Here a Texas Jackalope decides the winner in a friendly game.  When not relaxing in a convivial atmosphere, Johnny enjoys long horseback rides, sporting events, and, of course, hunting!  Sometimes history is true even when it's interesting!

     I cut someone loose from my life today.  In Malcolm Lowry's brilliant and stunningly bitter "Under The Volcano", the protagonist has a picture on his wall of a giant rock split by a fire.  It is titled "The Parting".  The author speculates on how, even if the rock was bolted back together, the very molecules that  made it are forever changed and it will never be single again.     While being depressed, I thought of this: Trees I think that I shall never see A poem as lovely as a tree A tree whose hungry mouth is pressed Against the earth's sweet flowing breast; A tree that looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray; A tree that may in Summer wear, A nest of robins in her hair; Upon whose bosom snow has lain, Who intimately lives with rain. Poems are made by fools like me,  But only God can make a tree.           ...

     Fluffy Wonderwolf  on google+ drew this without telling me.  I am so honored that someone would take the time.  I wonder how Disney felt when he saw his stuff being liked by others.  I am tickled fucking pink!  Thanks, Fluffy, well done.

I hope y'all don't find this funny, But I've drawn Atlas as a Bunny!

  (Some fool misspelled "Medicine".  Heads will roll)!    Lost Face It was the end.  Subienkow had travelled a long trail of bitterness and horror, homing like a dove for the capitals of Europe, and here, farther away than ever, in Russian America, the trail ceased.  He sat in the snow, arms tied behind him, waiting the torture.  He stared curiously before him at a huge Cossack, prone in the snow, moaning in his pain.  The men had finished handling the giant and turned him over to the women.  That they exceeded the fiendishness of the men, the man’s cries attested. Subienkow looked on, and shuddered.  He was not afraid to die.  He had carried his life too long in his hands, on that weary trail from Warsaw to Nulato, to shudder at mere dying.  But he objected to the torture.  It offended his soul.  And this offence, in turn, was not due to the mere pain he must endure, but to the sorry spectacle the pain would make...

The Child's Problem      While on a trip to Greece and Egypt Dadd became convinced that he was under the influence of the God Osiris, which he probably was.  He later took his father to a quarry and killed and mutilated him, knifewise.  He fled to France where his behavior got him apprehended and returned to England.  He spent the rest of his life in an asylum, where he continued to paint, albeit pretty damn slow.  The picture below is his masterpiece and one of my favorites. The Fairy-Fellers Master Stroke      The interested reader should go to the net for the story behind this.  Dadd is mentioned in "Goodbye To All That", inaccurately.  The intro picture is titled "The Child's Problem" and the picture in the background is the famous anti-slavery piece Am I Not A Man And A Brother?      Master stroke is in the Tate Gallery, lucky them.    ...

     Two forward, three back.  I am stalled on my learning, and sometimes I give in to the sin of despair.  Above is my first refinished git-tar, and I am going to repaint it.  It is a Hamer and sounds very good but currently could look better.      Current events.  Fuck with France long enough and they will hand your head to you.  The French military (not the conscripts) are as ruthless and efficient as any force on earth.  DeGualle's shameful betrayal of the Pied-noirs ushered in today's policy of "understanding" and "working with" the Muslim trash.  I predict that when France gets fed up there will be a bloodletting like never seen before, or since the 7 days.  It is time that we crush the mouth that bites the hand that feeds it.     Ceterum censeo Islam esse delendum!