The Soldier was grandstanding. Again. This happened at almost every meal. They would all sit around the camp fire, eat their rations, and Soldier would tell them all about fighting battles in the Mexican-American War. They generally just let him speak, but today…
“Every conflict has its causalities,” Soldier said in conclusion of today’s tale of patriotic heroism. “I lost a boot that day. I kicked Santa Anna’s ass so hard it got stuck in there so he got to keep it.” He put on a look of great solemnity and gave his lost boot a moment of silence.
Spy, though certainly disciplined enough to have contained his disbelief like any other day, chose not to on this one. It escaped him in the form of a skeptic snort.
“Oh yeah?” Soldier said, glaring across the fire at him. “And what would a Chinaman know about fighting wars, Chopsticks?”
Spy sneered and said, “The Chinese wrote the book on war.”
This is a post I’ve thought about making many times before, but could never drag my ass along to get it done. I have finally been driven to this point, however.
Let me preface this by saying that I like my bossman a lot and that he is a pretty cool dude, so far as bossmen go. That said, however, the man has no taste whatsoever. When he bought the hotel a few years ago, he started renovating and decorating. The majority of this effort goes into the lobby.
Behold. Read more
You have R. Budd Dwyer to thank for color photos in the press being standard.
I will not hesitate to admit that I have an almost unhealthy interest in death in the media. But my heart rate won’t race for just anything. Anna Nicole Smith did nothing for me. September 11th didn’t even really do it. For me, it needs to be a personal matter, either to me or to the people directly involved.
“James Dyson,” she moaned,
“Thou art a god.
Provider and Patron Saint
Of every housewife ever
To wipe sweat from her brow.”