Kick Toward Thorns
I am Latigo Flint by all that's holy, the quickest quickdraw the world has ever seen! That road cone is not. Not even remotely.
By the waxed handlebar of Earp, I'm going to fill you so full of lead road cone... why you wretched orange... Ooh I'm gonna...
(Go about your internet business friend and reader, this ain't your fight, it's between me and that wretched road cone. He challenged me to a gunfight, which naturally I declined because I'm a human man and he's a road cone and it would be beneath me, very much so, to gunfight him. Then as I strode past, he had the temerity to lean over and bonk me on my ankle.)
Okay, you just made the worst mistake you'll never make again road cone! Bonk my ankle will you?! Well, see how you like this! And that! And devastating punch, followed by another. And multiple stomps. What's that? Don't throw you under a truck?! Too fucking late I'd say?! Rubbery snout shoved into mailbox slot--jump kick, jump kick, jump kick... and... SPIN KICK!!!. Yeah, not supposed to bend that way, are you?
Ho-hum. Devastating you couldn't be simpler road cone. Rather regret bonking my ankle, now don't you?
Eye gouge. Elbow drop. Exploratory crowbar. Hammer-toss spin, release against brick. Kick for height. Kick for distance. Kick toward thorns. Hey road cone, I bet Ms. Fire Hydrant would like a headbutt contest--I think you can take her. What's that? You say she's a cast metal alloy and you're just industrial rubber? Oh, don't be a sissy, remember, you've got the element of surprise.
Headbutt contest--urinate on the victor. (Don't worry, she likes it.) Sharp corner dumpster smashes. Roundhouses and Zippo flame. Random bludgeonry.
Brutal shaking whist I catch my breath. Scissor leg lock and pointy stick assault. Uppercut, uppercut, uppercut... with a pipe wrench. And, grand finale: Sprinting picket fence smackles, motorized winch test and a shotgun blast!
Don't worry road cone, I'll probably stop scraping you back and forth across asphalt by nightfall... in mid-October!!!
(I am Latigo Flint by all that's holy. I am Latigo Flint. I am Latigo Flint. I am Latigo Flint. Booze is my exploratory crowbar. But goddamn if I didn't kill the hell out of that road cone.)
posted by Latigo Flint @ 11:06 PM
16 comments
16 Comments:
Ha
The spambot likes your news clips.
"This just in: sexually unsatisfied slinger lashes out at large phallic symbol in an attempt to assert his male dominance over an inanimate object. Repeated blows highlight the futility of drawing blood from rubber. Road cone replaced the following day." == Home loans
Are you right there poppet? Do you want to talk about it? Perhaps we could start a support group. I know that bollards give me grief on a regular basis.
low hanging fruit, my friend.
According to the dictionary, whist is "a plain-trick game without bidding for 4 players in fixed partnerships."
I can only assume that the "brutal shaking whist" is a variant of Minnesota whist (in which there are no trumps, and hands can be played to win tricks or to lose tricks - also the very similar game of Norwegian Whist)
If this don't impress the Starbuck's Girl, nothing will.
i don't imagine that road cone had the audacity to try to nick your ankle a second time after that beating, did he?
Were you careful to check and make sure the road cone wasn't actually Salvadore Nightshade reincarnated?
You DID check, didn't you?
Latigo, do you know why I weep? I weep because I didn't come here two days ago. I wish that I could push back the sands of time so I could have commented on the tale of Raoul Clementine Heguera when it was fresh to the world. I feel like a damn fool for not seeing the tale until 2 days after it was originally published.
Reminds me of the last Tyson fight.
You know, I'm sure that this treatment is not far off the mark from how orange traffic cones would have fared in the Wild West. If the mad scientists didn't get ahold of them first, that is!
Stray cones? Madonna must've had a garage sale.
There's no telling what I'd do if a road cone bonked my ankle, especially the right (recently-repaired) one. Man oh man.
Latigo, don't you know that the road cone just challenged you to a fight in attempts to impress you with its courage and strength of character? All it wanted was your respect, and when you turned away, it was overcome by angry, desperate tears, and gave you the slightest nudge on the ankle.
And now Mrs RoadCone waits by her window for her orange-collar, hardworking, daydreaming husband who wishes he was a gunslinger, or at least respected by one.
She'll wait a long time.
(Oh, and by the way, I'm not dead! But thanks for making sure. :)
I think the cone was probably just out looking for trouble. Lone wolf of an road cone, that one. Usually those orange cones tend to come in packs, neatly stretched out and lined up to fool you into thinking their pack covers a larger area of territory then they actually do. Good thing you put this cone out of its misery - I bet it was ornery because it was lonesome.
Wow. That turnt into an anime film there.
Still, "Booze is my exploratory crowbar" might look nice beshirted and stretched across a chest or 5,000.
Fuck you anonymous! I don't believe you. I think you speak with a forked tongue! (That's Native American speak for "I want to gut you and throw your spleen to the fire ants.")
You're an enigma Cale-who-can't-be-traced. You with your brilliant comments and obscured back trail. I do know you live across a border... Latigo Flint is closing in...
Do I sound right Greta?!!! That had better be one goldang smart support group! The sort that knows how to send me back where I belong... back where I'll be happy. I need like a worm-hole or something. Is Stephen Hawking in the support group? Okay, how 'bout Christopher Lloyd?!
Hey, wait a minute... we are friends, aren't we Ho? How 'bout that?! You're partially responsible for me now... you know that, right? It's what friends do goddamnit!
Um, sorry Lance... Paraguayan Whist. Paraguayan Whist is actually the correct reference. (Paraguayan Whist: A plain-trick game for four players that concludes when all four are dead and Chilean cockroaches have scampered thrice their eye sockets!!!)
Nothing will Old Hoss, nothing will. Apparently the Starbucks Girl fancies herself "rational" and "forward-thinking" and has also promised herself she'd never pick something called a "psychopath" or some such, to father her children.
No Tabitha Jane, he did not. He crossed the double yellow line, so to speak, and won't be bonking any more ankles.
Salvador Nightshade was my friend and occasional drinking buddy Dave. I'd have known! I'd have known!!! (Okay, I didn't actually check... but it wasn't him! It wasn't him goddamnit!!!)
Trevor, you are literally the smartest Canadian I know. (Actually, that's the truth... how 'bout that now? And don't anyone try to claim I don't know plenty of Canadians, 'cause I do!) Feel not foolish Trevor. Amblin' tardiness is the mark of most great men. And besides, the truest wouldn't have been able to find their voice at the end of Raoul's tale anyway.
I didn't eat his children LBB. I resent the implication. (Okay, I ate one, but that was an accident!)
Just between you and me MJ... Google robotic road cones. You're going to shit yourself, or spit-take your gin at the very least.
Who Steve? Was that one of Buff-Bill Cody's gals?
I remember the pictures Ghost Dog. Part of me was avenging you, even though it wasn't even a road cone what did it.
You have just devastated me Paula. Do you know this? I hadn't... I never even... Oh god, what have I done?! (Glad to hear it.)
Hello Katiedid. The lone wolf angle intrigues me... always has. I like your take, very much so.
Thanks Ari. I'm a walking slogan factory to be sure. "Put the fuckin' yogurt away!" There's another one dernit. And I'm not even trying yet. (Right? Right!)
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