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I respectfully request that we get the next installment from Mr. Strummer.
I know he's currently in the dog house because his wife found some "art books" that centered around the classy art of fisting... but perhaps the deluge of rain that's keeping him off the road bike will stoke the fires of inspiration.
Edit: I have confirmation that Austrian leg is on deck... ladies, don't get too excited.
^^^ why would he get in trouble for books on fishing?
oh ...
Quote:
Originally Posted by Poop~Ghost
Austrian Leg? Is this some new kind of charcuterie? Or a venture into the red light district of Vienna?
Some might call this humor. It is in fact the unvarnished truth. Friend of mine hiked for 6 weeks with a Swiss girl he met over there--no sex and she wanted to get married. Some people take a long time to catch on.Quote:
Originally Posted by JoeStrummer
who knew he had such an, ahem, "flexible" anus! He should have told his wife about his prior work as an ass model.Quote:
Originally Posted by Poop~Ghost
Quote:
Originally Posted by Meathelmet
Dumb 'mericans. ;)
Thanks for the stoke!
As a minor point of clarification, it was not a book about FISTING that caused the issue, it was a book about SWINGING that happened to feature a bit of FISTING. America Swings, by Naomi Harris, available at Amazon and highly recommended. Sure there are pictures of gang bangs but most of the photos are elegant and tasteful, like this one. . . .
http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8290/7...624f45c4_z.jpg
My wife's issue is not with my impressive collection of fuck books but with the fact I leave them around where my 6 year old son might pick them up. Since he has never shown even the slightest impulse to open a book in his life I was not too concerned but I get her point. So now I store them in the trunk where I used to keep my Gimp before he asphyxiated.
Anyway, I forgot I hadn't finished this thread until PoopGhost reminded me. In the meantime, enjoy this archival photo of classic PoopGhost "Hands Up Albatross" from Austria a couple years ago. . .
http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7277/7...972e9492_z.jpg
Wow JS, I forgot what an entertaining writer you are. It really is very good stuff and the rest of the TR rocked. Thank you. Next installment please:biggrin:
any idea when youre going to finish the TR strummer? i found it a very pleasent read, you really are a modern day shakespeare
Excellent read & sherpa vid, but I've got a different notion of Austria than you.Tales of fear & loathing from the Moosewirt & Underground are surely just around the corner.
Is JoeStrummer retired? If so, say it ain't so Joe. At least close the circle with the Austria seg.
Or perhaps he is moonlighting as the alias that rhymes with "Blemingway."
Strummer died of a heroin overdose...Quote:
Originally Posted by Like a Boss
even I admit this is one of the most entertaining pieces written on the board and a perfectly good way to waste about a half hour :)
Come on dude where's the next instalment?
Pure class
A bump to the top for the pure beauty of the writing, and the depth of the story.Quote:
Originally Posted by blondin
This passage pretty much renders any successive posts on this site completely useless on account of it's brilliance. [/TGR Forums]Quote:
Originally Posted by JoeStrummer
It's now been a year.
Pours a 40 out for Strummer.
It occured to me I haven't visited TGR in awhile, nor finished this TR. The first thread I saw today when I returned had the timeless "Where Should I Ski in Colorado" theme. Good job keeping the flame alive, gang! Someone needs to start a "What Pack Should I Buy' thread and it will be like I never took a sabbatical!
Anyways, some things got in the way of finishing this TR, none of which you give a shit about. Just the usual stuff. . .
Opus Hut. . .
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Alaska. . .
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Teaching my 7 year old son how to avoid Park Rangers and ski kid steeps . . . .
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Talking PoopGhost into doing things for my entertainment. . .
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Anyway, where were we? Oh right, in the Bernese Alps. Where there was some successful peak-bagging and descents and alcoholism . . .
arg to the top of the Jungfrau. . . .
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and the spectacular descent. . .
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But eventually the weather disintegrated and we consulted a Wise Old Man of the Mountains. He told us to get the fuck out of this zone immediately. . .
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So we fled for the lowlands, pausing briefly for a council. There were 2 votes to go to the Andermatt zone and 2 votes to get the fuck out of Switzerland entirely. After additional deliberation, checking of forecasts, etc, we hatched a new plan. And so off we went, brimming with cheer and optimism and high-spirits, reveling in our joyous camaraderie. . .
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Stopping briefly in Interlaken to marvel at Hugh Conway's golf bag, which was on display. . .
