Has Gearhart Chevrolet Discovered Doug Bulna's Sabotage Yet? (1-year!)

[Tucker]

I'm headin to do one of Doug Bulna's favorite activity, shooting. I have some chrono and ballistic expansion testing to do.

Dainbramaged, this is for you...

(He hates guns with a passion.)

[JohnnyReb]

My parents were commenting on the 'wooly bears' (a caterpillar that has fur on it--supposedly, the color of the fur is the indicator of a severe winter, not the length of said fur) they had seen last weekend, at a combined family birthday party on Sunday.  They said that the things were really dark this year.  Winter is supposed to suck here.

They call them 'wooly worms' here and the older folks swore by them and their ability to foretell the winter weather. Something about the number of rings, color, closeness of some ring to another or something. By the time I figure out what the "wooly worm" prediction is, winter will be over so I just muddle through. What else can you do......idle your SUV all winter?

[GOBUCKS]

I wonder if our pal Doug donated to the Dawes 2013 Victory Fund.

With ten more dollars he could have gone over fifty votes.

[franksolich]

Well, I wonder what kind of day it is in urban northern New Jersey.  If it's one of those blustery autumn days, one hopes the brain-damaged primitive remembers to put fifty cents in his pocket, so that while pounding the pavements looking for a job, he can take a break and have a cup of coffee at the neighborhood drug store.

I gave up trying to follow the weather; what accuweather tells me via the internet isn't the same weather over there as what the New York City newspapers say it is in the brain-damaged primitive's locale.

This is one of the reasons I wish the brain-damaged primitive would resume hanging around Skins's island, so as to illuminate us about his weather.

It's a big wonderful world out there, with lots of different things, and it's nice to learn as much as possible about it.

- - - - - - - - - -

Yesterday, Tuesday, while polishing up the pre-written memorial to the brain-damaged primitive, I decided that if he doesn't show up on Skins's island to explain and apologize to his fellow primitives by Thanksgiving, one might as well declare him presumably dead, most likely from an apoplexic stroke striking him down when he was compelled to listen to an opinion that disagreed with his.

And then I'd use this pre-written memorial as one of the two awards he's likely to get in the Top DUmmies of 2013 competition.

- - - - - - - - - -

Yesterday, when I was traveling around with the business partner, he suddenly announced we were stopping somewhere.  He told me where and why, but I wasn't paying attention, and so didn't "get it."   But as he's who he is, I figure it was okay, copacetic, cool with me, where we were going and why.

We drove outside of Pierce, past the country club, and pulled up into that field that two weeks ago was cluttered with rusty old cars and trucks.  There were still some metallic caracasses around, even though the successful bidders had only ten days after the auction to get their stuff out of there, and that deadline was more than a week ago.

The business partner told me there were still seventy-one vehicles there (out of more than 500 that had been there), even though all vehicles had been sold.

"Great," I said; "these people paid thousands of bucks for pieces of rust, and just abandoned them....."

Not quite, he said; because of distance and logistics, some successful bidders had made arrangements with the seller, that they'd just strip their vehicles of the parts they wanted, leaving everything else to be picked up by a scrap-metal dealer from eighty miles south of here.

He told me again why he wanted to see it, but I wasn't paying attention, and so didn't "get it."

- - - - - - - - - -

While walking around, I ran into a guy, who told me his name, that he was 55 years old, a truck driver, and from Colorado.  I "caught" everything but his name.   He also told me what he was doing out there, but I omitted to "catch" that, too. 

If one's deaf, one's fortunate indeed if he can "get" more than a tenth of the information that's given him.

He was wearing a jacket that said CIRCLE OF SILENCE.  I asked him what that was, and he said it's a motorcycle club in southern Denver.

Aha, I thought, a biker.  Someone worth my while communicating with.

I asked him specific questions about the political situation in Colorado--after all, he's right there on the ground--and he told me that there's a third liberal Democrat state senator there who's being recalled; in fact, it's his own state senator, from just south and east of Denver.

That was good news, and I asked what the prospects are.  He said one can be reasonably confident there's a new (R) state senator going to the state capitol.

[franksolich]

Well, well, here it is, Thursday, October 17; it's been a very long time since the brain-damaged primitive shot off his big mouth and suffered the consequences.  Walrus-face has made a few brief appearances on Skins's island since then, but thus far no explanation, no apology to the primitives he abused.

