Embracing Your Inner Beef February 12, 2005 A Confidential Letter To My Cousin the Beef Merchant Attention Mr. Beeflogger.. "The Crack of Doom is Coming Soon." - Tiger Lillies Goddammit! Somebody turn down that sari-wearing menstrual cramp squealing Koran-licking jibberish! Now, Justin, I must insist that you cease to refer to me by my Christian name in this blog thing of yours. You see, I am no longer a Christian, but a Sufi Belly Button Snorkler and Tibetan Buddhist Rice Sniper. I'll let your imagination work out the first one (use attached photo). As to the latter, I've joined a group of Tibetan insurgent monks that has developed a modified sniper rifle to shoot, I kid you not, grains of rice! The rice comes outa the rifles at such terrific speed that they're basically molten when they strike their target, thus penetrating any armor. We sneak into Tibet, hunker down at one of the few remaining intact monasteries, and pick off Chinese soldiers like ducks in quicksand. Something about using rice instead of bullets works a kinda loophole in the whole Buddhist non-violence mentality. Me, I'm just a hired gun, free of religion or issues of conscience. We've modified buckshot rifles, too. Whew! Talk about a wedding from Hell! For the moment, however, I am under DEEP DEEP COVER out here in the Arizonian Outback. Back to why you can't use my name, to have my location revealed to the general internet public would require mass extermination of towelheads and nuke-strokers everywhere, ourselves included. Don't ask me why. If I told you WHY I'd have to take away your Nintendo. All right, Game Cube, whatever, so I'm behind the times. Speaking of which, that hottie at St. Elmo's tonight offered me a bump of the local knockoff-brand coke and I DIDN'T TAKE IT! Nor did I take her, I mean, back here to the Bunker! She would have come, I'm sure of it. That lime-flavored gyspy outfit, the purfume. Mmm. Dammit. But I can't reveal my location, even to an allegedly-harmless Stevie Nicks lookalike (circa 1970). Now here I sit alone in my bunker writing by Coleman lantern light and listening to some shitfuck Iranian chanting on a 70s model car stereo tape deck wired up to a deep cell battery and drinking room temperature Cornona beer. Alone. Did I mention alone? Oh, and I'm falling asleep.. at ten fifteen at night when I arose today at noon. So! Let me tell you about the Bunker! Off the grid, no electric, no water, impenetrable strawbale walls, ramshackle outhouse.. love it! Top Secret of course, but who's reading? Your responses have been zilch from Day One cuz'n, so I feel safe. I'm quite sure we're speaking in a special offensive material-inspired encrypted web zoooone. Sure. The bunker is an F-ing long hike from anywhere, a good 12 mile hike through sagebrush from the actual town of.. of.. well, you know, Arizonia. And the funny thing is that I am thus closer to Mexico than to the nearest American town. Every night I go out in my Ug boots and flower-patterned polyester bellbottoms and down-filled North Face jacket unzipped with no shirt to show off my three chest hairs to the googling flamer border patrol agents with their night-vision goggles.. ahem, yes, as I was saying I go out and throw Corona beer bottles at that cosmological fucker Orion who nightly crosses the southern sky like a thorazine-addled windshield wiper ever so slowly, that crafty coyote to whom I nightly howl hopeful prayers to no avail. I haul back and hurl those clear glass bottles at the bastard's crotch and I'd swear, Justin, half of them land in Mexico. I'm that close. Of course, I am thus surrounded by Border Patrol geeks, 19-year old police academy cadets from Alabama whose aggressive tendency scores "over-qualified" them for local traffic cop jobs but won them top-o-the-list status with the Beaner Bashing Brigade down here in the southwest. The USBP guys crawl these hills like hunter-killers from Terminator or the squiddies from the Matrix. And they KNOW I'm here. Oh, yes. I'm hunkered down good, but they know. They see the BMW 535i tearing down rain-muddied roads at 70 mph, swerving, swirling, spinning dervishlike through bathtub-deep puddles and bounding, bouncing out of gullies and back on the road as only a pro could manage. They recognize my skill and leave me alone. And everyday I go out to the shitter, I throw the door wide and squat for their scatological entertainment. What the hell. It's the desert, I'm white, and down here cuz, white is might. They're not looking for crackers like me. If only they knew! Oh, yes! This was to be your FIRST response letter and I was thus to respond to something you said in some way. Okay. So, here it goes. Blow up the Outside World. Good idea. Only problem I see with this lyrical philosophy is that there is no outside world. As I recall from Physics 101, we live in a closed system. Which is of course why, as you say, the Russians and the Chinese wouldn't take kindly to our nooooking Korea. Right. But so what about the soldiers on the DMZ? Or in Iraq? I mean, I have friends there, but who cares? Only the good die young, right? Decrepitude is upon us at an alarming rate. DEATH is coming for us all. So why not throw a Tiger Lillies tape in that rancid old tape deck and celebrate the foulest of our nature? We all CHOOSE our path here in America, militarily anyway. Not one of those soldiers was pressed into duty. I say nuke Iran. Nuke the hole (sic) Middle East. And nuke the queer cubicle cross-dressing freaks from the Washington Post who are advocating blogger-adherence to journalistic moral guidelines (as if the latter even exist). I'm not even a blogger, per se, but I caught that one in the news. Fuck those non-ejaculatory dweebs! I say blow your wad for the whole world to read. The truth will out. So why not START with the truth instead of having to anal probe it out the fuckers? I'm sorry, where was I? So are you flogging your beef in this blog, or are you beefing via this blog? Is there a double entendre going on here? Because that would be French which would make you a pacifist communist snail eater! Just thought you'd like to know. In either case, I love it. I've read every blog from day one. Keep it up. Did you know the German vernacular for vagina is snail? Schnecke. Yum, eh? By the way, in answer to your query, I met Chris McCandless on his ultimately-fatal northern journey. He passed through Arcata, CA when I was going to school in Humboldt County. I think he had the right idea. Far less messy than my brother Luci. Just go out cold. Maybe a little paradoxical undressing. I wonder if I would die with a stiffy if amidst my hypothermic delusions I managed to impress upon my mind that the most important place to send blood for warmth was my cock? That would be fun. I'd much rather be found atop Mt. Washington as a naked ice cube with a hard-on than in a friend's bathroom with my brains all over the wall. To change the subject, I gotta say you got a GOOD ONE when you found Jess. I mean it. I've made nearly 100 copies of that DVD that did work (a few didn't and I'm sorry yours was one) and everyone comments on the pretty redhead and her loving smile as she shaves herr hitler. But aside from that, man, it sounds like she takes a lot of your shit and gives back love, love, love. I'd keep her. I'd marry her. Of course, I'm in a marrying mood. Hopeless, but a mood nonetheless. Speaking of which, what does Jess think about my Jessica/Eric story? Does she think I did the right thing? I get about fifty-fifty out here, half say I shoulda been more manly and "taken" her because she was so shy and couldn't make a break herself. Oh, what the FUCK am I talking about? This was supposed to be in reference to mustard gas and the Superbowl. Congratulations by the way. A-fucking-mazing. Go Patriots. As for mustard, like the Dali Lama said to the NYC hot dog vendor, "Make me one with everything." I'm dead tired, the kerosene is about to run out and the allied forces are closing in. It's time to snuggle up with Eva here in the bunker, pull the trigger, and put this Final Solution to bed. Zig Higher, Cuzn Scarecrow   Copyright 2005 Richard McKinney All Rights Reserved (Just ask & I'll likely let you reprint anything!)