Nazi Daycare and Dead Rats!
Here's the all-purpose Weird Things picture dump, containing some pictures of Mathurin eating a dead rat (which you will have to click on to see, so don't worry), and some random Nazi-related strangeness.
Here you go. (It should go without saying, but won't, obviously, that if you are really strongly upset by a rat meeting its death at the claws of a "domesticated" animal, you should click the text links in the latter half with care.)
Let's begin chronologically. On Highway 51 leading out of town is a sign I've been trying to photograph for months. Sadly, it's always been rainy or dark out when we passed it. But on Thanksgiving, we were able to get a clear picture. Look out your window to your right as you pass the Rader center for juvenile delinquents, and this is what you'll see:
Let me once more draw your attention to the following, in case it slipped past you:
Some of you might think that that figure on the sign is just a "Z." Others of a more historical/pagan bent might assert that it's clearly a familiar rune.
What it is, ladies and gentlemen, is the Wolf's Hook. Half a swastika. A white supremacist symbol commonly used in the U.S. to denote businesses and such with a white-pride bent. Like a Jesus fish, with the asshole quotient increased 2,000 percent.
And before you argue with me about this, I beg you to consider that this sign sits not far outside of Yale, Oklahoma, which has one of the highest per-capita memberships in the KKK (which is only one of many white supremacist groups, I beg you to recall) of any place in the country.
Yale is also home to this godforsaken abortion:
Judge for yourself whether you believe a Nazi daycare could exist nearby. Clearly these people have no taste. Welcome to Oklahoma. I'd say "small-town Oklahoma," but that's redundant.
Anyway, I'm sorely tempted to call the number on the sign and ask if they have an opening for my son, Dauwayne Darnell Ibrahim Goldberg, since I need someone to watch my kid while I'm visiting one of his daddies in prison. I won't even go into my mental image of what would happen at a place like that.
All that said, I find the sign amusing in a really sad, sick way. Whether it really is a white power establishment or not, the fact that in this state, I could easily believe that it was, says a lot.
Fucking Nazi dipshits.
Moving on.
Now. Let me tell you a story about Mathurin.
I'm not sensitive about "cause of death = cat," but you may not want to eat while reading this.
When I was but a young pup, and Mathurin barely more than a journeyman killer, I came home from school one day to see a white plastic bag on my parents' normally immaculate front porch.
"What is this?" I asked.
Mother pointed vengefully at the bag. "That is what I found on the porch this morning. Look. Go on. Look."
I'm expecting to find . . . I don't know what. My mom has always been a little bazokko if you know what I mean, so there could have been anything in that bag.
What I found was a dead mourning dove, perfect, not a feather out of place. "Oh!" I exclaimed. "It's so beautiful!"
"Your cat did that. Just look what he did!"
"But the body is perfect. How do you know it was -- eeeeeUUURRRGH!"
Because I'd pulled it out of the bag and turned it over. The upper right side of its head was gone, leaving nothing but the empty skull, which had been licked out clean like an eggshell. I couldn't help it. I began laughing. It was just like him, that nasty little killer.
Well, that became his trademark. He would kill squirrels, rats, birds, mice, rabbits, anything he could get his claws into. And he would eat their brains. So he became known as Mathurin, Eater of Heads. This is but one of many lame reasons that I love the movie "The Relic." Because clearly the monster, which munches human heads like Tootsie-Pops, is some sort of relative.
Mathurin continued this legacy of decapitation throughout his long stay at my parents' house, but his infamous career was cut short when we brought him home to live out the rest of his ungainly life cradled gently upon our bosoms.
Which brings me to the present.
After we went to see the Narnia movie, we were hungry. Into the kitchen Sargon went, only to hear a horrid sort of gnashing coming from within the curtained breakfast nook. There was, furthermore, a suspicious absence of Mathurin, who usually sharks about our ankles whenever we venture anywhere near the kitchen, screaming at the top of his lungs. This is because he is always hungry. Clearly. Because he will eat anything.
That was when Sargon noticed the bloodstain.
And behind the curtain, what should he find? A guilty face, hunched over the grisly spoils of his crime.
Evidently, one of the rats we breed for snake food (yeah, yeah, I'm a carnivore, my pets are carnivores, deal) escaped, and Matt caught it. And ate half of it, starting with the head. And what should my husband do but take pictures of the whole thing? Or, rather, the half thing. Warning -- THAT link leads to a rather grody picture that is probably only funny to me because, well, I'm bent.
After owning 20+ cats in the course of my life, I tend to be far more pleased than less when they kill something, and frankly, it amuses the shit out of me when they betray themselves for the soulless little eaters of flesh that they are.
So. That's the weirdness.
