Ford Wenty’s indispensable tips for how to deal with crocodiles

To begin, there are some essential facts about crocodiles which must be clear to all who wish to survive an encounter.  First and foremost, as far as our best science can tell, the crocodile (and it’s variant cousins) have been alive and thriving on this planet since before we were a whisper in some ape’s nutsack. A relic from the age of dinosaurs; yea even, perhaps survivors of the great meteor impact circa 60 million years ago. These facts alone suggest a species predisposed to being a badass. The secret to this longevity is an extraordinary simplicity of design. While we humans have dedicated ourselves to evolving our conscience, our reptilian counterparts have instead refined their best physical attributes so as to dominate their environment and thrive as a species.  Every moment of every day is about the survival of the individual crocodile (eating) and of the crocodile as a species (fucking).

Understanding these basic truths are critical in determining how one may deal with crocodiles. In only a few centuries, a mere blink of an eye in their context, strange mutations have occurred. We have witnessed the accelerated evolution of strange new urban varieties of this species; a crocodile 2.0, if you will. Though their habitat may have expanded, know that the basic traits have remained the same. If through some unfortunate circumstance one should find that they inhabit the same space with the crocodile, the creature has no interest whatsoever in sharing that space. The crocodile’s only interest is in mounting you or eating you. Either way, you’re fucked.

It would seem that in recent weeks we have become overwhelmed with these reptiles in certain quarters.  I don’t believe that there are more of them suddenly, but they are no doubt emboldened to show their numbers. There is much debate surrounding what should be done about them and as yet no consensus. Having some knowledge of game management, it would be my recommendation to pursue a course of eradication and relocation. As there seem to be few, if any, who actually wish to deal with this problem, I will hold my powder on offering solutions. I will, however, offer the following tips for what NOT to do:

 

  1.  Crocodiles detest solid ground. They are better suited to murky waters. The urban crocodile will attempt to lure you into it’s own environment. Under NO circumstance should one EVER attempt to engage a crocodile on it’s own “turf”
  2. Crocodiles are never benign. They may float along like a lazy log, with all kinds of cute little birds perched upon their bumpy hides. They want you to think that they are just idling lazily about the lily pads. They are not. They are waiting for something to eat or fuck; it depends only upon the time of day and the most recent satiation of either appetite which. NEVER trust a crocodile.
  3. Crocodiles are ruthless negotiators. DO NOT ever attempt negotiations with a crocodile, ESPECIALLY if one is fool enough to have been tempted into entering the crocodile’s murky waters: their home “turf”, as it were. Crocodiles are all about leverage. Even if they have not managed to attain a physical advantage within their own environment, the negotiations always begin upon the dual predicates dictating that their opponent may alternately be eaten or fucked. It’s not actually a choice. The crocodile reserves the right to exercise both options.
  4. One can NOT APPEASE a crocodile. NEVER think that by offering one’s right arm the crocodile will be contented. Since in this instance one has already signalled a willingness to be eaten, the crocodile has thus attained the desired leverage. The crocodile does not care one spit about whether you are consumed all at once, or in installments. Either way, the crocodile gets what it wants.
  5. NEVER KNEEL before a crocodile. This is an invitation to any crocodile to take your head into it’s mighty jaws and pull you down to the bottom of the river until drowned; whereupon your corpse will be drawn up to the riverbank for all to see. Then, thus rendered to a state of zero resistance, the crocodile will violently fuck your sad remains until sated. Then it will eat whatever is left.

 

Here we are, nearing the precipice of our third decade in a new century. I never imagined needing to have this talk, and yet here we are. The sad fact is that crocodiles, for reasons unknown to us, actually do serve some purpose in the bigger scheme of things. That purpose is not something that we need to figure out. All we need to understand is that there is no such thing as a “peaceful coexistence” with the crocodiles. Such a coexistence may only occur peaceably in which you are meat, in one sense or another, for the crocodile.  If you’re that much into submission then please, be my guest. Just don’t volunteer it on my, or anyone else’s account.

 

The Barber of Owosso: a tragic opera in one act

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A Doom and Reprisal report from Ale 81 Inn field correspondent, Ford Wenty

Scene: The Reichspalatz, 12:15AM, 5 May 2020

Reichsfuehrer Gretchen Goering-Hitler had just finished a luxurious bath in mare’s milk; with just a touch of blood from the latest herd of Guatemalan immigrant children. She had discovered that the fresh blood, perhaps due to the tropic of the donors, was far more efficacious than her prior regimen of aborted fetal tissue. The soothing therapy of that bath was well earned, for she had just completed an exhausting day in the special observance of the 50th annual Statist’s Ball; a commemoration of the Kent State massacre. This year the committee had outdone themselves, featuring the sacrifice of a live giraffe (just because they could), and constitution biscuits for communion wafers. The biscuits were a first: it seems they have found that by baking bits of the constitution right into the biscuit, it saves them the time and expense of having it printed on their toilet tissue.

