Nature wants to eat us!

This post has been a long time in the making. Not necessarily for any difficulty of content, rather a fairly large helping of lazy on my part. I've waited long enough that I had to look through the pictures to even see what the crap I was even going to write. :)

Who here likes chain link fences? They're great for things like keeping your little poopstacker dogs in your own yard, and keeping the neighbor's toddler from going tits up in your pool. They also can be used to keep the bad people out of or inside places, or keep a pop fly from beaning you in the face.

I was made aware of another use recently. Chain link fencing is used to keep giant cats from gnawing on your children, and violating your ass, as they clearly are want to do. All at an arms length away. Welcome to the Exotic Feline Rescue Center!

As people started to queue up for a tour, it started to become apparent that this place is NOT here for the benefit of moron public like myself to meander through with a hot dog and coke, like a normal zoo. This place was built for the benefit of protecting these animals, most of which were taken from black market sellers or or psychos trying to lead a rockstar life by having a fucking tiger in their 2 bedroom apartment. This is a fantastic place, and please go there to throw cash at their donation jar!

Our group ended up being my wife and I, our 3 kids, a friend couple and their 4, and about 5 other miscellaneous people we didn't know. Our guide lady started us off looking at the start up stuff, telling us obvious things like 100% handholding on kids, and stay arms-length away from the fences. We then start walking and round the 1st bend.

Above is the 1st thing we see. A giant ass male lion right up against the fence, not 3 feet away. Actually, it was 3 lions, just they're so big and we were so close, you can only see the one. Pants shitting terror was about to set in, and here's why.

See, this dude is the King of the Jungle. While humans are walking around the mall all mushroomed out of their pants and complaining about Orange Julius not being there anymore, lions are rocking the Serengeti. Lions have no reason to not sink their teeth in to any one's ass, so long as it's to their convenience. Conversely, I have a hard time catching our little faggy dog when he poops on the Barbie rug in my girls' room. I have pizza delivered, because it's such a chore to drive there myself. Making one from scratch is out of the question, and screw you for even thinking that!

So all the power, performance, teeth, and nails are now sitting opposite a fence, and it was not happy we were there. He starts off with this super deep huffing sound, "making us aware of his presence" as the lady says. It's as subtle as a semi blaring it's horn as it's driving over your chest, so you know it's there. I got it Mufasa, you're right there, and I'm not looking at anything else.

In his eyes though, we weren't as aware of his presence as he saw fit, so he does this kickass ninja instant leap from a laying position to a standing and directly facing us position, and lets out this MGM roar! You could feel the pressure in your chest, as well as the pressure being relieved in your pants. Meanwhile the lady is doing her best to calmly get us to start walking the fuck away. Sadly though the 5 other people were pretty much dumbstruck at this point, not moving a muscle, which in lion speak is "hey you big pussy! I'm still here! Neener neener!"

The lion then reared up and smacked the fence, pushing it out a fair amount, and digging at the ground. That's when the owner dude comes running along the path yelling "this would be a good time to move the FUCK along people!" He then did a bit of ass-chewing to the guide, with good reason obviously.

So we carry on, not 10 minutes into the tour, and our 1st real shock already out of the way, we're ready to see what else may want to have us for dinner. As we come to the next area, we're told that one of the tigers we are about to see likes to spray people. I'm not the sharpest sandwich in the deck, so after a few minutes of trying to figure out why exactly they would let the tiger run the water hose, it dawned on me that she don't mean water, she means that ass-spray territory marking juice. We're warned if we see the tail go up, to run to the side, not directly away, as it'll go about 10 feet. She did try to lighten the mood saying if you do get hit, it kind of smells like popcorn. I have a hard time believing anything out of the business end of a tiger smells like that.

This dude above was really cool, he came down from a perch to the fence and just walked back and forth. I can see why people would want to try the whole pet aspect, as they are really cool, but having a 500 pound cat doesn't seem like it would work out. This one was rescued from a meth lab. Not sure if he was a guard tiger, but that seems like it would be overkill. It's not like you can pop in to Pet Smart and get some Iams Ginormous Cat - Hairball Formula food.

Oh, I found out why he liked to walk. The lady pointed out to me that it was casing my kids.

See the excitement on their faces. "Smile for the camera guys, pay no attention to the death in the cage behind you." Mary blinked, she has no focus.

As we were leaving that area, the ass-hose kitty was flopped over on his back, with his belly against the chain link fencing. He was sporting a very impressive Red Rocket, dangling though the fence, that unfortunately I wasn't able to get a good shot of. Since my Blackberry doesn't have any zoom that's worth a crap, I would have had to walk over to that cage, with the express purpose of snapping a tiger dong picture. I didn't want to be labelled "that guy that took a picture of the tiger dong" in all the stories the strangers in the group would later tell their friends, so I just cursed under my breath at the missed opportunity.

The next few sites were uneventful, other than being really cool to look at. I wish I had a better camera other than my Blackberry, so you'll have to deal with the crappy pictures.

