Hornswaggler | The culture, the humor, a bit of the sports, not so much the politics, and the workplace distraction
Hornswaggle is an alternate spelling of
hornswoggle, an archaic word that means to bamboozle or hoodwink. I take my
pronunciation from the late Harvey Korman in "Blazing Saddles" --
"I want rustlers, cutthroats, murderers,
bounty hunters, desperados, mugs, pugs, thugs, nitwits, halfwits, dimwits,
vipers, snipers, conmen, Indian agents, Mexican bandits, muggers,
buggerers, bushwhackers, hornswagglers, horse thieves, bull dykes, train
robbers, bank robbers, ass kickers, shit kickers and Methodists!"
Good news on the fame front. I just heard from my freshman roommate from college -- the subject headings of whose three emails to me so far have progressed from the traditional "Comments" accompanying a reader email to "Fucker" to "Deez Nuts", the last referring to the days when we would crank Dr. Dre's "The Chronic" while staggering out of bed for mandatory freshman writing class at 7 or 8 in the morning (it felt like 5) -- who found me by typing my name into the google search engine. Now we're talking.
No one has bothered to look up the scientific answer to the asparagus query for me, so I presume my readership has dwindled to about -7. That's cool, though. Really. Dicks.
Philadelphia Eagles Fans Stand the Fuck Up
The biggest Philadelphia Eagles season of my lifetime is almost upon us and there will be much commentary here on the Eagles' "Road to the Super Bowl." The format of this site is going to change, so what's probably going to happen is the Eagles shit will exist as a separate blog linked to from a main, actual "Hornswaggler" site (no "blogspot"). Regardless I'll keep all three of you apprised. But seriously, this Eagles team has the tools to go all the way and, after hosting and destroying the St. Louis Rams in the NFC Championship game in the last-ever game at raucous, dilapidated, rat-ridden, blighted Veterans Stadium (the Birds move into a new arena in 2003), which will then, rumbling and shaking from the sheer madness and delirium inside, as if it had been waiting all these years to be awoken by this magic spell, lift off like a spaceship and circumnavigate the globe from deep orbit, hosting an ecstatic funk party as divine repayment for the loyalty of long-suffering Philly fans (who will, hopefully, not drop empty beer cans onto the Earth below, especially not the region of South Asia. We would not want to precipitate a nuclear holocaust. Although, it would be somehow fitting for the world to end, hell to freeze over and pigs to fly after a championship by a Philadelphia sports outfit), before settling back down on its foundation, disgorging its human cargo and imploding with a cataclysmic bang, dust and fireworks exploding into the night sky; after all of this, I say, we will march on towards football immortality to the beat of "We're on the Road to Nowhere" by the Talking Heads, my official theme song for the 2002 campaign. Bottom line is, if you bleed green, if you're an Eagles fan, and you're not already getting pumped for the season, than you might as well just, in the words of Franz Kafka, "give it up" right now, just take up golf permanently, join a fucking bridge or knitting club and call it a career as a loud, drunk, obnoxious, passionate, informed, die-hard football fan, because it's all over, you've lost it, you don't know how or when, but you did and now you have to deal with it. There's no room for you on the bus. That is all.