The slob might've been celebrating yesterday, what with all that happened in Washington, and the U.S. senatorial election in New Jersey.  He might as well enjoy it while it lasts, because it's not going to last very long.  The primitives have no idea the consequences of what happened in Washington, and when they begin to feel them, they're not going to like them.

Too bad for the primitives.

And as for the new senator from New Jersey, that was hardly a surprise.  It's nothing more than another indication of the sheer rot and gangrene of Democrat machine politics, and the brain-damaged primitive is part of that dead flesh.

That doesn't explain, however, why he's persisted in living--he rents, he doesn't own a home--in the reddest county in the state.....and gripes about it constantly.....when one's sure he'd be far more comfortable in one of the blue machine areas, preferably one with strict firearms control.

It's always been puzzling, this contradiction.

- - - - - - - - - - -

Now, since there's always lots and lots of readers from urban northern New Jersey checking this thread at least once a day, sometime later today I hope to start a new series on this thread, to illuminate them while we're sitting around waiting for walrus-face to explain and apologize to his fellow primitives.

There's a great many decent and civilized people in urban northern New Jersey who like the Great Outdoors.

But oddly, they don't know much, if anything, about hunting, fishing, camping, hiking, in the Sandhills of Nebraska.  The Sandhills have about 20,000 people in an area larger than the whole of New Jersey, and there's more of them on the edges, than in the interior (franksolich himself grew up in the interior, but currently lives on the edge with the "Lewis & Clark" area).

This is "odd," because next to Nebraskans, New Jerseyians own more of Nebraska than people from any other state.  I dunno why this is, but it's been this way since the 1860s.  Even people from New York City (Wall Street) and Boston (State Street), have never owned as much of Nebraska, as corporate shareholders who reside in New Jersey.

Even a vast stretch of land adjacent to this property has belonged to New Jersey interests since 1948, when two guys showed up here, Meyer and Alberto, and paid for the land with U.S. currency.  They were here but one time, that single time sixty-five years ago, and no one representing the owners has been around since.  However, their title to this idle farmland remains good, because two times a year, the county treasurer receives a check for the property taxes from a law firm in New Jersey, representing certain Italianate interests there.

The land's been sitting idle, flourishing with wild growth and wild life.  I'm the only person who lives near it, and I'm never sure how to handle things when someone wishes to intrude upon it.  It is after all someone else's property, and maybe they don't want people trespassing on it.  Generally, I let people I personally know onto it, and discourage people I don't know by reminding them the property's owned by people who have rather, uh, extreme methods of dealing with people they don't want around.

The county sheriff assures me that's about the best one can do.  He's never received a complaint from faraway New Jersey about trespassers, but still, it's best to limit access to it.

When I get done writing a series about hunting, fishing, camping, hiking, in the Sandhills of Nebraska, I hope to do a piece on the fine Italianate cuisine that one can find out here in the middle of nowhere.

While waiting for the brain-damaged primitive to grow some balls, one might as well do something constructive, and this appears as good an idea as anything else.

[JohnnyReb]

Damn Frank, you make me hungry for some catfish stew and saltine crackers.

[franksolich]

Well, here it is, mid-afternoon, and walrus-face has yet to show his mug, explaining and apologizing to his fellow primitives for his boorish conduct.  I mean, he’s shown his face for brief moments, but he hasn’t done a damned bit of explaining and apologizing.

I’m suddenly reminded how the brain-damaged primitive hates guns and the second amendment, and decided I’d write about that first, before illuminating our guests from urban northern New Jersey about hunting here in the Sandhills of Nebraska.

That’s another odd contradiction about the sad-faced blubbery whale; if he hates guns so much, why doesn’t he live somewhere in New Jersey with the strictest local gun-control laws, such as, one assumes, Camden or Newark?  I’ve heard (but whether correctly or not, I don’t know) that their local gun-control laws make it impossible to own a firearm, and so one reasonably assumes these cities don’t have many, if any, guns around.

If I were the brain-damaged primitive, I’d be checking the newspaper advertisements, for an apartment to rent in those gun-free zones.  And rents are probably cheaper there too.

