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The world has changed and it can be tough for an old cowboy like myself to keep up. This thread will be a place for a weary wanderer to rest their head for a spell. perhaps we can swap some stories.
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Apr 8, 2020 01:06
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| # ? Apr 25, 2024 21:45 |
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We can't bust heads like we used to. But we have our ways. One trick is to tell stories that don't go anywhere. Like the time I caught the ferry to Shelbyville. I needed a new heel for my shoe. So I decided to go to Morganville, which is what they called Shelbyville in those days. So I tied an onion to my belt, which was the style at the time. Now, to take the ferry cost a nickel, and in those days, nickels had pictures of bumblebees on 'em. "Gimme five bees for a quarter," you'd say. Now where were we... oh yeah. The important thing was that I had an onion on my belt, which was the style at the time. They didn't have any white onions, because of the war. The only thing you could get was those big yellow ones...
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Apr 8, 2020 01:12
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I once drove a race car
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Apr 8, 2020 01:35
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XUnIS3VoBTg
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Apr 8, 2020 01:38
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*stirs coals in the barrel fire* pull up a chair and stay awhile chummer... ghouls hunt in packs...better if we stick together....... ... ... got any tales?
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Apr 8, 2020 02:57
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Got any campfire coffee around
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Apr 8, 2020 03:41
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They grew gaunted and lank under the white suns of those days and their hollow burnedout eyes were like those of noctambulants surprised by day. Crouched under their hats they seemed fugitives on some grander scale, like beings for whom the sun hungered. Even the judge grew silent and speculative. He’d spoke of purging oneself of those things that lay claim to a man but that body receiving his remarks counted themselves well done with any claims at all. They rode on and the wind drove the fine gray dust before them and they rode an army of gray-beards, gray men, gray horses. The mountains to the north lay sunwise in corrugated folds and the days were cool and the nights were cold and they sat about the fire each in his round of darkness in that round of dark while the idiot watched from his cage at the edge of the light. The judge cracked with the back of an axe the shinbone on an antelope and the hot marrow dripped smoking on the stones. They watched him. The subject was war. The good book says that he that lives by the sword shall perish by the sword, said the black. The judge smiled, his face shining with grease. What right man would have it any other way? he said. The good book does indeed count war an evil, said Irving. Yet there’s many a bloody tale of war inside it. It makes no difference what men think of war, said the judge. War endures. As well ask men what they think of stone. War was always here. Before man was, war waited for him. The ultimate trade awaiting its ultimate practitioner. That is the way it was and will be. That way and not some other way. He turned to Brown, from whom he’d heard some whispered slur or demurrer. Ah Davy, he said. It’s your own trade we honor here. Why not rather take a small bow. Let each acknowledge each. My trade? Certainly. What is my trade? War. War is your trade. Is it not? And it aint yours? Mine too. Very much so. What about all them notebooks and bones and stuff? All other trades are contained in that of war. Is that why war endures? No. It endures because young men love it and old men love it in them. Those that fought, those that did not. That’s your notion. The judge smiled. Men are born for games. Nothing else. Every child knows that play is nobler than work. He knows too that the worth or merit of a game is not inherent in the game itself but rather in the value of that which is put at hazard. Games of chance require a wager to have meaning at all. Games of sport involve the skill and strength of the opponents and the humiliation of defeat and the pride of victory are in themselves sufficient stake because they inhere in the worth of the principals and define them. But trial of chance or trial of worth all games aspire to the condition of war for here that which is wagered swallows up game, player, all. Suppose two men at cards with nothing to wager save their lives. Who has not heard such a tale? A turn of the card. The whole universe for such a player has labored clanking to this moment which will tell if he is to die at that man’s hand or that man at his. What more certain validation of a man’s worth could there be? This enhancement of the game to its ultimate state admits no argument concerning the notion of fate. The selection of one man over another is a preference absolute and irrevocable and it is a dull man indeed who could reckon so profound a decision without agency or significance either one. In such games as have for their stake the annihilation of the defeated the decisions are quite clear. This man holding this particular arrangement of cards in his hand is thereby removed from existence. This is the nature of war, whose stake is at once the game and the authority and the justification. Seen so, war is the truest form of divination. It is the testing of one’s will and the will of another within that larger will which because it binds them is therefore forced to select. War is the ultimate game because war is at last a forcing of the unity of existence. War is god. Brown studied the judge. You’re crazy Holden. Crazy at last. The judge smiled.
