Thursday, March 10, 2005

Phantom Pain

Amputees sometimes feel phantom pain - sensation in limbs that are no longer there. Latigo Flint can empathize; Latigo Flint feels the pain of a lost way of life, that glorious era of squinty-eyed gunslingers, the Old American West.

Whenever the pain becomes too much to bear, Latigo Flint downs a bottle of cedar barrel whiskey, a handful of barbiturates and heads over to the Gene Autry Western Heritage Museum, located on the eastern edge of Griffith Park in Los Angeles.

I don't see what the big problem was today. What, like 4th graders have never seen a hysterical, bleeding man trying to climb into paintings before? Aren't field trips supposed to expose students to things they can't experience in a classroom?

I turned, weeping, from a particularly poignant Charles M. Russell print that had so far proved impossible to enter, and noticed a row of wide-eyed little faces. I broke towards them in a stumbling run. "Hhhhhey kiddies! Howdy, howdy! Donch you evvvar let 'em run the barbed wire achrosh the open range!!!"

The teacher and the two parent accompaniers shrieked and hastily started herding the children into the next room, but not quick enough, and I was able to snatch one of the cubby little tykes by the arm. "Boy, you tells Latigo Flint rights quick ifins you sees any sheep ranchers or injins round heres parts!" I lifted him off the ground and shook him to make sure he understood the severity of the issue. "The only good sheep rancher is a dead sheep rancher!" I bellowed, fogging his glasses with warm whiskey breath. "So have yuh seen any?!!!" He started crying, and disgusted, I dropped him.

In the courtyard, the statue of the noble mustang started urgently whinnying at me. "You hears that you little buckaroos?" I screamed at the departing children, "Always truscht the keen earch and nose of your faithful bronc. Ol' Stormy there says the lynch mob is a comin'!" Then I whirled, sprinted across the foyer, vaulted over the balcony and crashed head first into Stormy's cast iron ass.

They've permanently revoked my visitor's pass. The judge has ordered me to enter a substance abuse program. I have to pay for the restoration of over two dozen paintings, and while I was out cold, some little bastard wrote "poopie poopie poop" on my favorite pair of buckskin britches. It's safe to say I've had better trips to a museum.

11 Comments:

At 9:26 AM, Anonymous Spud King said...

That's the problem with todays society, they're coddling these kids entirely too much at school. They need to see life in all it's bloody gore.

I think you've been wrongly charged Latigo. I shall write my congressmen!

 
At 10:22 AM, Blogger Teaspoon said...

See that is why I am against Whiskey it makes you do crazy ass stuff. I much prefer just straight up PCP now that is the good stuff. :-)

 
At 7:26 PM, Blogger Lightning Bug's Butt said...

I'm sorry to read about your mishap at the museum.

I'd play it safe and hang out at the Starbucks from now on.

Although you haven't had much luck there, either.

I see a theme developing.

Well, I guess that's what happens when you're born 150 years too late.

Godspeed, Latigo Flint.

 
At 7:36 PM, Blogger amandapants said...

"Head First into Stormy's Cast Iron Ass-- The Latigo Flint Story"

I will make my career move into television if only to make the Made-for-TV movie of your life.

"Both utterly appalling and strangely appealing, Latigo Flint is the man we wish we never knew, and the gunslinger inside all of us." -TV Guide

 
At 7:38 PM, Blogger amandapants said...

This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

 
At 12:14 AM, Blogger Glenn said...

I find this interesting, because invariably when the subject of Latigo Flint comes up, people remark "Latigo Flint? He belongs in a museum."

How strange that what is obvious to everyone else escapes those whose job it is to actually maintain the sanctity of those hallowed halls.

 
At 7:13 AM, Blogger Velvet Marauder said...

Latigo, mi amigo, that ain't right.

What kind of crazy mixed-up world do we live in where a bleeding fella on drugs with guns can't spend some time at a museum? I pray that you shall appeal to the Justice of the Peace for clemency.

Vaya,
VM

 
At 12:10 PM, Blogger darthmoridin said...

I would advise making sure that you're on the Hogwart's grounds first the next time you try jumping into a painting, Mr. Flint.

 
At 2:12 PM, Blogger Rasmus said...

This has nothing to do with this post, but I have long wondered just how old Latigo Flint is...

 
At 5:30 PM, Blogger Cad Grublygold said...

Hey fellow commenter’s, ya want to take bets on how long Flint stands in the re created scene of the OK corral gun fight facing down the animatronic Dalton gang? Five spot sez it’s over five hours a visit.

 
At 3:16 PM, Blogger Latigo Flint said...

Thank you Spud King, I'm much obliged. I also think I should be on the state flag of California, mention that to them as well please.

PCP tends to gives Latigo Flint gas Teaspoon.

Indeed LBB, indeed.

That's beautiful Amandapants. I ran out and purchased every TV guide in my local Ralphs - then I realized I had misread your comment; a single tear traced a mascara trail down my cheek.

Amen Glenn. And they need more soft drink dispensers in them as well. And I'd like Arizona Iced Tea to be one of the choices.

Velvet, I'm watching Young Guns right now for advice on how to pen a request for clemency. ("PS: I changed my mind, kiss my ass.")

D. Mor, there is a word in your comment that I don't understand... Hog warts??? Anyway, please clarify.

Rasmus, ohm in my priiiiiiime.

You know me well Grublygold...

"Throw up your hands. I want your guns."

"Hold! I don't want none of that!"

Blam blam! Blam! BlamBlamBlam!

"Don't shoot, I don't want to fight."

Blam biddy blam blam blam!

 

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