- - - - - - - - - - -

This is no surprise to anybody here, but it might be a surprise to our guests from urban northern New Jersey that while franksolich is an enthusiastic supporter of the right to bear arms, I’ve never owned a gun in my life.  In fact, I’m probably the only adult male in this whole county who doesn’t have a gun.

It’s simply a matter of ability, temperament, and skills.

If one’s deaf, there’s problems with balance, spatial perception, and patience, and those things have to be pretty sharp if one’s to be good at using a firearm.  I know that most of all, I’m not a patient person.

My self-defense skills lie in my talent at wielding an S/K adjustable wrench with a 1-3/8” spannage and a 17” handle.  Nothing’s ever happened--in my entire life--that I’ve ever had to use such a tool thusly, but I rather suspect I can crumble a malicious person’s skull with it, if I had to.

So even though I don’t own one myself, I’m just as avidly pro-gun as the next guy.

- - - - - - - - - -

My chief exposure to firearms was when I was in college, the University of Nebraska, and working for a wholesale hardware distributor.  An older brother had gotten me the job, pointing out that besides being a responsible, dependable, conscientious person who paid attention to intricate detail, I wasn’t interested in firearms; bored to death by them.

Eighteen-year-old franksolich was exactly, precisely, the sort of person the president of the company wanted for this job, and I was immediately hired.  The company at the time had about seventy employees (fifteen in the office, all the others in the warehouse), and I reported directly to the president, bypassing all other channels.

The place where the firearms, ammunition, and sporting goods were kept was a set-apart, secured area.  Only the president, one of the two foremen, and I had keys to it.  I was the only one allowed to receive, check in, and ship out, anything from that particular area.

It involved more paperwork than any manual labor; sheaves of paperwork, lots of trees.

The brands I recall at the moment--this after all was a very long time ago--included Beretta, Herstal, Browning, Colt, Remington, Great Western, Marlin, Winchester, Barrett, Savage, Smith & Wesson, Springfield, Sturm-Ruger, Benelli, Troy, but there surely were more than that--even though I was the only checker-in and sender-out, it was a major part of the business.  Besides the vastly lucrative sportsman’s market, the business also supplied various law-enforcement agencies.

While the domestic firearms were packed pretty good, the foreign-made ones were packed solid, the weight of the materials (usually wood and grease and steel straps) far exceeding the weight of the individual instrument itself, and pasted with several customs stamps.

Many--not all, but many--of them arrived coated in grease; I was told this was for fingerprint detection (I dunno if that was true or not), and I was always really nervous about those.

Even though the area was restricted, myself being one of only three people with a key, while I was working there, it of course was unlocked, and shortly after someone else had spied a pallet of newly-arrived firearms on the receiving dock, I got visitors, ostensibly taking coffee-breaks when it was nowhere near break-time.

These were guys who’d been with the company for years, and many of them were good friends of my older brother, and myself being a green 18-year-old kid, I could no more keep them out than I could stop the tides.  They’d come in, and of the boxes I’d opened--they never touched anything until after I did--they took the instruments out to examine them.  And then if there was more than one of them, they’d have a cigarette and sit around comparing the virtues of each one.

I dunno how it was avoided, but no illicit fingerprints were ever detected on the goods.  As far as I know.

- - - - - - - - - -

The company hosted a big Christmas party every year at the Elk’s Lodge, and gave out presents that one “won” through a lottery.  In this kinder and gentler age, such presents weren’t old inventory or overstocks or cheap goods; they were prime quality hardware goods, anything from the latest Corningware eight-place settings to the top-of-the-line Black & Decker power tools to 24-piece sets of Stanley hand-tools to new-model Sunbeam appliances to Briggs & Stratton walking lawn-mowers.  &c., &c., &c.

And yes, firearms, exactly three of those each year.

It was most peculiar--even though it was a “lottery”--every year I worked there (I worked there five years), I won a firearm.  In all honesty, I would’ve preferred winning something I could use, but the biggest present I always got (everybody “won” one big present and two or three small ones) was a firearm.

And of course it couldn’t be given to me, because I had no firearms license.

The first year, I won a Winchester shotgun, and managed to trade it with another guy for his 128-piece S/K socket-wrench set.  The second year, I won a Browning automatic, and fortunately managed to trade it with another guy for his 32-piece set of S/K large adjustable wrenches.  The third year, I won a Winchester--but whether a rifle or shotgun, I no longer remember--and in no time managed to trade it with another guy for a 64-piece set of S/K combination wrenches.  And on it went, for five years.

