LANGHORNE PRESENTS...

Hey Thinkers,
Welcome to my hilarious blog. Here you will meet a bunch of crazy folks that live inside my head. Mostly hateful, nasty critters, but they do make a decent point here and there.
I have one major rule (followed by an ever-expanding pantheon of minor ones): NO PERSONAL ATTACKS.
Think, disagree, argue. Don't be an asshole. My characters will take care of that. Cuss all you want but speak coherently and please proofread your comments.
These things will help you not only look smarter but help you to be taken seriously.
I welcome everyone to choose a side and rebut, refute, bandy, and bicker. Have fun with it.
Enjoy the show.

Thoughts After The Shooting In Orlando June 12, 2016


Facebook Group


The Grit in the Gullet

So we have a new mass murder, a big one, and the argument immediately begins again on gun control. The righteous shouts renew on the need for more stringent gun legislation. The counter voices erupt with shouts about cold dead hands and constitutional rights. Then there’s my small (but vibrantly masculine) voice, possibly others as well, quietly murmuring there may be a larger problem here, something more difficult to grasp, something underneath; the problem of what makes this type of disgusting act possible and why, in our day and age, does the next one seem inevitable.

I view the gun argument as unrealistic (there is no chance of wishing guns away) or at its best, a band-aid that covers an infected wound, a way of ignoring the underlying problem. The reason for this distraction seems valid and for most people it has become a necessary distraction from the larger, trickier issue. The bottom line is this mass murder and all others like it are my fault. To say it’s societies fault or the assault rifles fault or the killers fault seems disingenuous to me. When I read about these killings, I know deep down, in some fundamental way, it is my fault. But if you think I’m going down alone, you’ve got another think coming. Most of you are coming with me.

I know it’s my fault because I don’t react in horror the way I should. I know it’s my fault because I don’t care about any of the people involved the way I should. These killings affect my life in no direct or impactful way. I dread the day one of them will, but at the moment, I am still safe in my own little world. I can imagine the pain the victims, witnesses, and families were and are forced to endure. Of course I can. I’m a writer, it’s part of the job, a big part. The trouble is, for me, I keep looking past the horror of the act itself. I’m on a constant search to find the ‘why’ and in trying to find the ‘why’ I inevitably find myself standing in the spotlight and on trial.

The problem is so much more than guns or terrorism or violence in movies and video games. The problem is in the way I live day to day. Being a curmudgeon (however lovable) means I am part of the problem. It means that I’m not connected to the people around me in a positive, uplifting way. My excuse for this is that I may be a humbug, but I try to make people laugh. It’s a good excuse. It grants me carte blanche to say what I feel needs to be said. I can spread terrible truths as the sad clown.

Unfortunately, most of us are responsible for, at the very least, dipping our toes in this collective negativity. Whether it be discussing politics or religion, watching Fox News, or bitching about the boss and that weird person in the office no one likes. We contribute by not calling our moms, ignoring the homeless, and repeating the American mantra of, “that’s not my problem.”

I’m not saying we are bad people. We aren’t. None of us are. This isn’t a judgement of our character. It’s an indictment of our innate survival instinct. Even these mass murderers were innocent and naive at one point. We can’t be held responsible for the lives we have never touched and pessimism is a legitimate lifestyle. But if we just took that extra second to ask cousin so-and-so what they meant by that hateful remark or found out why that one friend won’t let anyone look in their closet or made the effort to tell the people we love how important they are to us more often, then we all, in our own tiny way, could be contributing to the end of these terrible acts.

But until we do, until I do, there won’t be any easy answers. And I, for one, am sorry for my part in it.

-LJT 2016

 

FB STUFF #4: HOT SAUCE and PEARLS

More vitriol and optimism for your reading pleasure. Like it? Don’t? Let me know in the comments.