Oh, yeah. For those of you who always wanted to see the Men-Men bag? There's a picture here.
I now go back to writing silly porn.
Here you go. (It should go without saying, but won't, obviously, that if you are really strongly upset by a rat meeting its death at the claws of a "domesticated" animal, you should click the text links in the latter half with care.)
Let's begin chronologically. On Highway 51 leading out of town is a sign I've been trying to photograph for months. Sadly, it's always been rainy or dark out when we passed it. But on Thanksgiving, we were able to get a clear picture. Look out your window to your right as you pass the Rader center for juvenile delinquents, and this is what you'll see:
Let me once more draw your attention to the following, in case it slipped past you:
Some of you might think that that figure on the sign is just a "Z." Others of a more historical/pagan bent might assert that it's clearly a familiar rune.
What it is, ladies and gentlemen, is the Wolf's Hook. Half a swastika. A white supremacist symbol commonly used in the U.S. to denote businesses and such with a white-pride bent. Like a Jesus fish, with the asshole quotient increased 2,000 percent.
And before you argue with me about this, I beg you to consider that this sign sits not far outside of Yale, Oklahoma, which has one of the highest per-capita memberships in the KKK (which is only one of many white supremacist groups, I beg you to recall) of any place in the country.
Yale is also home to this godforsaken abortion:
Judge for yourself whether you believe a Nazi daycare could exist nearby. Clearly these people have no taste. Welcome to Oklahoma. I'd say "small-town Oklahoma," but that's redundant.
Anyway, I'm sorely tempted to call the number on the sign and ask if they have an opening for my son, Dauwayne Darnell Ibrahim Goldberg, since I need someone to watch my kid while I'm visiting one of his daddies in prison. I won't even go into my mental image of what would happen at a place like that.
All that said, I find the sign amusing in a really sad, sick way. Whether it really is a white power establishment or not, the fact that in this state, I could easily believe that it was, says a lot.
Fucking Nazi dipshits.
Moving on.
Now. Let me tell you a story about Mathurin.
I'm not sensitive about "cause of death = cat," but you may not want to eat while reading this.
When I was but a young pup, and Mathurin barely more than a journeyman killer, I came home from school one day to see a white plastic bag on my parents' normally immaculate front porch.
"What is this?" I asked.
Mother pointed vengefully at the bag. "That is what I found on the porch this morning. Look. Go on. Look."
I'm expecting to find . . . I don't know what. My mom has always been a little bazokko if you know what I mean, so there could have been anything in that bag.
What I found was a dead mourning dove, perfect, not a feather out of place. "Oh!" I exclaimed. "It's so beautiful!"
"Your cat did that. Just look what he did!"
"But the body is perfect. How do you know it was -- eeeeeUUURRRGH!"
Because I'd pulled it out of the bag and turned it over. The upper right side of its head was gone, leaving nothing but the empty skull, which had been licked out clean like an eggshell. I couldn't help it. I began laughing. It was just like him, that nasty little killer.
Well, that became his trademark. He would kill squirrels, rats, birds, mice, rabbits, anything he could get his claws into. And he would eat their brains. So he became known as Mathurin, Eater of Heads. This is but one of many lame reasons that I love the movie "The Relic." Because clearly the monster, which munches human heads like Tootsie-Pops, is some sort of relative.
Mathurin continued this legacy of decapitation throughout his long stay at my parents' house, but his infamous career was cut short when we brought him home to live out the rest of his ungainly life cradled gently upon our bosoms.
Which brings me to the present.
After we went to see the Narnia movie, we were hungry. Into the kitchen Sargon went, only to hear a horrid sort of gnashing coming from within the curtained breakfast nook. There was, furthermore, a suspicious absence of Mathurin, who usually sharks about our ankles whenever we venture anywhere near the kitchen, screaming at the top of his lungs. This is because he is always hungry. Clearly. Because he will eat anything.
That was when Sargon noticed the bloodstain.
And behind the curtain, what should he find? A guilty face, hunched over the grisly spoils of his crime.
Evidently, one of the rats we breed for snake food (yeah, yeah, I'm a carnivore, my pets are carnivores, deal) escaped, and Matt caught it. And ate half of it, starting with the head. And what should my husband do but take pictures of the whole thing? Or, rather, the half thing. Warning -- THAT link leads to a rather grody picture that is probably only funny to me because, well, I'm bent.
After owning 20+ cats in the course of my life, I tend to be far more pleased than less when they kill something, and frankly, it amuses the shit out of me when they betray themselves for the soulless little eaters of flesh that they are.
So. That's the weirdness.
Oh, yeah. For those of you who always wanted to see the Men-Men bag? There's a picture here.
I now go back to writing silly porn.