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Deer Butt Alien Heads


Man, now I know I’ve hit the bigtime: I got people sending me sick links (that you, Gnus?). Plus, this thing hit Dave Barry’s blog a month ago, so it’s also old. Get me! I’m practically Ace!

Here we have decorative sculpture fashioned from the ass-ends of various game animals. This guy is the Martha Stewart of ruminant rectums.

Oh, god. I think I’m going to hire a Scotsman to say that to me, over and over. Rrrrrruminant rrrrrrectums. I bet he’d do it for a wee dram.

Many people say that the real red neck art is the shaping of the deer anus to look like a mouth. This is the true test of the artists loving hand. The anus can be made very simple, or you can stretch the anus for realistic effects such as smiles and frowns. In general, the leading deer butt artists concentrate on the details of the mouth.

My mother and I were in a pawnshop in Lebanon, Tennessee once when she began to wheeze and point. The ordinary deer head mounted over the counter had been fitted with bear teeth and taxidermed making the grrrrr face. She damn near lost control of her bladder.

Anyhow, scroll down his page for some more fine examples. I’m partial to the doorbell, myself. Though the tasteful kitty cat butt refrigerator decoration and the attractive rat butt plaque are also very nice.

Remember: make sure to tie-off the hiney hole. Words to live by.

June 18, 2007 — 3:56 pm
Comments: 69



I called my dad on Father’s Day and he said, “I finally broke down and did it.” Now, when a member of my family says something along these lines, the ingrained response is, “would you like to tell me about it, or shall I just turn on CNN?”

He says, “I bought a bass horn.”
“A…what?” This was unexpected.
“It’s like a tuba, but smaller.”

Huh. My father was all-state cornet champion in 1941, until he tragically blew out an eardrum hitting a high note. He was master, so he says, of a technique called “triple tonguing.”

No. Forget I said that. Certain concepts should not be paired in sentences: “father” and “tonguing” as an example.

Anyhow, he well and truly blew out an eardrum. He’d had ear infections all his life, which they treated in those pre-antibiotic days by poking little drainage holes in same. Horrible procedure, but if they didn’t, the infection could break through in the other direction, brainwards, and then you were fucked. It happened to a friend of his and he died.

Another friend of his died of rabies. He died, and they went into his room, and he had the encyclopedia open to the “rabies” page. Wooo. That’s completely off topic, but I always thought it was cool.

Twenty five years later, they made my dad a new eardrum out of a piece of vein from his arm, scraped thin. I remember visiting him in the hospital. His head was wrapped up in these huge bandages. He looked like Roger Ramjet. It didn’t turn out all that well.

Long story short, the old bugger is very deaf. He practices what you might call Xtreme music. Bagpipes. Banjos. In the bathroom. He likes the acoustics, which he defines as “hey, I can hear this!”

I’ve been thinking of my stepmother, stuck waiting on a deaf, drunken old cripple with a tuba. And I canNOT stop smiling.

— 7:51 am
Comments: 18