Langhorne’s Rogues Gallery
ENEMY #57: Taco Bell Hot Sauce Packets

Let’s get a couple things square right up front. First of all, I’m a hot sauce guy. I’ve been told several times that it seems I think of food as just a vehicle to get hot sauce into my mouth. This is true…in public. One does not drink hot sauce straight from the container…in public. In private though, oh, in private I suckle on a bottle of Sriracha like a baby on the teat. I go down on Tabasco like Asia Carrera goes down on Peter North…Second, I haven’t eaten Taco Bell food sober since 1989. I assume it has some kind of flavor but I couldn’t tell you what exactly that flavor is. All I know is that it hits the spot at three in the morning and hurts like dying at eleven in the morning. Lastly, there are solutions here. I know this. Oh, this shit drives me crazy, don’t doubt that, but I could do things (I shouldn’t have to of course) like bring my own hot sauce or carry a knife. We square? Good.

Taco Bell, Taco Bell, Taco Bell. What am I going to do with you? Avoid you? Wish I could. Can’t. You call to me in the dead of night. ‘Come to me Langhorne. You know you want an enchirito’. And you know what? I do.

So I heed the call of faux Mexican food. I go knowing full well what awaits me. The frustration, the flavor(?), the joy at paying almost nothing to fill my belly. You see, that’s the thing. The food is so fucking cheap and- Well, that brings me to the point, right? Why is there no sauce in the hot sauce packets? I realize they are free and the food is dirt cheap but…okay, charge me an extra nickel and put sauce in the packets. But until that happens, I’m forced to see them sitting at the bottom of my sack looking smug. Yet when I grab one, I notice its lack of weight, and when I examine it closer, I find that, from certain angles, it appears to be two-dimensional. It literally (not literally. Quit getting hung up on semantics and try to enjoy yourself. You know what I mean. Jeez.) disappears when I try to look at it from the side. There is no way there could be anything in it right from the start. That’s not quite true. There are four maybe five drops that I can work out if I slide my thumb and index finger from the bottom to the top. You know, like getting that last bit of toothpaste out of the tube.

See, the problem is, I love hot sauce. But the amount of effort I am forced to put into this project just to get what I consider a minimal helping of red ambrosia makes the whole endeavor a nightmare. If it weren’t for the fact that I’m drunk off my ass, I would probably end up hurting an innocent Taco Bellite. It’s not their fault. I know this. But shouldn’t someone have to pay for this unexpected half-hour finger dexterity marathon? Just before the carpal tunnel becomes too severe, I’m confronted with a packet that refuses to open. You see, it’s not just my fingers that suffer, my teeth take a beating too. So half the time the packets refuse to open and I’m forced to use my teeth, and half the time that doesn’t work either. Sometimes the packets slip and find their may into the gaps between my teeth and slice my gums to shreds. This is why I should carry a knife. Just cut and done.

Now I’m winded, bleeding and have to figure out how to dispose of the saliva pile and the mountain of empty packets. I could save the spit-covered, stretched out monstrosities for a later date or throw them in the trash. As for the Kilimanjaro of empty packets, I’m forced to travel around town searching for empty trashcans. It’s a good thing I keep a shovel in the truck; otherwise, carrying a handful at a time would give me shin splints.

Have I mentioned I love hot sauce? So it’s a joke. It’s square bread and round meat. It’s just a joke. But…

It’s not a fucking joke. It’s not. This is my fucking life we’re talking about here you sick fuck. I will find the bastard that designs Taco Bell hot sauce packets someday, and when I do…I’m going to grab him by the collar, tell him to give me my hot sauce and no matter what he says I’m going to fucking F him in his A with a D or a V and shove my C in his PH while ripping out his T. Fuck him. I mean, just, fuck. I love hot sauce.