- - - - - - - - - -

So…..that was my major experience with firearms; I was always much more interested in being sure the serial numbers were correct, than what sort of instrument it was.

“My” area also included hunting, fishing, and sporting goods, but those lines constantly changed, and so I really didn’t bother learning anything about them, just so I was checking in, and shipping out, the right stuff.

The last Christmas Eve that I worked there, it was during morning coffee-break that day when I abruptly realized I hadn’t gotten a Christmas present yet.  After the parents and younger brother died, the older siblings and I drew names for Christmas presents.  There were a lot of us, and it included the nephews and in-laws, making fifteen of us.  It was a lot easier just to have each person buy one other person a present.

That Christmas, I’d drawn the name of my then-four-year-old nephew.

There was a problem, because I was the one who shut down the whole business on holiday eves (it always closed at noon), the last person to leave, turning out all the lights and locking all the doors.  Also, the big family get-together was 400 miles away, and one of my older brothers was coming by circa noon to pick up the present I was supposed to give.

(I didn’t do holidays with the older brothers and sisters and their families, especially not the religious holidays; they were all much older than I was, and we had little in common anyway.  They’d all turned out hippies, liberals, and Democrats, and I’d turned out the way I’d turned out.  I either stayed home alone or went to my grandmother’s in northeastern Pennsylvania instead.)

I wasn’t going to be able to get away, and what could a wholesale hardware business possibly have, that would be of interest for a four-year-old?

By chance, after coffee-break, some errand took me to the top floor of the building, the “attic,” where discontinued and written-off inventory was stored.  I passed by a pallet on which were stacked cases, circa 3' x 4’ x 2.5’ cardboard boxes, of duck decoys, six per case.  When I approached the buyer to inquire of a price, he told me they’d been up there since 1949, and he was surprised anyone’d be interested in buying them.

Because he liked me, and because they’d been written off a long time ago, he quoted ten bucks.

There were twelve cases on the pallet, and of course they were all dust-covered, dirt-covered, bat-excresence-covered, mouse-droppings-covered (but what was inside was still brand-new, remember; the cases had never been opened).  The boxes on top had caved-in lids, and they all bulged.  I dug out the squarest case, and took that one.

When my brother showed up at the loading-dock to pick up my present to take to the family gathering, he was startled at what I’d expected him to take.  Such a very big box, covered with all this crud and junk.  â€œYou could’ve at least wrapped it,” he complained; “it’s going to make the inside of my car dirty” (it was too large to fit into the trunk).

My co-workers scoffed and guffawed at the idea.  â€œThis little kid’s going to see this great big dirty old box, and then when he opens it up, it’s just going to be duck decoys.  Some sort of uncle you are.”

Well, I did the best I could, I pointed out.

[franksolich]

Well, here it is, Friday morning, October 18, and walrus-face never did show up on Skins’s island to explain and apologize to his fellow primitives.  He might have shown up there, but he sure didn’t grow any balls and make a clean breast of things.

I swear, this guy makes the Cowardly Lion seem ferocious.

I imagine right now, he’s doing any of the following: (a) drawing unemployment and food stamps, (b) applying for social security disability, (c) applying for early social security retirement (he’s right at that age where he can), (d) setting up a home-based computer consulting (or whatever) business, (e) not applying for a real job anywhere, and (f) feeling sorry for himself.

I know for sure he’s doing (f).

If the brain-damaged primitive’s doing (d), he’s got to be careful.  Given his record with the Internal Revenue Service, in which he tried to get away with something about ten years ago and didn’t, I’m sure the IRS is keeping close tabs on him. 

The easiest way to stay out of that sort of trouble is simply by being honest and forthright in reporting one’s income. 

But of course walrus-face is a primitive; if he’s doing (d), he’s probably going to try something again, thinking he’s smarter than the IRS.  Primitives are like that; they’re actually the stupidest people on the planet, but they think they’re the smartest people in the entire galaxy.

No matter how many times they learn no, they’re not.

