Where Sheep Bleat the Phunky Beats By Brother Ragnarok
Hello, my name is Ragnarok (well, no, it really isn’t, but for now let’s pretend that I’m not a geek who made that up and that it is in fact my name), and I’m from Iowa (that I’m not making up, I really am from Iowa). I’d like to start by saying I am one of approximately four people my age who are not either ashamed or spiteful of their home state. To the other quarter million or however many of them there are, a hearty “go fuck yourself.” The most common complaint I’ve heard: “It’s flat and boring.” No shit, that’s what happens when a glacier the size of a small country rolls across dirt. As far as boring, what else is going on in every other state in the union that’s so hot? Is New Mexico so much better than Iowa? How about Nevada? Or the entire South for that matter (well, to be fair, what isn’t better than the entire South)?
We don’t have any really big cities except for Des Moines, and all they can honestly claim to have is Slipknot which isn’t much to brag about. But really, what are you looking for, a good discotheque? Who cares if there isn’t a Starbuck’s Dance Club Techno Rave Emporium on every street corner. Have you ever sat outside in a flat, grassy field with fog covering the ground and a full moon filtering softly through the trees over your head? Ten minutes of that is worth a lifetime of snorting coke in the bathroom of a transvestite club with a shemale named Frank short for Francine.
And for all those who think farmers are rock-stupid hillbillys who tool around on rusty old tractors and hang out in gas stations all day, may you fall ass-first on a salt-encrusted ice auger. Farming is a high-stress and high- risk job which requires quite a bit of intelligence and planning that not a one of you limp-wristed city faggots could take for more than a few hours without running back to your leather-lined Eddie Bauer Edition Sport Utility Environment Destroyer SSXLGT5000 that is capable of climbing mountains but has never even seen a gravel road because it might get dusty and driving home so you can watch Melrose Place and talk faux- philosophy with your hipster friends who can’t even use the phrase “begs the question” in the right fucking context. So just be thankful we decided to GROW ALL YOUR FUCKING FOOD FOR YOU, YOU GODDAMN UNGRATEFUL LITTLE SHITS! Because you know damn well you couldn’t do it on your own if you tried. Know how much phosphorus needs to be applied to a field of soybean plants so they’ll be healthy and give a good yield? Huh? That’s right. Fuck you. Yes, if we had been having this conversation face to face that sentence would have been done in one breath. Now that I’ve gotten all that off my chest, on to the point I had started off intending to make one paragraph in.
I’m from Iowa, and Iowa is in the Midwest. Shocking, I know. This part of the country has given rise to one of the stranger phenomenon I’ve noticed in my life. Even stranger than when someone comes into the video store intending to rent a porno, but spends two hours looking at every other movie in the store to make it look like they just had to rent Cum Guzzling Co-Eds Part 912 because... well... nothing else just looked that good to them. Even stranger than people thinking that congratulating friends and loved ones for the tremendously mediocre task of graduating high school is a good idea and not an insult to one’s intelligence worthy of starting a small war over in some Third World countries.
I speak of gangsta cowboys. Let me clarify. Black people who think they’re white, and white people who think they’re both black and white at the same time. Only in the Midwest can you see white boys in camouflage hunting vests and cowboy hats come into a record store and ask “You guys got that new 50 Cent record?” (as a side note, everyone who asks that question should be hit in the face with a tire iron). Conversely, only in the Midwest will you see black guys bedecked in Lugz or whatever street fashion is currently popular for the next sixteen minutes come in to a record store and ask for the new Darryl Worley album (again, an offense worthy of being bludgeoned with a tire iron). In short, it’s the only place in the entire world where you can be cruising the loop and a tricked out Honda Accord (or whatever gay-looking, wimpy- sounding rice-burner the kids are racing these days) with steer horns on the hood pulls up next to you, the driver putting down his 40 oz. Old English and shooting you through the head so he can steal your cowboy boots.
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So, since Fedeler and Ferox dont' think this work of fart has an end and will bitch at me for the rest of the afternoon until there's a clear conclusion to my rant, we're having a contest. Whomever of you who has the strangest brand of moron, idiot, flamer, or otherwise dickweed can write in to us at my e-mail and spout off about your ninnyhammers. The one with the oddest breed of dillhole will win a prize that we'll decide on later. Might be gold, might be poop, who knows.
read some more complaints? BUTT PLUG!