***
Langhorne’s Daily Pearls 3/6/13 thru 4/2/13

Sock sock, shoe shoe; is the only way. Trying anything else somehow kills babies. -LJT

I am consistently, spontaneously, and positively; but unfortunately not currently or locally, in love. -LJT

I want to punch my car stereo in the face. I can’t stand the way it sits there and mocks me with its poorly labeled buttons every time we spring forward and fall back. -LJT

Nothing meets my expectations…surpasses them, yeah, constantly. -LJT

I highly recommend eating fast food every once in awhile, if for no other reason than collecting napkins and sporks. -LJT

Keep your butthole clean, someone might want to put their tongue on it. -LJT

Nope. I didn’t learn a thing over my four-year kidney ordeal. I already knew life is a painful obnoxious ordeal. I knew that every morning we wake up is a precious and valuable gift. If you don’t know these things by now, it’s likely you never will.-LJT

Art should never be defined to the point it can be taught. -LJT

Future Headline: COURTS ‘COMMON SENSE’ RULING WILL ELIMINATE AN ESTIMATED 10,000 LAWS -LJT

Never envy the poor. -LJT

 

 

 

 

 

 

Langhorne’s Rogues Gallery
ENEMY #57: Taco Bell Hot Sauce Packets

Let’s get a couple things square right up front. First of all, I’m a hot sauce guy. I’ve been told several times that it seems I think of food as just a vehicle to get hot sauce into my mouth. This is true…in public. One does not drink hot sauce straight from the container…in public. In private though, oh, in private I suckle on a bottle of Sriracha like a baby on the teat. I go down on Tabasco like Asia Carrera goes down on Peter North…Second, I haven’t eaten Taco Bell food sober since 1989. I assume it has some kind of flavor but I couldn’t tell you what exactly that flavor is. All I know is that it hits the spot at three in the morning and hurts like dying at eleven in the morning. Lastly, there are solutions here. I know this. Oh, this shit drives me crazy, don’t doubt that, but I could do things (I shouldn’t have to of course) like bring my own hot sauce or carry a knife. We square? Good.

Taco Bell, Taco Bell, Taco Bell. What am I going to do with you? Avoid you? Wish I could. Can’t. You call to me in the dead of night. ‘Come to me Langhorne. You know you want an enchirito’. And you know what? I do.

So I heed the call of faux Mexican food. I go knowing full well what awaits me. The frustration, the flavor(?), the joy at paying almost nothing to fill my belly. You see, that’s the thing. The food is so fucking cheap and- Well, that brings me to the point, right? Why is there no sauce in the hot sauce packets? I realize they are free and the food is dirt cheap but…okay, charge me an extra nickel and put sauce in the packets. But until that happens, I’m forced to see them sitting at the bottom of my sack looking smug. Yet when I grab one, I notice its lack of weight, and when I examine it closer, I find that, from certain angles, it appears to be two-dimensional. It literally (not literally. Quit getting hung up on semantics and try to enjoy yourself. You know what I mean. Jeez.) disappears when I try to look at it from the side. There is no way there could be anything in it right from the start. That’s not quite true. There are four maybe five drops that I can work out if I slide my thumb and index finger from the bottom to the top. You know, like getting that last bit of toothpaste out of the tube.

See, the problem is, I love hot sauce. But the amount of effort I am forced to put into this project just to get what I consider a minimal helping of red ambrosia makes the whole endeavor a nightmare. If it weren’t for the fact that I’m drunk off my ass, I would probably end up hurting an innocent Taco Bellite. It’s not their fault. I know this. But shouldn’t someone have to pay for this unexpected half-hour finger dexterity marathon? Just before the carpal tunnel becomes too severe, I’m confronted with a packet that refuses to open. You see, it’s not just my fingers that suffer, my teeth take a beating too. So half the time the packets refuse to open and I’m forced to use my teeth, and half the time that doesn’t work either. Sometimes the packets slip and find their may into the gaps between my teeth and slice my gums to shreds. This is why I should carry a knife. Just cut and done.

Now I’m winded, bleeding and have to figure out how to dispose of the saliva pile and the mountain of empty packets. I could save the spit-covered, stretched out monstrosities for a later date or throw them in the trash. As for the Kilimanjaro of empty packets, I’m forced to travel around town searching for empty trashcans. It’s a good thing I keep a shovel in the truck; otherwise, carrying a handful at a time would give me shin splints.