And if he’s drawing unemployment and food stamps, he’d probably better be reporting his (d) income to the state of New Jersey too.  Every cent of it, not just a little bit of it; the corrupt Democrat machines need all the dough they can get.

- - - - - - - - - -

Later today I’ll post the comments regarding hunting in the Sandhills of Nebraska, so as to illuminate all the good people of urban northern New Jersey who’ve been visiting this thread.  Maybe about suppertime.

And then after that, fishing in the Sandhills of Nebraska, camping in the Sandhills of Nebraska, hiking in the Sandhills of Nebraska, and the fine Italianate cuisine available in the Sandhills of Nebraska.

[GOBUCKS]

If Doug chooses (d), to market his jaw-dropping computer skills, he's got a few small problems. He cannot under any circumstances allow a prospective client to see the crude mess of a site that he oversaw at Gearhart Chevrolet, he has to hide his elementary-school photoshop efforts, and above all he has to avoid allowing them to google his name.

Doug's career as a computer whiz has sprouted some substantial roadblocks.

Doug's situation stands in constrast to that of a fellow DUmmy in another east coast hellhole, Rob McGrath. While Doug at one time, maybe twenty-five years ago, had a marketable skill, McGrath has never been anything but a wastrel.

But now, in their sixties, they're in similar straits. Both are unemployed and unemployable, dependent on a dole of one kind or another. In both cases, democratness has condemned them to useless indolence in their declining years.

[franksolich]

The evil twin Atman's about ten years younger than the brain-damaged primitive, but his hair's thinning considerably, so he might as well be older.

I'm not sure the nature of the computer work the brain-damaged primitive used to do--Tucker would know--but I think it involved locating hard-to-find automotive parts.

It's my understanding that stuff like web-page design takes creativity, an attribute generally absent in primitives, who think only along narrow rigid lines instead of letting their imagination run rampant.

We know for sure the brain-damaged primitive has no creativity, no imagination, because he shuts off anything contrary to what he wants to hear, see, and experience.

[Gern]

Kick for that next job interview he has that does a background investigation on him 

[Skul]

Walrus-face would have gotten away with it, if it wasn't for those pesky Cavers and their dog. 

[franksolich]

Oops, my apologies especially to our guests from urban northern New Jersey, who’d probably been hoping for a description of hunting in the Sandhills of Nebraska as I’d promised yesterday.  I was sidetracked, and I promise it’ll show up on Saturday sometime.

The femme, who lives in the big city, unexpectedly came, and we went out to dine at the bar in town.

Swede, the cook of Norwegian derivation whose specialty is Italianate cuisine, wasn’t working--he’d gone somewhere with his wife, who owns and runs the bar (I was told where, but I didn’t catch it)--and so Yashoda from the big city, who works at the country club there, was substituting.

I had my usual, a hamburger well done, pressed down hard on the grill so as to squeeze out every drop of grease, while the femme chowed down on Yashoda‘s famous brathühnchen, speckpfannkuchen, kartoffelsalat, calenberger pfannenschlag, grumbeersupp un quetschekuche; for a drink, apfelwein, and for dessert, prinzregententorte.

The femme can put down tons of food without gaining an ounce; she’s actually very petite, like Nancy Reagan.  She’s slender and blonde and short, circa 5’8”, her only aesthetic flaw being that she tends to develop freckles in the summer.  (But nobody’s perfect; she after all goes out with a guy absent ears.)

She has breasts exactly proportional to her size, like a couple of those paper oil-spouts one finds at gasoline stations but not quite as high.  And they’re solid too; nothing at all like the sagging jugs of primitive women, which resemble gigantic elongated watermelons pendulously hanging downward.

[Tucker]

Shame on you for enticing the broke primitive AKA Doug Bulna with your vivid description of a female. Without a job, how is he going to persuade a woman to spend an evening with him? He's so poor that even Bobo the Hobo would turn him down.

Maybe it's a good thing that NJ legalized fag marriage. It doubles his chances for a date on Sat. night.

[franksolich]

Well, the brain-damaged primitive made an appearance on Skins’s island this morning, but he neglected to explain and apologize things to his fellow primitives, nearly all of whom he’d abused and mistreated the past ten or so years.

The brain-damaged primitive may have learned now that words have consequences, and so it’s probably time for him to learn that words not spoken have consequences too.

This guy is a real piece of work.