Another big ass lion.

This dude was chilling out in his personal pool. It was hot as fuck that day.

Just so people can appreciate how close you are to these cages, I was just shy of arms length from this. I had my phone up to my face so the head would fit in the shot, as directly behind me was another fence, and another tiger.

As a side note, one really cool aspect of this site is how you are essentially in between all these cages, and at any point they will start calling out to each other, letting everyone in a 5 mile radius know they are there.

Tiger sized kitty toy. This is one of those hard plastic exercise balls that's about 2 feet in diameter. You could see through it from the puncture marks. They also had 55 gallon barrels that were almost ripped in half.

Well, after a good hour or so that was the end of our trip. By the end of it everyone was happy, and we all came away with a better appreciation for these people and the work they do. With close to 140 cats at this location, they butcher up a lot of cows, horses, deer or whatnot that people donate from farms. Something like several thousand pounds a week. "Time for dinner kitty, here's your horse ass!" I get squeamish eating chicken that still has the bones in it, so I was very much out-manned by the woman that walked by with a cow femur over her shoulder.

If you're ever in the Bloomington, Indiana region and want to have a memorable trip, check the place out: https://efrc.org/

Nature's Dirty Secret

How many people here love cookies? Better yet, who's the only person in the history of baking and grandmas that does not like cookies? And by that I'm not including people that for some complete sorrow of a medical condition can't have them, nor people that may have had some tragic quasi-Pavlovian experience where cookies make them vomit and think of dead people or whatnot. No matter what you're favorite food item is, odds are it's been added to flour and sugar and baked at 350. Case in point: Green Pea Cookies

One of my favorites are plain Fig Newtons.



I love how they're not sickeningly sweet, and they're about as healthy as a cookie can be. They have that soft baked crust, real fruit filling, and that nice seed-like crunch. This may be why I don't normally feel guilty when I look down to see a complete row missing from the bag.

So while walking through Wal-Mart at 11:00pm the other night, trying my best to not make direct eye contact with all the misfits that congregate there at those hours, I stumbled upon the sun-dried fruits. They had all your normal items, like raisins, prunes, orange slices, and such. Then my eyes drifted onto something different.



Eureka! This is exactly what I want! The very source item that gives me joy, in little cake form! I read the package: "Premium Garland Figs. Sweet, sun-dried fruit." How much more tasty can a label sound? It even has some healthiness built right in, being sun dried and all. These weren't dried on some dirty conveyor belt feeding through a kiln. These were surely laying out on the sunny side of a hill. A hill with children playing off to the side, and a clean brook wandering by while exotic European women cater to the figs; flipping them, pulling stems, or gathering them into their bushel baskets. All while that's happening, 5000 miles away there's a fat dude tossing them in his Wal-Mart cart at 11:00pm, right next to the Cap'n Crunch and Bunny Bread Soft-Twist. He then goes to his house, dumps them in the fridge, then forgets about them till the next morning when he tosses them in his laptop bag to take to work as a snack.

The next morning at work, I decided to pull out these things and give them a shot. That's when I decided to do what I didn't at the store, which is look at the bottom of the package.




Good gravy! Did I just buy a package of sun-dried buttholes? And why are they all slimy looking? I thought they were sun-dried, not sun-oiled. Something tells me this is not what I had in mind. 5000 miles from here the women are starting to giggle under their breath. Ok, I figure I have to at least try one of them. If for nothing else just to better appreciate the cookies. Or something. I open the package, and take one out.



Ugh, it's all sticky! I'm now not sure if these are necessarily buttholes, or rather some kind of basted animal nut. The lid says "Product of Turkey" but I'm thinking it may be "Product of Turkeys". They do have a semi-recognizable smell though. Kind of like cramming a Fig Newton up each nostril for a day or twelve. Well, time to man up. The Turkish women are waiting with bated breath:



Ugh, why did it have to make a snap sound? I mean, it's already bad enough that unless a marching band was going to come out of it, it was going to be a downer. It's the same feeling you get when you forget to take the wrapper off of candy before you fist it in your maw. Don't deny it. A lot can happen in the time you're raising it up all the way to your mouth. Then you have that instantaneous debate with yourself on what to do next: a) toss it out and lose out on candy; b) try to fish out just the wrapper and gross out anyone looking; or c) just force your way through it, and wash it down with a cup of grit and determination. Naturally I went with "C". I hate those Turkish bitches at this point. You know, come to think of it, there's also Turkish Delight. What the hell is wrong with that country? Unless something is made from chocolate, beer, or sex, the word Delight should not be anywhere in the paragraph. Where the hell am I, Narnia?



After looking at the innards and what the little seeds look like, I'm fully expecting to have vasectomy nightmares for a few months. The rest of the figs are going in the trash.

Herskey the 5-legged Dog.