Have I mentioned I love hot sauce? So it’s a joke. It’s square bread and round meat. It’s just a joke. But…

It’s not a fucking joke. It’s not. This is my fucking life we’re talking about here you sick fuck. I will find the bastard that designs Taco Bell hot sauce packets someday, and when I do…I’m going to grab him by the collar, tell him to give me my hot sauce and no matter what he says I’m going to fucking F him in his A with a D or a V and shove my C in his PH while ripping out his T. Fuck him. I mean, just, fuck. I love hot sauce.

FB STUFF #3: GREETING CARDS & PEARLS


Facebook Group

Here is more stuff from my Facebook group. Enjoy. Comment often.

Langhorne’s Rogues Gallery
ENEMY #79: Greeting Cards

Friends, relatives, and well-wishers…Fuck you. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got a certain amount of respect and possibly even an ill-defined emotion other than seething hatred for you but (you knew there was a but) once I see that over-sized sliver thin envelope languishing in my mailbox like a femme fatale in a bond movie waiting with a knife behind her back, I know some painful and uncomfortable choices are soon to be made. That brings me to The Box. I’m staring at The Box now. The Box- But no, later.

For the sake of brevity I will bypass the banality of the cards themselves. I won’t bore you with the minute details of the greeting cards offensive dullness or it’s approximately four million percent price mark up. Instead, I will concentrate on how it is your fault. How it is your thoughtful and considerate effort that contributes to the ruination of my humble existence.

Here is the greeting card process in as short a form as I can confine it to. After that initial mailbox confrontation, the paper-wrapped bane is carried inside and studied with a slow resigned sigh. Is this someone I will have to pretend to thank? Before I am swallowed by this dark train of thought that leads me down an existential track to suicide, I open the damn thing. The bastard that I am, I check for cash first and the urge to burn the card amplifies if none is found. At this point you have done one of two things; signed your name politely or written a cute little note. I tell you now, don’t write that note. The note haunts. It is the tell-tale heart.

“Why?” you ask. “How could this innocuous little memo cause any strife in the life of such a powerful figure such as you, Langhorne J. Tweed?”

A question deserving of an answer (and very well put I might add, kudos). The answer is the next step in the process. The “How (or do I) Dispose of This Blight” phase. I’m not one to place cards on my mantel AKA pine and cinder block shelves, instead I prefer to walk directly to the trash (read: “recycle bin” in the Northwest) and place it gingerly on top of the banana peels and Taco Bell wrappers (read: “smart water bottles” and “clean organic food containers” in the NW; banana peels are of course composted) and jam it as far down the can as my strength will allow. I watch it strain and wrinkle and rip as it falls further and further into its plastic-wrapped coffin, a twinge of guilt tickling the back of my brain. You see the problem right? How could I do such a thing to your note? I am already confronted with guilt. But your note. Your clever heartfelt memento. Your weird “the greeting card didn’t say enough” addition. Your thoughtful torturous affliction.

This brings us to The Box. I was suddenly confronted by The Box this morning. It usually languishes in the closet, out of sight, bothering no one. Your notes are there. I keep them. I’m trapped, suffocating on winter scenes and poorly drawn cartoons, puns and sappy poems, bible passages…for the love of something, there are bible passages in my life.

The Box sits in front of me now, full. Overflowing actually. The holidays are upon us. Two more cards have come. Notes in each. I stare at The Box. My heart aches. Guilt and some obscure reverent emotion I can’t describe have blasted through my emotional blockades. There is simply no room for more greeting cards. No more room for your notes.

So, friends, relatives, and well-wishers…Fuck you. I must purge you. All of you. And begin anew. Reborn.

At least ‘til I can piss on Hallmark’s desiccated corpse.

***

Langhorne’s Daily Pearls 2/4/13 thru 3/5/13

Sometimes dickish is the right way to be. -LJT

In order to make the mundane POP, one should maintain a constant veneer of the sublime. -LJT

There can be no win without penetration. -LJT

There’s a little pride to be had in limiting your TV watching to eight hours a day. -LJT

Bureaucracy is the essential building block of any successful civilization. Now please take this memo, sign it and give the pink copy to accounting, the blue copy will be sent to the office of records, the original is kept by you for legal reasons, and the goldenrod copy is sent (via vacuum tube) to the twelfth level of hell. -LJT

 

FB STUFF #2: FAST FOOD STRAWS and PEARLS


Facebook Group

Here I have reprinted some of the Facebook group content. Enjoy. Comment often.