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Apr 8, 2020 04:15
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Agean90 posted:They grew gaunted and lank under the white suns of those days and their hollow burnedout eyes were like those of noctambulants surprised by day. Crouched under their hats they seemed fugitives on some grander scale, like beings for whom the sun hungered. Even the judge grew silent and speculative. He’d spoke of purging oneself of those things that lay claim to a man but that body receiving his remarks counted themselves well done with any claims at all. They rode on and the wind drove the fine gray dust before them and they rode an army of gray-beards, gray men, gray horses. The mountains to the north lay sunwise in corrugated folds and the days were cool and the nights were cold and they sat about the fire each in his round of darkness in that round of dark while the idiot watched from his cage at the edge of the light. The judge cracked with the back of an axe the shinbone on an antelope and the hot marrow dripped smoking on the stones. They watched him. The subject was war. (Nodding along the whole time) hell of a story
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Apr 8, 2020 05:38
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l4zfEkKs2ZM
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Apr 8, 2020 06:42
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GA4Ozqt7338
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Apr 8, 2020 07:10
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xlkiK_q7shc
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Apr 8, 2020 16:32
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Have you heard of the High Elves?
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Apr 8, 2020 16:35
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O bury me not on the lone prairie where coyotes wail and the wind blows free
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Apr 8, 2020 16:50
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ayup *expectorates*
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Apr 9, 2020 00:55
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*slides empty glass down dirty bar*
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Apr 9, 2020 01:32
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Been a long day. Think all us weary wanderers could stand to lay our heads down here for a spell. By the cracklin fire
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Apr 9, 2020 02:17
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patrolin the mojave almost makes you wish for a nuclear winter
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Apr 9, 2020 06:30
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Don't go outside once the sun goes down, stranger. Keep to the light. The gas keeps us safe in here, but outside? You won't last five minutes. Long night ahead.
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Apr 9, 2020 06:33
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Somebody has issued a correction as of 14:39 on Apr 9, 2020 |
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Apr 9, 2020 06:50
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZjiNe-Nd9fY
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Apr 9, 2020 18:55
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Weary wanderer... No fight left to fight! No life left to live...
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Apr 10, 2020 11:43
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rG1V5jxvYAw
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Apr 10, 2020 12:21
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i like this song. it's fun
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Apr 10, 2020 12:29
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Before the law stands a doorkeeper. To this doorkeeper there comes a man from the country and prays for admittance to the Law. But the doorkeeper says that he cannot grant admittance at the moment. The man thinks it over and then asks if he will be allowed in later. "It is possible," says the doorkeeper, "but not at the moment." Since the gate stands open, as usual, and the doorkeeper steps to one side, the man stoops to peer through the gateway into the interior. Observing that, the doorkeeper laughs and says: "If you are so drawn to it, just try to go in despite my veto. But take note: I am powerful. And I am only the least of the doorkeepers. From hall to hall there is one doorkeeper after another, each more powerful than the last. The third doorkeeper is already so terrible that even I cannot bear to look at him." These are difficulties the man from the country has not expected; the Law, he thinks, should surely be accessible at all times and to everyone, but as he now takes a closer look at the doorkeeper in his fur coat, with his big sharp nose and long, thin, black Tartar beard, he decides that it is better to wait until he gets permission to enter. The doorkeeper gives him a stool and lets him sit down at one side of the door. There he sits for days and years. He makes many attempts to be admitted, and wearies the doorkeeper by his importunity. The doorkeeper frequently has little interviews with him, asking him questions about his home and many other things, but the questions are put indifferently, as great lords put them, and always finish with the statement that he cannot be let in yet. The man, who has furnished