She had returned from the Ball at around 11:00 PM and made directly for her bath chambers. All was well in the Reich and all of her subjects had been turned in for curfew. After a rejuvenating soak she had plans to settle in for a nice, long session reviewing her Pornhub subscriptions. She was mildly startled to find that the giraffe scene had left her in such an aroused state. Shortly after wandering into some bestiality pages, Madame Reichsfuehrer was most rudely interrupted by an official sounding rap at her chamber doors. She froze at the sound and listened intently to be certain there had been. Thirty seconds later it came again.

“Oh fuck me runnin’, will ya? Seriously!?”, she exclaimed in a hiss. She arose from the bed and draped a brilliant red satin nightgown about herself, then stepped into a pair of slutty pumps in matching red. “I’ll be right there…”, she called out as she gained her balance. “This had better be fucking good!”, she thought angrily as she reached to open the door. Unless there was a large quadruped, or two well-hung Cuban dancers named Manuel on the other side of that door, she was not going to be pleased. Her displeasure was magnified many fold at the sight of Gestapo Security Chief, Fritz von Pickelschwanz. He grew stiffly too attention (in the only manner she expected him to be able) and saluted.

“Madame Reichsfuehrer! Zu befehl! I am terribly sorry to disturb, but…”

“Yeah, yeah, Pickledick…, what is it?”

“We have a small problem in Shiawassee County.”

“A small problem? You don’t come knockin’ on my door after midnight with a small problem, Pickledick! What is it? Come on, give!”

“There is a barber in the town of Owosso who has defied your authority, Reichsfuehrer.”

“Yeah? So? You know what to do. No witnesses, right?”

“Er, of course, Madame Reichsfuehrer… it’s just that…”

“Is there a point here Fritz? I’m burning some serious spank time here, okay? What is it, the media? Christ, don’t worry about them!”

“No ma’am! The local authorities already got to him.”

Madame Reichsfuehrer was growing more exasperated by the second. She formed a mocking query with her face. “Annnnnd? What am I missing here?”

The Reichsmarschal’s face grew solemn as he quietly uttered, “The local authorities issued fines, Madame Reichsfuehrer. Only fines.”

It had been bad enough to have her me time interrupted by this pathetic cuck, but this!? The odd peasant here or there to defy her orders was one thing. There were always a few, no matter what measures are taken, but for local authorities to usurp her supreme authority and issue….fines?! This bordered upon apostasy! Her countenance grew black as she glowered at the Gestapo chief. She could feel her heart begin to race, her breathing grew heavy and her temperature rose. Pickelschwanz stood still before her, nervously awaiting instructions. Several tense moments passed as Madame Reichsfuehrer slowly regained her composure.

Briefly she poked her head beyond the doorframe to cast a furtive glance up and down the hall. “Did you come here alone, Pickledick?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Good. Come on inside. I’m bored.”

Pickelschwanz likewise made a discreet survey of the hall before reluctantly obliging her order. After stepping in the Reichsfuehrer closed the door and turned a very audible lock behind him. He instantly began to wonder if he would be leaving this room with his ass intact. He did not have to wait long at all to find out where this would go.

“Go have a seat on that ottoman at the foot of the bed, Pickledick.” She stated nothing further until he had assumed his place, then resumed. “Although your timing could not be worse, I am pleased that you have brought this to my attention.” From the ottoman Pickelschwanz followed her movements warily as she strolled casually about the room, musing as she went. “I am supremely disappointed in you, Pencildick! Leaving your responsibilities to some hinterland Gauleiters? What find of fucking Gestapo chief does that?”

Sensing that this was about to go seriously awry, Pickelschwanz hastily blubbered the best defense he could offer. “Madame Reichsfuehrer! Please, we simply haven’t enough men to…”

“Hey asshole! I don’t wanna hear excuses! We can let these local yokels collect on traffic stops and local code violations, ok? But I am in charge. ME! You let this kind of shit fly and the next thing you know there will be a caravan of gangbangers from south of 8 mile heading out to Owosso to get their dos freshened up. Do you want that, Pickledick?”

“Of course not, Madame Reichsfuehrer!”

“Of course not. And do you know why? Because that would be anarchy! These people aren’t smart enough to make these kinds of decisions for themselves!” Madame Reichsfuehrer’s eyes glazed over, her face slowly grew into a mask of incredulity. Such ingratitude!

The lengthening silence was excruciating. The Gestapo chief kept his wary eyes upon her to remain ever alert to her capricious whims. He had just begun to summon the courage to ask for her orders when suddenly she let her satin gown slink to the floor. Instinctively he averted his eyes as she climbed upon the bed and spreadeagled herself before him; planting those blood red pumps to either side at the foot of the bed. He could not bring himself to raise his eyes beyond those shoes.