Langhorne’s Rogues Gallery
ENEMY #17: Fast Food Straws

First of all, what happened? Straws used to be a simple tubular device, you know, for drinks. The wrappers were a simple task of tap and pull. Now it’s all gone fucking haywire. Specialized cutting equipment is required to extricate the straw from the constrictive tightness of the paper condom. Remember blowing the paper at your friend? Fun right? Well not anymore. Now you’re more likely to cause yourself an aneurysm before the sleeve breaks free and even if you somehow succeed, you will draw blood. Believe me, this is no longer considered innocent or cute. No, shooting a wrapper at someone is a clear sign of aggression.

So you’ve bullied the straw from the wrapper. You can now feel the impressive weight of this simple plastic tube. Gazing down at its John Holmes length and girth, you ask yourself if this is going to fit in your mouth. Thoughts of having to unhinge your jaw occur. And why is it the length of your leg? Does it double as a cane? You consider putting the drink on the floor and driving the straw down like a post-hole digger. You take a stab and miss. The cheap brittle piece of shit cock sized straw splits along the side rendering it useless and forcing you to start the process over again. I don’t know about you but at this point, I’m exhausted.

After a few calming breathes you, approach your drink with a surgeon’s calm, ask the heavens for help, and after Ben tells you to “use the force” you shut your eyes and thrust. A shudder of joy, a victorious cry. Possible high-fives, I don’t know but dammit, this is a fucking moment. Of course upon further inspection you see the straw deforming as it passes through the triangles of destruction. You take a tentative sip…Well…You know what I mean…After all, the straw takes approximately a half gallon of liquid before it reaches your tongue. Success.

Sweet success. Only one question remains, where do you place the cup? Too close and you’ll have to stand on tiptoes every time you take a sip. Too far and you will need assistance in tipping it towards your mouth. And trust me; you do not want to get this wrong. I have the circular scars on my soft palate to prove it.

***

Langhorne’s Daily Pearls 12/13/12 thru 12/23/12

For a buck and a quarter per I’ll definitely call frozen pizza a vegetable. -LJT

For every one of that guy, there are at least five Langhorne’s. Admit it, you feel a little better now, don’t you. -LJT

Just because you were there don’t start thinking you’re an expert. -LJT

Listen up world, this one is important. There is no such thing as too much cheese. -LJT

I hate because I love. -LJT

 

FB STUFF #1: CELERY & PEARLS


Facebook Group

Here I have reprinted some of the Facebook group content. Enjoy. Comment often.

Langhorne’s Rogues Gallery
ENEMY #5: Celery

Celery sucks. No, it does. I know. I know. I’ve heard it a hundred times, “but celery doesn’t taste like anything”. Fuck you. It would if you hated it. In fact, every food you ate that contained celery would taste like nothing else. That foul bitter tang. It makes me want to cry to the heavens, “Oh sweet protecting Lord, you gave us a perfectly good spoon and we ate it. I apologize for our folly and I will do all in my power to make things right again.” Or some such nonsense.

Langhorne’s Daily Pearls 12/7/12 thru 12/12/12

The way I see it; men should have dicks, women should have pussies, and everyone should have balls. -LJT

Originality is a derivative concept. -LJT

In adversity’s eye, spit. -LJT

I’m not doing love right now. I’m having a hard enough time just doing. -LJT

When you say, “woke up”, it depends on what you mean by woke up. -LJT

Blog Update

What can I say? It seems my recovery time has passed without any fanfare and I’m getting back to the business of writing. New posts are in the works. I’ve got starts on several subjects, including; Ancient Aliens, Democrats, a series on Free Labor, and more.

In the mean time, check out the Facebook page. There are daily quotes to laugh at and a rogues gallery with a new member added every Thursday.