himself with many things for his journey, sacrifices all he has, however valuable, to bribe the doorkeeper. The doorkeeper accepts everything, but always with the remark: "I am only taking it to keep you from thinking you have omitted anything." During these many years the man fixes his attention almost continuously on the doorkeeper. He forgets the other doorkeepers, and this first one seems to him the sole obstacle preventing access to the Law. He curses his bad luck, in his early years boldly and loudly; later, as he grows old, he only grumbles to himself. He becomes childish, and since in his yearlong contemplation of the doorkeeper he has come to know even the fleas in his fur collar, he begs the fleas as well to help him and to change the doorkeeper's mind. At length his eyesight begins to fail, and he does not know whether the world is really darker or whether his eyes are only deceiving him. Yet in his darkness he is now aware of a radiance that streams inextinguishably from the gateway of the Law. Now he has not very long to live. Before he dies, all his experiences in these long years gather themselves in his head to one point, a question he has not yet asked the doorkeeper. He waves him nearer, since he can no longer raise his stiffening body. The doorkeeper has to bend low toward him, for the difference in height between them has altered much to the man's disadvantage. "What do you want to know now?" asks the doorkeeper; "you are insatiable." "Everyone strives to reach the Law." says the man, "so how does it happen that for all these many years no one but myself has ever begged for admittance?" The doorkeeper recognizes that the man has reached his end, and, to let his failing senses catch the words, roars in his ear: "No one else could ever be admitted here, since this gate was made only for you. I am now going to shut it."
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Apr 10, 2020 13:58
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Things are different a' these days. But you do get used to it. After a while... https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2mdQBvMBnKk
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Apr 10, 2020 14:07
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just wanna feel like i belong. but what does that mean, really, y'know. belongin'. i dont know if i could do it. im just a hound chasin its tail.
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Apr 15, 2020 06:42
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I believe in the future I will live in my car My radio tuned To the voice of a star I believe in the future We will suffer no more Maybe not in my lifetime But in yours I am sure
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Apr 15, 2020 15:31
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VXNfxK5Q2Qg
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Apr 15, 2020 15:39
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VDqOBh0k9pU
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Apr 15, 2020 15:54
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just chillin here for a spell as I dig into this hot plate of beans
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Apr 28, 2020 01:34
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"Stay awhile and listen..."
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Apr 28, 2020 01:38
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Goon Boots posted:Things are different a' these days. But you do get used to it. After a while... https://twitter.com/PerennialFuckUp/status/1192663947532390401?s=20
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Apr 28, 2020 06:24
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xAyUUn8RBlc
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Apr 28, 2020 12:39
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It was Coney Island, they called Coney Island the playground of the world There was no place like it, in the whole world, like Coney Island when I was a youngster No place in the world like it, and it was so fabulous.
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Apr 29, 2020 05:54
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my horse is thirsty, my face blistered from the sweltering sun. perhaps i will set down a moment and recline while my horse waters himself.
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Apr 29, 2020 12:24
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i rest my weary head for a spell..
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Apr 23, 2021 15:17
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> you have remembered ROPE TRICK
shame on an IGA has issued a correction as of 17:32 on Apr 23, 2021 |
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Apr 23, 2021 17:29
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look im glad you have the free time to rest your head but i gotta get these turmps across the county line by sundown 'else the magistrate's gonna have my rear end
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Apr 23, 2021 17:33
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Soups on, gather round fellas
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Jul 9, 2023 18:28
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| # ? Apr 25, 2024 21:45 |
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JQc5gDXQGIs
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Jul 9, 2023 18:52
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