“Lemme tell ya what we’re gonna do, Pickledick. You’re gonna suck on my heels while I rub one out, then you’re gonna drive out to Owosso, burn that fucking place to the ground and kill everyone in it. Everyone but one: You will bring me the Barber!” She punctuated her final command by thrusting one of her heels into his slack jawed mouth.

I’ll spare you the further description of events which followed. Those of you with sufficiently twisted psyches will be capable of forming the visual on your own. All of the preceding narrative is true, recounted exactly as the events occurred. By the tactical use of narcotics, discreetly applied extortion and a fanatical dedication to the Gonzo ethic, this reporter has been able to obtain the truth. This truth includes some rather ugly details in Madame Reichsfuehrer’s back story, details which shall be revealed for the first time in these pages.

 

ReichskanzellorWhitmer

Bring me the barber!

I am confident that most of you have determined that we are speaking of Michigan governor Gretchen Whitmer. That is the identity assigned to her current iteration, for you see Gretchen has been among us before. She is in fact Eva Hitler-Goering; the fruit of some long ago Nazi genetic experiment. By my best reckoning Gretchen must be version 6.0, but there is no way to really be certain. Apparently a group of Nazi geneticists, some real fanatical types, made some extraordinarily advanced leaps in the science in the waning months of the war. By those days it was evident to even the most diehard among them that the war was not going well. A plan was formed to create the perfect Aryan female for the purpose of repopulating the master race in some subterranean siege fortress. Genetic material was taken from Eva Braun for her zaftig physical characteristics and appetite for fellatio; from Goering for his height and penchant for flamboyant perversion, and from Hitler because…well, because he’s Hitler.

The first edition of this abomination was smuggled off by MI6 in Goering’s yacht at the end of the war. From there she was spirited away to a remote Welsh farm for further study. Those clever Windsors just can’t resist their anal retentive Germanic heritage. During the ‘50s a program was underway to see if a condensed, freeze-dried version could be developed for installation into their parting colonial possessions. Insta-tyrant: just add water and rule. While this did not come to fruition, there are a series of rather nondescript buildings sprinkled throughout Middlesex that house what might best be described as axolotl tanks, a la Frank Herbert’s Dune universe. A “clone bath”, if you will, where these gholas may be replicated again and again. So our “Gretchen” is but one of several of the same model. I’m sure that by now the Russians have likely developed their own version. It was believed at one time that Debbie Wasserman-Schulz was a Russian version, but this was easily refuted as she is obviously much too Jewish.

In every age, in every guise the Hitler gene shines strong. Whether wearing a brown shirt or a brown skirt. Being born a Buckeye it would be quite easy to chortle at the misfortune of Michiganders, but not even a Wolverine fan deserves this. In the event that the NCAA football season does come off without a hitch, I’m going to suggest to our neighbors to the north that they revise their cheer from “GO BLUE” to “GO BLOW”. This year, more than ever, it seems to fit.

 

Ford Wenty report end  5/11/2020

 

Happy 420…20…20!

It is indeed 420. 4/20/2020, to be exact! We’d had hope that this would be a much larger celebration this year. Thirty days of 420 only comes around once! Alas, it is not to be and so we must celebrate together while we’re all apart. Our resident botanist, Carlton Milhouse, has composed some 420 thoughts for us this year. These are after the fashion of  T’was the night before Christmas. Carlton hopes you all enjoy it and all of us here at the Ale 81 Inn wish the very happiest of 420s to everyone!


 

T’was the eve of 420

T’was the eve of 420 and all through the land

Not a head shop was selling, for this act had been banned

The storefronts were shuttered by some governor’s plan

due to some virus; they say it came from Wuhan

The people were chastised and sent to their room

to prevent what was certain imminent doom

Like sheep they all went and meekly obeyed,

away to their homes and there they then stayed

It will be for a month, certainly no more than two,

or until we determine what the hell we’re to do

Now bring on that Fauci and that scarf lady too

We’re led to believe that they might have a clue,

but when one is a hammer then all is a nail

and this is where experts most often fail

For billions of dollars we bought Red China’s shill

We’re all still paying, but I doubt he ever will

With a sickening thud we have screeched to a halt

while media pundits seek to find fault

A banquet for jackals and vultures to dine

They don’t care about shutdowns, they’ll manage just fine

Now Wuhan! Now Corona! Now Covid 19!