Facebook Link

David, You Do The Work 2

Here is another podcast from my good pal, David Agranoff. This one is a serious read. A story about the end of mankind’s reign on earth and the final moments of a pair of astronauts witnessing it from space.
Once again, I promise to be back as soon as I can. ‘Til then, please enjoy David Agranoff reading his story, “Grip”. God help us all.

Podcast – grip

David, You Do The Work

Here is a podcast from my good pal, David Agranoff. I thought you might enjoy something, after months and months of jack shit. Don’t worry friends. A couple more months of jack shit are coming up. Ole Langhorne needs to get to the shop and have his innards rearranged and whatnot.
I promise to be back as soon as I can. ‘Til then, please enjoy David Agranoff reading his story, “Bobby Joe, Intergalactic War Hero”.

Podcast – iamyourweapon

FATTIES

This one pretty much says it all. If there is any one feature I try to keep in the forefront of my social life, it’s my shallowness. Enjoy.
Podcast – Fatties

I recommend opening the podcast in a new window and reading along.

Facebook Link
FATTIES

Foghorn and Leghorn sit in a swank hipster bistro. For reasons that can only be described as environmental, they are both surprised to be sipping grey goose martinis. As always, Foghorn is taking way too long to order.

Foghorn: (To waiter) I think I want to start with the jalapeno poppers. Then the–

Leghorn: The salad?

I’ll have the bacon cheeseburger.

With a side salad?

Fries.

Leghorn sighs.

What’s your damage now?

You’re fat. (To waiter) I’ll have the salad.

So what?

You don’t wear it well. You’re unattractive. I don’t like unattractive people.

Oh and you’re the end all be all of beauty?

Nope. But at least I make an effort to look decent. You eat like your planning to hibernate for the winter. It’s disgusting. Fat is disgusting. Fat people eating like pigs is disgusting. Shows you have zero self-respect.

You’re one shallow motherfucker.

Am I? Is it shallow to lose respect for someone because they have a major personality flaw?

No. It’s shallow to judge people on the way they look.

Really? What about the way you smell? Is that shallow?

What do you mean?

If you smelled like a sack of anuses, would it be shallow if I no longer wanted to hang out with you?

I guess not.

What if you screeched every time you opened your mouth?

What’s your point?

I’m trying to establish the criteria for shallowness. It seems to me that shallow is strictly visual. Would it be shallow if you came at me in assless chaps and I ran away?

I guess not but to base your opinion on something that is purely visual is the definition of shallow. What if I had the body of an Abercrombie model but I also had a harelip. Would you hate me then?

Yes. I don’t like ugly people. And yes. That is shallow. I admit it. I’m not saying I’m deep. All I’m saying is fat people are disgusting. Fat isn’t something you’re born with. Yeah, Okay, thyroid blah blah blah. I get it. There are things. But that’s like one in ten-thousand. Most of you fat-ass losers just don’t give a shit. I don’t like people that don’t give a shit.

So now we all have to look like super-models just to talk to you. How is it that you have any friends?

No. No. No. Not super-models. Like…You…Give…A…Shit. Lazy people are a waste of space. All I’m saying is; don’t be a waste of space.

But fat doesn’t mean lazy. Some people have more important things on their mind than looking good for you.

Yet another excuse. If you are out of breath tying your shoes, how much are you really going to accomplish.

Plus, losing weight doesn’t happen overnight. It’s a commitment that lasts a lifetime.

Well score one for fatties. Lazy and afraid of commitment. What a catch. Yeah, I really feel wrong for being judgmental.

I never expect you to feel wrong about anything. You should feel like a fucking shallow dickhead though.

I don’t. I can’t respect any one who doesn’t take care of themselves. If they can’t take care of themselves, how could they ever take care of me?

I knew it. You self-serving prick fucking bastard. It always comes down to how the world can benefit you.

Of course.

I hope you choke on your lettuce.

Foghorn takes one massive last bite and with grease running down his chin he leaves the table. Leghorn watches him waddle away, chewing on a forkful of micro greens (whatever they are) and starts to choke.

