throwin' good money after bad" continuin' to engage this horse's rear end in repartee.
(...Aw, I'm jes' kiddin'. A-Cat's a good boy. Way down deep inside, he's a good boy. Way, way, way, deep, deep, deep down inside, where nobody can see, A-Cat's a real good boy, and I know a good sport like him don't mind a little funnin'.)
Anyway, to more pressin' matters:
Has the world turned plumb upside-down, or am I a Monkey's Uncle Come To Sunday Dinner? In the good old days, bars were wide-open pits of sin and depravity, and we wouldn't have it no other way. Anything was fair game in a bar, within certain margins of civility. A man walks the straight and narra' as best he can, and come quittin' time he needs to restore himself with the soothing ministrations of his favorite vice. When the time comes for a smoke, a whiskey, and some shit-shooting (hell, throw in some video poker while yer at it - y'only go around once) a man sure don't appreciate findin' his favorite spot don't take his type no more.
His vices been payin' the light bill for decades, and now he's just a bum on the stoop.
Like my father, and my father's father's father, I could never get the hang of drinkin' without a Lucky in my fingers, nor would I want to. Where's the sense in it? I'd just spend my time missin' it, and I got better things to do twixt now and Gabriel's horn solo. They "cleaned up" Jimmy's Tap about a year back. Place lost all appeal to me. The Lord and I both know I'm a flawed, disreputable man at heart. What the Sam Hill kind of man wants to spend his time in a bar he can't see eye to eye with?
By the way, we down here in Possum County do run with strawmen, and like A-Cat sez, it is mighty fun. Fact, we build a whole Festival around it, e'vy October, The Runnin' With A Strawman Festival. But don't let the name mislead ya, there's a whole lot more for the whole family to do 'sides the titular activity. In addition to the Three-Legged Strawman race, we have a Strawman Toss, a Speed-Build-A-Strawman Contest, a Strawman Eatin' Contest (you city folks ain't seen nuthin' 'til you've seen that, and I guaruntee it!), a Strawman Look-Alike Contest ("Yours Truly" tuck home the trophy three years runnin') and a Strawman Auction benefittin' the local animal shelter.
I think A-Cat would find all of it real fun, and he may consider himself officially invited to drop in, take his shoes off, and set a spell.
"Brilliant, spudboy. Take that strawman and run with it... This should be fun."
...So sez A-Cat. You any relation to A-Hole, A-Cat? I'm jes' kiddin'. We's out here in the countrified parts ain't too up on no Latinate phrases such as Ad Hominem. Shucks, last time I heard such talk, was when Mammy was askin' me if I wanted grits or hominy with my smoked butt! Land sakes! But it do occur to me that you come out o' the box impugnin' Mr. Spudboy's intelligence without quite specifyin' why what he's sayin' is gettin' up in your "nelly-whites"! Out where I come from, such behavior like to get a man strung up. But don't pay me no mind. I'm jest an old fart likes his stinky carpets and his dingy wallpaper. Never cottoned much to smokin' much, though! (HEH HEH)
You both good boys. You get along now, y'hear?
Happy Hedonist: Capitalization exists because it adds to meaning. I'd have liked to read further into your comments, but the cost/benefit analysis counterindicated it.
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