To put it mildly; it’d be easier to train a rock to jump through a hoop.

- - - - - - - - - -

Okay, now as promised our good visitors from urban northern New Jersey, a description of hunting in the Sandhills of Nebraska.  Now, hunting’s popular in all areas of the state, but this pertains only to hunting in the Sandhills (see map of Nebraska in previous comment).

The Sandhills are more rough, more raw, than all the other areas of Nebraska.

Now, despite the popularity of hunting, franksolich has never hunted in his life.  

When I was seven years old, my three older brothers, teenagers, took me pheasant-hunting in the Platte River lowlands, where at the time my family lived.  I don’t remember much about it, other than that I didn’t much care for it.

The following year, when I was eight years old, the older brothers decided to take my younger brother, then six years old.  I had no interest in going along, but I was put out that I hadn’t been invited.

“You’re too much trouble,” one of the older brothers said; “you make too much noise.”

“No I don’t,” I insisted; “I didn’t make any noise at all last year.”

“Oh yes you did,” another older brother said; “you made so much noise they could probably hear you down in Kansas.”

“No way,” I answered; “I didn’t make any noise at all.  You told me to be quiet, and so I was quiet.  I never said a word; I didn’t even whisper anything.  I was as quiet as a dead fish.”

“You made lots of noise,” the third older brother came back.

“How did I make noise?  I didn’t say anything.”

And thus at the late age of eight years, I finally learned that what comes out of human mouths is not the only sounds that exist.  I had no idea, for example, that stepping on brittle twigs made noise.

- - - - - - - - - - -

The second, and very last, time I went hunting, I was in college.  Several former college roommates from Colorado were back, and wanted to go pheasant-hunting.  I lined them up with another former college roommate, who had a farm in southeastern Nebraska.

I had no intention of accompanying them, but they insisted I had to; they hadn’t just come for hunting, but to visit me too.

I pointed out there was a Nebraska football game on television that weekend (this was back when a team could be in a televised game only five times every two years).  They said they’d be done in time for the game.

As I’d figured there’d be, that Saturday morning was cold and damp, with a sharp breeze.  There’d been a snowstorm some days before, and the snow hadn’t all melted yet.  We went down into the southeastern corner of Nebraska, to the farm, and walked around all morning.  I was quiet, although it was an ordeal trying to be so while stumbling through the corn-stumps and furrows.  

I was inadequately dressed for the weather, and refused to don one of those bright orange vests (after all, I wasn’t doing any hunting myself), because in one, I looked about as stupid as the brain-damaged primitive in a bright orange vest.  I was very sensitive about appearances and propriety.

They did reasonably well, the three visitors and the farmer host bagging eleven birds.

When we got back to the farmhouse, I was frozen stiff, and immediately headed to the beer in the refrigerator so as to warm up.  By the time the football game started, I was passed out.

If one wants poultry, it’s just easier, cleaner, and cheaper to get it at the grocery store.

- - - - - - - - - -

Anyway, in autumn, in the Sandhills of Nebraska, one can hunt pheasants, quail, grouse, partridges, rail, snipe, woodcock, doves, squirrels, cottontail rabbits, jackrabbits, turkeys, Canadian geese, dark geese, white-faced geese, teal, ducks, red foxes, beavers, mink, muskrats, skunks, badgers, weasels, raccoons, opossums, coyotes, elk, bighorn sheep, deer, antelope, and this year only, mountain lions.

I dunno how hunting licenses in Nebraska compare in cost, with hunting licenses elsewhere, other than if one’s not a resident of Nebraska, he gets charged through the teeth for one.  I dunno the specifics of the firearms laws in Nebraska, but as it seems just about everybody has at least one gun, the laws are probably pretty lenient.

Which is the way it should be.

After high school and orphanhood, I left the Sandhills and moved to Lincoln and later, Omaha.  Hunting was not part of my personal observation until I moved out here twelve years ago (to this specific property, eight years ago), on the eastern edge of the Sandhills.

- - - - - - - - - -

I live way out in the middle of nowhere, on a property that had been uninhabited for nineteen years before I arrived.  The nearest neighbor is six miles away.  The western boundary of this vast spread is the Elkhorn River.  The land is not farmed or ranched, I assume for agricultural-subsidy purposes.  (After all, the late Joseph Kennedy and the Bostonian Billionaire are not the only people who can maneuver themselves into tax-free situations.)

