Wednesday, January 04, 2006

Heroism Deconstructed

Ask any hero if they'd rather be tough or lucky and the responses are going to vary. Many are going to choose tough. They'll tell you things like, "The tough make their own luck." and, "You don't have to be lucky when you're as tough as I."

Other heroes will go with lucky. They'll stroke their chins thoughtfully and point out that it doesn't matter how tough you are--everybody dies if they bleed enough.

At which point the heroes who picked tough are going to start yelling at the ones who picked lucky.
"Why you tepid little sissies." They'll say. "What a disgrace to heroism you are."

And it will surely end in fisticuffs.

But ask Latigo Flint if he'd rather be a tough hero or a lucky one and his only response will be a long, cold squinty-eyed stare that quivers your guts and enfeebles your mind. See, 'cause Latigo Flint knows that true heroes are like an old bobcat drinking from a mountain stream--sometimes tough, sometimes lucky, but always given to wild screams and vengeful wrath if a pinecone happens to bonk them on the head.


Actually, I'm not sure that's quite right, let me try again.

See, 'cause Latigo Flint knows that true heroes are like a surface fire roaring up the oil slick eddies of a dark, industrial river--sometimes tough, sometimes lucky, but always an awesome sight.

Dang, that isn't quite it either.

One more try?

See, 'cause Latigo Flint knows that true heroes are like a dirt clod--sometimes tough, sometimes lucky-

(That doesn't count as Latigo Flint's last try because he didn't finish it.)

See, Latigo Flint knows that true heroes are like a beer--sometimes tough, sometimes luc-


Okay, Latigo Flint is through messin' around--here's the steady truth: Latigo Flint knows that true heroes are actually... exactly like Latigo Flint--sometimes tough, sometimes lucky, but always given to wild screams and vengeful wrath if a pinecone happens to bonk him on the head.

(You know, kinda like an old bobcat drinking from a mountain stream.)


At 4:55 AM, Blogger Peter said...

Like a steakk from an old buffalo, sometimes tough and sometimes lucky, but not this time bucko or you wouldn't be a steak.

At 8:30 AM, Blogger MJ said...

What ever happened to just plain "tough luck"?

At 8:56 AM, Blogger Ari said...

Pine cone, steaming cup of grande latte, whatever.

At 12:30 PM, Blogger Anonymous Shannon said...

Like a hawk showing dominance over the sky and sprawling its wings in confidence as it spies the evil prey

At 1:47 PM, Anonymous AnonMC said...

Gramps, on my mother's side, lived to be 96. When he was 85 I asked him if he figured he was tough, or just lucky, in that he had been a heavy smoker of Lucky Strikes since he was but 13 and had no apparent problems due to smoking other than a certain shortness of breath when he came back up from the basement. Which is another story, Gramps in the Basement. Yes, Gramps was a Hero to me. Me, I was at 32 years and hacking my lungs out daily. Was I unlucky or just a weener? Maybe Gramps could give me a clue. He responded that only a natch'l born victim would even think along such lines, that I was an intellectual punk and to get the fuck out of his sight. I slunk from out his sight and concluded he was one tough old shit and I was a weener. But I also figure he was lucky. Old heros are lucky heros, and tough by definition. So a tip from Gramps, Latigo, via AnonMC, get your nose outta your navel, suck it up and fly right. 'Cause ya know ya can, Latigo.

At 6:38 PM, Blogger OldHorsetailSnake said...

Mr. Flint:

This is the funniest thing I have ever read on the Internet.

(And come to think of it, I said this once before to you. Now you gotta go research what was the funniest up till now.)

At 12:25 AM, Blogger Latigo Flint said...

I'll drink to that dear Peter--Good God I'll drink to that.

Oh it never left MJ--I turn around and it's always there.

Exactly Ari--half a dozen of one, sixteen ounces of the other.

Quite right Anonymous Shannon--unless the prey is a vole, 'cause there weren't never a vole born what had an evil bone in its entire body. I adore voles, and I'm haunted by waters. (And also sometimes basil.)

Hello AnonMC. Pleased to meet you. I very much enjoyed that fine story about your magnificent Grandfather--well, that is right up until the part where you implied I'm a spineless weenie. Right about then is where I started squinting dangerously and I haven't stopped yet. I'm no weenie goldangit! I'm Latigo Flint! I'm the Grin in the Dark and don't you ever, ever forget it.

Thank you Old Hoss from the bottom of my heart. Were I not so very, very heterosexual, and you not so very, very old, I would surely try to bed you well.

(And that's an easy one Old Hoss--the next funniest story ever is the one about the time Latigo Flint tried to show the neighborhood boy that hummingbirds can lift objects up to fifty times their own weight.)


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