Now shut it down! Shut it down! Mass quarantine

When government shuts down it’s the end of the world

Now that it’s our turn? Your true colors are unfurled

The networks persist in their daily charade,

never missing a chance for some point to be made

that has nothing to do with the crisis at hand,

almost as if they had this all planned

And oh! How the spending! Let’s break the bank

so when this is all over we’ll have you to thank

for tiding us over with this little loan

for this time off from work (through no fault of our own)

There are still special favors in the money they’ve spent

Your little tidbit is to buy your consent

The airlines and bankers again are in line

and just like the last time they’ll make out just fine

All that debt will be added to the burden we pay,

but somehow the fat cats will all skate away

Each relief package tied up with a bow

with motives as pure as the wind driven snow

So the stem of this pipe I hold tight in my teeth,

as the smoke encircles my head like a wreath,

because all papers are gone; there are none to be had

Since the head shops are all closed, it’s really quite sad

That last book of Zig-Zags was really quite dear

between rolls of Charmin for wiping my rear

Now we’ll scrimp and we’ll forage for each vital need,

all the while praying we don’t run out of weed

If things grow too desperate it wouldn’t be wrong

to smoke up your bud in a green apple bong

Still despite all of this madness and disarray

Snoop Dogg still came with his magical sleigh

So look in your yard, you may find something there

Because he didn’t make contact, he took special care

But I heard him exclaim, ere he flew out of sight

I’ll see ya’ll next year, ’cause this shit ain’t right!

 

Mother Superior

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A Doom and Reprisal report from Ale 81 Inn field correspondent, Ford Wenty

 

I surely hope that the pews of Mother Superior’s private chapel are padded. All of the kneeling required for her prayerful reflection must play hell on her near octogenarian knees. It is clear that, due to long hours massaging her rosary beads, arthritis has set into those bony digits; so much so that it was necessary to make a little starter tear in her copy of the SOTU address to avoid the colossal embarrassment of a mid-rip failure. Despite the fact that she is no longer able to firmly grip a ruler she has yet managed, through a combination of cheap vodka, prescription pain killers and an indomitable will, to maintain an order among her increasingly rebellious charges.

Through her long years of pious existence in service of the Church, Mother Superior has developed a possession of spirit common to zealots of every stripe. Under any creed there breaths nothing more deadly than the true believer, for they are awash in whatever flavor of holy spirit that their gods dispense. Becoming one with the spirit infects the corporeal being with the certainty that they, the true believer, are to act as the very instrument of their god on earth. The warning signs for when a zealot’s meter has grown full are not always obvious. Some of the more common manifestations are confusion, slurred speech and wearing white out of season; all three of which the Mother Superior exhibits with regularity.

This righteous fervor blinds one to practical realities, a small price to pay for such heightened enlightenment to be sure, but no less debilitating to navigation in the physical realm. It must have been in this weakened and vulnerable state that she allowed herself to accept the counsel of the Torquemada Twins, Adam and Jerrold. There are certainly more boisterous voices in the flock, but no others with the tools of Inquisition at their disposal. In the throes of her delusions of grandeur Mother Superior could not see beyond to the possible consequences: what should happen if their quarry were to escape?

Throughout history there have been bold prophets to proclaim the date of the end, usually through some construct which entails their being cast in some messianic role. There seems to be some manner of universal prune juice which causes societies to excrete these at roughly decade intervals. Most fade into history and are forgotten; those which we know range from the infamous, a la Jim Jones, to the pathetic Heaven’s Gate exit in 1997.  In those two examples the prophets went the way of their own prophecies, but the more forgettable cases end with shame and exits of a less permanent nature.

Mother Superior now stands before us painted in that very shame, but no quitter is she. She is of that rare breed who, even after utter public repudiation, will carry on undaunted. Doubling and tripling down on the same delusions, repurposed and repackaged daily to fit the ever changing news cycle. In semi-lucid moments she angrily rattles her beads as she shakes her fists in righteous indignation. Her remaining acolytes are in tow, eagerly slobbering for her continued pronouncements. Completely oblivious to the fact that she is thoroughly discredited, they blithely go their way to parrot her words. The Dark Gospel echoes in an electronic cathedral where most no longer come to take their communion. Their sacraments of horse piss and turd biscuits do not trans-substantiate into anything higher. They, like Mother Superior herself, are only the fruits scraped from the sidewalks of her home parish.

She will at some future date depart from this realm. There, but by the Grace of God goes she, mortua sorore graditur (if my Latin is correct). And she will leave us in prayer:

 

Our gender neutral, benign and omnipotent, anthropomorphized, extra-corporeal entity

who resides in Washington D.C.

Hallowed be thy State

Thy Kingdom unchallenged

Thy will be imposed

Here, there and everywhere

Forever and ever

Amen

 

The Classy Lady

Do not trust those with facial twitches

or the grating screech

of old and spiteful bitches

Her pallid mask frozen in rage

In defiance she tears the page

A brazen and yet futile act

committed for the petty, while absent tact

or the grace we should no doubt expect

from a leader so wise and circumspect

Even those from within her fold

can see that she’s acting like she’s four years old

Her reward for exhibiting so much class

is Limbaugh’s Freedom Award planted, like a flag in her ass