—————————————————————–

DRIVING TIP #10– It’s not everyone else’s fault. Sometimes you fuck up. Own it and move on.

 

HUCKLEBERRY FINN (REVISED)

This one was tough. I feel all over the place on issues like this. Yes, nigger is a shitty word. No, we should never use it. (In fact, I probably shouldn’t have used it two sentences ago.) Changing the past to appease anyone is wrong. Or is it?

Podcast – My Slave

I recommend opening the podcast in a new window and reading along.

The Slut’s Facebook Link

I will be posting small rants there soon.

MY SLAVE

SLICK SAMMY has got a good lean going. “Yeah. This is the life,” He thinks. Just as he’s about to light another joint, he sees BRYANT turn the corner and head his way. Bryant looks…Uncomfortable…Something is wrong with him…Looks almost like he has a stick in his ass…He almost looks…White.

Slick Sammy’s curiosity has gotten him in trouble again because as soon as Bryant catches his eye he decides to hail a brother.

BRYANT:  Hey. What’s happening my slave?

SLICK SAMMY:  What the fuck did you call me?

Oh, pardon me. Perhaps you haven’t heard. It’s the currently appropriate slang for nigger.

First of all chump; there is no appropriate slang for the word nigger.  Second, try callin’ me slave again and see if you live.

Oh?  But that new version of HUCKLEBERRY FINN says it’s the way to go.

New version? That Twain joint? Hasn’t he been dead for about a hundred years? Didn’t realize he was still working on that book.

No, no.  Some old southern white guy says it’s okay.

Really. He does realize that Jim isn’t a slave anymore right? Or does he call him “runaway slave Jim” every time? What the fuck is wrong with people?

I think he was trying to open the book to a wider audience.

How? By rewriting it? It ain’t the same thing. All he did was piss on a good book.

If it means children can read it in school, it’s worth it.

This has to stop. No one has the right to change someone’s work. If an artist wants to change it, fine. If Spielberg and Lucas want to ruin their classic movies with new technology, fancy computer shit. Fine. It’s there shit to fuck up. If they try to change Alien or Friday, we stop them. What’s next? The statue of David gets a suit? Venus de Milo gets a prom dress?

But the words are offensive. We don’t need that kind of thing in modern society.

Bullshit. We need to remember how terrible things were or they will come back. It’s idiotic to try and bury the past.

You’re missing the point. If we aren’t allowed to expose people to things than we run the same risk as burying the past. And if that means losing some of the meaning and some of the facts of the time than we should be willing to make that sacrifice.

My dick. Who says we can’t expose people to Huck Finn?

It makes a lot of people uncomfortable.

No shit. You think Twain didn’t know that? You think that wasn’t in his mind when he wrote the fucking thing?

Maybe. How can we be sure? We need to give people the opportunity to make that decision.

I tell you what Uncle Tom why don’t you try changing my words. See what happens.

I’m not trying to make you angry. I just don’t think outdated slang terms are appropriate in the 21st century.

Who says? You think taking words out of my mind is any better than putting them in my mouth?

I don’t think this is quite the same thing.

It’s not huh. So if I took everything you just said to me and, I don’t know, blacked it up a little, you’d be fine with it.

I certainly don’t think that would be appropriate–

“The fuck you say?”

What is it that you are insunuating?

“You steppin’ to me?”

What does that mean?

It’s colloquial. Just like Huck Finn. It ain’t about your dumb ass getting it. It’s about your dumb ass learning something you don’t know. If you change how the information is delivered, you change the meaning as well.

I really have to take umbrage at your–

Tell you what? You take your umbrage and put it next to that stick in your ass.

Slick Sammy pulls out his joint and lights it. After a couple puffs, he offers it to a shocked and disgusted Bryant.

I refuse to indulge in this type of behavior and frankly, I find your demeanor to be gruff and inhospitable.

Okay. You told me. Now I’m going to throw that back to you translated. “Fuck off, motherfucker.”

 

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DRIVING TIP #1 Using blinkers tells everyone else on the road you know what you’re doing. Not using blinkers lets everyone know you suck baboon asshole.

 

 

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