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And then onward, to a country that would accept us and not try to leave us lost on a glacier in a white-out. A country where the beer didn't taste sour and watery, where the apres-ski was not just a reserved handshake and a solemn presentation of your bill. When the Germans retreated from France, just to be spiteful on the way out the door because they couldn't take ALL the wine with them, they poured kerosene into the vintage barrels in many vineyards, ruining them forever. The oak barrels dated to the time of the Sun King, and the French believed they did this just to be destructive. I like to think they just had a different set of tastebuds and were perfecting a delicious future recipe! So off we went, to a country with a special wine that is finer than any wine ever uncorked by Napoleon himself. . .
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Enough pictures. We want wit!!!!
(welcome back)
oh dear the journey continues...:)
Stopping briefly in Interlaken to marvel at Hugh Conway's golf bag, which was on display. . .
http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7414/1...2a98f20e_o.jpg
hehe
Joe Strummer is ALIVE!!!
I was sure he was dead, lying face down in a pool of his own feces and vomit somewhere...
Good to have Strummer back. I really wanted to stand up at the McConkey movie in Denver and do a Joe Strummer call out. Would of taken a few shots to go with the gummy bears.
I was worried JoeStrummer had peaked with that post and won the internet going the same way as the GSA
Fuck YA!!!!!! He is back:biggrin: Popcorn popping, anxiously awaiting next installment.
I feel like Billy Squier, wanting to play some shit off the new record and you just want to hear the hits. But if I want to get you to watch my next TR (a lengthy POV of my church camp spring break at Breckenridge) then I suppose I need to finish this fucker. But seriously. That thing will be like the "Shoah" of POVs. The "Metal Machine Music" of POVs.Quote:
Originally Posted by huckbucket
Now, where the fuck was I? Ahh, I am afraid I am running low on wit to offer this veritable Algonquin Roundtable. I have some more stale false-stoke, however, and various uninspiring photos of further retreats. Since I never promised any real skiing in this TR, at least there was never a threat of over-promising and under-delivering.
The first order of business when we arrived in Austria was to find Klar. She seemed like she would know some good lines, or at least a doctor who can treat bullet wounds without making us fill out a bunch of pesky forms. It's good to know people like that. So we stopped in Feldkirsch and we stopped in Bludenz and we stopped in Landeck and asked around but nobody had ever heard the name. Finally after 3 weeks of this we just gave up and decided to party with this chick instead . . .
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Her kisses were fragrant, like Ricola mixed with Swisher Sweets. Soon I was thinking about buying a used Opel and a grubby second-floor walkup above a pizza shop, a modest place with fist holes in the walls from prior tenants that I could cover with Greg Stump and Kraftwerk posters. I could settle down with this lady, perhaps learn a trade like selling Tolkien products with Bernhard Franz. I could teach her about important figures in American history, like The Meatmen. Mike Watt. Keith Morris. Chuck Yeager. Barry Switzer. Initially her father would be skeptical of me but eventually he would come around and I would teach HIM about The Meatmen, as well. And we would sit on his patio and smoke pipes and listen to "War of the Superbikes" at maximum volume.
Soon however, the siren song of the mountains overpowered even this vixen's charms and we decided once again to leave her silky yet scabrous embrace in favor of a tour. And the sun came out, and there was corn. Well, creamed corn. Sloppy, exhausted, creamed corn. Perhaps the gods were in love with us again? Or at least were going to allow us to once again nurse at their sweet bosom of unlimited vistas?
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Once again we felt like we were going to be able to do what we do best, what we were put on this earth to do, what we could do better than almost anybody else . . .
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However, apparently what we were put here to do is labor up to yet another col in deteriorating conditions and then ski disorienting freshies and squabble amongst ourselves about the proper direction towards the next pastry and alcohol outpost . . .
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But eventually we tired of slabs of streudel and fetid boot rooms and gallons of delicious ale and leading unsuspecting blind skin-trail followers into our desperate sucker holes, and we fled for civilization. . .
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At this point, we realized that no matter how bad the visibility might be, or how often I farted in Telelebowski's marschtee thermos while he was in the shitter, or how often I listened to more guttural Prussian snoring through my earbuds, there was always going to be one man on earth who loved us for us, not because we were amazing skiers or giving lovers or men of the mountains. And this man accepted our flaws, like when we insisted to the final hutkeeper that we only drank 17 weissbiers with dinner when we knew it was really 23 because we had burned through all of our cash and anyway it's their goddamn fault they don't take credit cards.
There was one prince of a man, one wizard with a magic turntable that could drive all doubt from our minds, all aches from our muscles, all torment from our souls. And we knew exactly where he practiced his white magic and what time of day he could be conjured . . .
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