The land is just left alone, to do whatever the land wishes to do.

Before I came out here the autumn of 2005, nobody had paid attention to this place, for two reasons.  There’s more than enough good hunting land and few enough people around here, and the ancient woman who lived here before I did didn’t like having people around.

But once I got out here, this place turned into Times Square; there’s always people around.

I don’t hunt, but I find the company of hunters agreeable (not to mention their firearms could come in handy if a primitive’s stalking franksolich).  From about October 1 clear until New Year’s Day, it’s necessary to keep a large crockpot full of beef stew, and the coffee-pot in good working order.

There’s four refrigerators in the garage stocked full of beer.  The beer belongs to the neighbor, the neighbor’s older brother, the property caretaker, and the ranch-hands who occasionally work across the road, on the other side of the William Rivers Pitt.  The beer’s kept here (I no longer drink, myself) so that the wives of these guys don’t know how much they drink.

On wet, damp, windy November mornings, this place is a handy place to be, when one’s done hunting.

Also, it’s a better place to clean one’s carcasses, than at home.

Now, I wish I could say something about deer and geese and all that, but I know nothing other than that these are just as popular (all over Nebraska, not just the Sandhills) if not more so, as pheasants.  The brain’s so congested with so much other information about so many other things, there’s no room to jam any of this in there too.

[GOBUCKS]

Shame on you for enticing the broke primitive AKA Doug Bulna with your vivid description of a female. Without a job, how is he going to persuade a woman to spend an evening with him? He's so poor that even Bobo the Hobo would turn him down.

Maybe it's a good thing that NJ legalized fag marriage. It doubles his chances for a date on Sat. night.

He's got a pretty good shot at Sarah Imaboobi.

He's broke, old, and ugly, so Amber would be swooning, but she'd need a pretty expensive bus ticket.

[franksolich]

Well, it appears the brain-damaged primitive was hanging around Skins’s island yesterday (Saturday) for a little while, and it also appears he hasn’t learned a damned thing, if not in fact being even more abusive of his fellow primitives than he’d ever been.

The guy’s an ass.

I don’t suppose he’s read Dale Carnegie’s How to Win Friends and Influence People yet, or if he is reading it, maybe it’s slow going.  After all, with only one usable eye, one can read only half as fast as the rest of us.

And it’d probably be superfluous to mention that part of his brain was amputated a few years ago, and that might present some reading problems.  Maybe the brain-damaged primitive’s to where he has to follow the words on a page with his finger, and say those words out loud, as he reads.

Also, it doesn’t look likely he’s added fiber and roughage to his diet; given the tone of his hostility to his fellow primitives, one imagines he sits on the commode half a dozen times a day, grunting and pushing and squeezing and umphing, trying to get what’s in there to descend.

Too, I don’t suppose the brain-damaged primitive’s been to church, even though it would help.

Given his ethnic origin, I suppose the brain-damaged primitive like franksolich is Roman Catholic, although a long-ago lapsed one.  He’s from that era when everybody was chomping down on hallucinogenic drugs and adopted some rather weird views of reality.

He thinks he’s pretty bright, maybe at the tip of the pyramid when it comes to intelligence.  Walrus-face probably thinks that if he can’t figure out, or grasp in some other way, something, then that something doesn’t exist.

What the brain-damaged primitive’s too stupid to see is that time, space, reality are infinite, and even the most cerebrally-packed human skull is finite.  The finite cannot comprehend the infinite.

No Albert Einstein, the brain-damaged primitive; and even Einstein had a finite capacity to see and understand things.

Bah humbug.

- - - - - - - - - -

It was foggy in the eastern foothills of the Sandhills of Nebraska this morning; winter’s coming. 

[JohnnyReb]

It was foggy in the eastern foothills of the Sandhills of Nebraska this morning; winter’s coming. 

Beautiful picture Frank.

[Tucker]

Perfect setting for "The Hounds of the Baskerville."

[freedumb2003b]

He's got a pretty good shot at Sarah Imaboobi.

He's broke, old, and ugly, so Amber would be swooning, but she'd need a pretty expensive bus ticket.

But the symmetry of linking them up would be comedy GOLD!

