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THE BIG STRUMDOWN

http://www.cigarboxnation.com/profiles/blogs/the-hotel-delroy-short...

(this link used to make sense, but some sneaky person changed some names, thus making me look like a raving lunatic...)

The ground rises up and smacks John "Uncle" Johnson clean in the face and he hurts and the dirt in his nose hurts and he keeps on hurting.

Boots, big ones, impacting the earth, boots coming for him, hobnailed boots filled with the callused feet of very angry, no, enraged, men, and they keep on coming like a bad dream.

He gets up and staggers and rights himself and takes off running and running and running, and plunging head first into the raging river, and he swallows a big gulp of the foul water and gags but keeps on going, ploughing through the rapids like a human steamboat he is.

He keeps on going he does, because those men, they are serious men, and they aim to have justice at any cost for the wrong that has been done them, and the very sky is stained with the vehemence of their words as they curse him from the craggy cliffs that overlook the water.

He can feel it now and it is the feeling of sweet freedom and it is good and...

KKKKKKRRRRRRSSSSSSWWWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAASSSSSSHHHHHH!!!!!!

the water in front of him explodes, the crash/slap of a giant hunk of granite impacting the water, and all of a sudden all is dead still and even the ravens are playing possum.

Then another crash and splash and the cursing, oh the cursing, and the man called "Uncle" commences to windmill his arms like a demented cartoon character and actually rises up out of the churning waters and literally runs out to sea!

Back up on the cliffs the sinister mocking figures bellow out grotesque laughs and make increasingly obscene gestures.

"Guess that be the last time he gonna take the name o' Carl in vain!"

(Apologies to James Ellroy and Cormac Mccarthy)

Tags: OMG!, RandomCrap, UncleJohn, WTF?, WesCarl

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Comment by James on August 13, 2012 at 1:51am: kazooz all around, on the house !!!

Comment by Clock The Wolf on August 13, 2012 at 1:02am: There once was a Fool named Oily

Who had for a hat an old doily

He picked up his hat

But it was a rat

Now his pants are all soily

:-/ :-O ;-)

Comment by Ron "Oily" Sprague on August 13, 2012 at 12:09am: "There once was a man named Dave
Who lived with a whore in a cave
She had but one...eye
And her...breath...smelled like...rye
But think of the money he saved!"

No?

There once was a dentist named Frank
Who practiced on patients this prank:
When he got 'em under
Their pockets he'd plunder
Then give their genitalia a yank.

No?

A wolfish young man who liked clocks
Played a mean slide he stored with his socks.
His cinematic Muse
Caused him oft to abuse
The shaft (which he stroked) of his...box.

>:-E

Comment by Clock The Wolf on August 12, 2012 at 8:19pm: 8-} "Silent" Jim Thompson... !!!

Comment by RTZGUITARS on August 12, 2012 at 8:01pm: McCarthy alive yes and very successful, but many don't seem to handle success or rejection well.

Jack London   suicide they think

Ernest Hemingway   Self gunshot

Dylan Thomas   Boozed to death

Tennesse Williams Choked to death

Edgar Allen Poe   Mistery Booze suspected

Mark Twain   predicted his death, claimed Halleys comet brought and would take his life.

Hunter Thompson   self gunshot

Virginia Woolf   Drowned self

These are some that I know about but check out this list I found and its doen't include song writers.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Category:Writers_who_committed_suicide

I'm just saying good writers are often very unstable people. Not you jim you seem stable.

Comment by Clock The Wolf on August 12, 2012 at 8:10am: "horrible ending to there lives?" Who? Certainly not McCarthy. He's still alive, and having a better time of it than any other time in his life...

Comment by RTZGUITARS on August 12, 2012 at 3:28am: I read a few Cormac books The Road was the last one. Why do so many great writers have such horrible ending to there lives?

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Don't get better then that.