Back about Christmas time, after putting down the last of our 3 big dogs, we were lucky enough to get a freebie from my niece. He's this little ball of fire we named Herskey, and he's one of the 100's of Poodle mix little foo-foo dogs. Luckily he's all black and dark brown, so he's not a little white fluff ball. Nothing really eventful has come about from him. He's not the sharpest dog by any standards, but he can do the normal "come, sit, heal" type commands. He can make it all night without leaving any presents. Yawn.

Then, last Friday night, an epiphany came to our house. No, not the Christian holiday kind, rather the "sudden intuitive insight" kind. The kids were all finally asleep, with no more random questions like "can I have another drink?", "Is that an alien outside?, "Why do people drive cars?", or my favorite "How come mommy has all that hair on her pee-pee? When I grow up, I'm gonna shave it off!" Said hair-enshrouded pee-pee mommy and I sat down on the couch to play some Rockband on the Wii, when our little man Herskey ran over to his kennel to drag out his bed to play with, and by "play with" I mean sexing it up like he's on a plane going down and he's making it count.

Anyone with a dog knows this it just about as funny as it gets, other than when they hump your snobby friend's leg. Bonus points if they're cat people!

So after a few good minutes of laughing, we get our serious voices and are all "Herskey! NO! YOU STOP THAT!!!" Well, apparently we had been laughing too long, as he was at DEFCON 1. For those of you that don't have a dog, or didn't grow up on a farm, or were delivered this morning in a sealed bag, when a dog gets to a certain point, he gets a knot up at the top that the girl dog's who-haa will clamp down on. This is why you see dogs stuck together at the buns when they're done.

He was at this stage, and I guess it's true that all men have half their mind down there, as then thing was trying to run away all by itself. It looked like he was trying to pole vault with a breakfast sausage. Have you ever tried to blow up one of those super long balloons and as soon as it starts to fill it pokes out and you start with that little ball of air? That's what Amy said it looks like.

I asked Herskey if he could make a bunny, but he was far to disconcerted to try. The poor lad couldn't sit down, as the kickstand was in the way, so all he could do was stand there and be an erotic metronome. He started to get scared and kept wanting to jump up on Amy, who is his favorite by far, but alas she wasn't too hip on having a dog bone on her lap.

So now we're at a loss for what to do. Where's the "Dogs for Dummies" book on this topic? I mentally debated on calling the Viagra hot line number, as maybe they would have some ideas. Amy didn't seem to keen on my idea of her just finishing him off. Obviously I couldn't, as that would make us gay. The poor guy has to live his whole life looking like a faggy dog as it is. If his buddies found out he would have to move to a new school.

In the end, all it took was for me to say "let's go outside and potty!" and on the run to the door the monster went back to the swamp. We had several turtle head appearances the rest of the evening, but thankfully the lipstick never came all the way out again.

The Definition of Sexy

While looking through some old boxes the other day, I stumbled upon a gold mine. I can't even remember what I was looking for. Probably something moronic like a video game manual, but what I found has to be the most fantastically embarrassing time capsule of myself I could ever hope for. And when something is embarrassing, the best thing to do it put it on the web and have other people laugh at it. What you are about to see are the 5 shots from my senior pictures, back in the '92-'93 graduating class. For any ladies with weak constitutions or that are prone to vaginal hysteria, please proceed with caution. For the fellas, start thinking about baseball.

 

Look out local business sector, that's a red power tie speaking! This is, without a doubt, the most doofusy I have ever looked. Check out the baby mullet creeping around from the back. You'll notice the jeans peeking out from below, like I'm Uncle Jesse from Full House; too cool for the slacks.

"Look into my eyes, and you will see, what... you mean... to me...." This is apparently my "dreamy face" shot. Obviously done by someone that knows his photography, and didn't have to resort to any Glamor Shots tomfoolery with a fist up by my face.

Ok, we're kicking the sexy factor up a few notches here. We have the bedroom eyes, the gold chain, the Body Glove t-shirt, hands folded, and authentic outdoor scenery, compliments of the local 4-H horse show field. I'm wondering exactly how far to the west my part can go. I'm almost into comb-over territory as it is.  To give an example of this era, within a 5 mile radius, Motley Crue's Dr. Feelgood is being jammed to in a '84 Camaro.

Bow chicka wow wow! Man, I really don't think it gets any hotter than this! Check out those tight ass jean shorts, appropriately cuffed at that. Heaven forbid they start to fray any! Those whiter than white K-Swisses made my feet smell like dog milk cheese, but they were sure sharp back then. 

 I know what you're thinking; "How can it get any better than this!" Well, it can, and does.Here we have it. The penultimate senior picture. Sitting on the hood of my 1990 Mustang LX (25th anniversary no less). Many a street corner was power-slided around, with windows down and Guns 'N Roses blaring from the Pioneer 6x9's. Bass was in it's infancy at this time. If you young people ever wondered what pegging your jeans meant, where there you go. Not only do you get to show an additional 2 inches of high water rise, but if your good you can cut off your circulation and have your feet fall asleep. Let the fapping commence!