[freedumb2003b]

Perfect setting for "The Hounds of the Baskerville."

Lovely pic,  but it looks like a horror movie.

[franksolich]

Perfect setting for "The Hounds of the Baskerville."

Actually, what's little known is that the Sandhills of Nebraska possess some of the most dense fog in the world, and it happens like, just about every day.

London and Scotland don't have anything on us.

<<<has spent winters in London and Scotland, and so know what theirs is like.

It happens because Nebraska, especially the Sandhills, sits atop the deepest underground "sea" in the world, and it's all actually pretty close to the surface of the ground, all this water.

One notices it on the highways around here; everywhere else, especially in corrupt blue states, highways tend to break up on the surface.  Ours tend to break up underneath.

[Tucker]

With all of those bushes, it would be a DUmmies nightmare.

[BlueStateSaint]

Perfect setting for "The Hounds of the Baskerville."

Or, alternately, "The DUmmies of Battery Park."

[franksolich]

I oftentimes read myself to sleep, and last night (Sunday night) was one of those instances.  I'd closely examined the brain-damaged primitive's latest campfire, about that woman race-car driver.

Doug thinks he's hot shit, but I really wonder.

It seemed to me that, based upon vocabularial analysis, roughly, approximately, the primitive on that thread with the second-lowest IQ (intelligence quotient) would score about 10-15 points higher than the brain-damaged primitive, if they all took an IQ test.

Now, we all go through a phase in life when we think we're hot shit, smarter and brighter than everybody else.

This is okay, provided one's still young and has a long future ahead, with time enough to learn reality and to accept and adjust.  But if one has this attitude into old age, there's likely to be problems, big problems.

In the case of the brain-damaged primitive, I'm mostly concerned because I suspect that rather than looking around for a real job, he's probably trying to set up some sort of home-based computer business.

The last time he did that, he thought he was smarter than the Internal Revenue Service, and tried to get away with something.

Well, he didn't get away with it.

Usually an experience like this, and one time only, is enough to convince an ordinary person that no, one's not smarter than the Internal Revenue Service, after which that person becomes more, uh, honest and straightforward in reporting income and expenses.

But the brain-damaged primitive is a primitive, and as we all know, a primitive never learns, persisting in making the same mistakes over and over and over again.

He's gonna try to outsmart the IRS again.

I suggest he not even try, but the brain-damaged primitive doesn't pay attention to franksolich.

- - - - - - - - - -

In case one's not aware, and probably 99% of everybody's not aware and doesn't care, a month from now, on November 22, the Friday before Thanksgiving, Hollywood's releasing a movie, Nebraska.

And it was actually filmed in Nebraska.  I dunno why, but most films about Nebraska have been shot in Iowa, South Dakota, Colorado, Wyoming, and Kansas, never in Nebraska. 

Not only was Nebraska filmed in Nebraska, but it was mostly filmed right around here, on the eastern edge of the Sandhills.  About 80% of it was filmed within only miles of where franksolich lives, the remainder in southeastern Nebraska and a few parts further west, out in Wyoming.

And I almost had a part in that movie.

(Not that it was any big deal; there's so few people around here and they needed a lot of "extras," and so probably about one out of every ten inhabitants were offered bit parts.  I read somewhere the other day that 403 native "extras" made some pin-money.)

What happened the summer they were here making the movie, someone from casting spied me chitchatting with a waitress at a VFW Club, ordering a hamburger well done, pressed down hard on the grill so as to squeeze out every drop of grease, and said to his co-casting-worker, "that guy, that guy over there, now, he's the quintessential Nebraskan; he's Nebraskan to the core.  We gotta get him."

They planned on giving me a ten-second cameo role, no spoken part but the non-verbal language easily interpreted by a movie audience, as I in the background placed an order with a waitress while the two main actors in the movie dialogued in front.

Ten seconds of work, and two hundred and fifty bucks.

Not bad work, if one can get it.

But it never happened.  It almost happened, but didn't.
 
Because I disguise my deafness, the guy from casting approached me, a piece of paper in his hand, and supposing I could hear, started yakking away a mile a minute.

I had no idea what he wanted, but he seemed the sort that tries to sell Amway or other stuff that one doesn't really want, and so I brushed him aside, saying I wasn't interested.