Nuclear Anticommunist: A Series of Statistical Studies on the Modern Day Cowboy or not . . .

By Joseph Lawhorn Inc.

A joyful romp through a land hidden by time and obscured by piles of dirty clothes, Nuclear Anticommunist approaches the questions that are really important in life, like: "Who am I " "Where am I " "Where are my pants " and "I wonder who took my pants I really liked those pants." Nuclear Anticommunist is a collection of thoughts, stories and assertions of fact, guaranteed to be weird, funny, or weird and funny. You can't lose! Not guaranteed in any way shape or form.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 5, 2011
• ISBN: 9781257398164

Book preview

Cowboy

Introduction:

Something Man Wasn’t Meant to Know

They say, Hope Floats. Really, that’s only true when the localized pressure is below 13 Pascals and the surrounding air is highly oxygenated. Otherwise it sinks. Hard.

I’m reminded of the words of George Washington (noted for his iron fist and strong anticommunist stance), who, on that bitter night at Valley Forge, just as they were running out of creamed corn and LaffyTaffy, said those fateful words: What?. Well, I guess it’s only one fateful word, but it’s still fateful.

The small gummy fruit snacks that lay before me are shaped like little deformed men. Grape flavored men, just going about their day, unable to bend their knees, think for themselves or ever love a (grape flavored) woman. Thinking about that, I’m suddenly saddened. How terrible to spend one’s life alone, cold, hiding from Gummi Bears, dreaming of a better life. A life free from the monotony of inanimate gelatinousness. I wonder if my little grape flavored man wants to get a high paying, high stress job, buy himself a power suit, meet a lemon flavored lass at some poorly lit bar, impregnate her (accidentally) with his Gummi seed and be guilted into a loveless marriage where every day feels like an eternity and he simply waits for death’s sweet release. I think of these things, and I cry for my Gummi man. But I still eat him.

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I tried to become a college professor today. I put on a really bad brown suit, mismatched socks and a pair of sandals and headed to the local university. I walked into an empty room and waited for students to wander in, drunk and smelly as is their want, and take my class. As it grew dark and cold outside, I realized my failure. I didn’t properly develop a bald spot and comb over. I will return. Don’t cry for me, Franklin County Community College. I will return.

It seems the communists’ oppression of my thoughts has relaxed, as suddenly life’s great mysteries are unfolding in front of me. Life and death are but the simple whims of random quantum fields vibrating on the 18th parallel under the control of God Almighty, who told me he prefers to be called Leon.

I wish they would stop claiming that nuclear power is unsafe. I’ve been radioactive for years now and I haven’t become a giant bug/man or gained any villainous super powers. The outcry against nuclear power is all a ploy by the Liberal Media and the Zionistic Intelligencia to keep the black man from owning and playing his PlayStation 2. They know that if the black man is allowed to play Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas, he will undoubtedly beat their high scores, unlock more mini games, and acquire more digital prostitutes than them, there by causing the collapse of the American Family. I wonder what Leon thinks of all of this.

I’m reminded of a song by Sonny and Cher titled What? It topped the charts in the late 1800s with its smarmy music and suggestive lyrics. It was touted by (noted card carrying pinko) Lucille Ball as being one of the feel good hits of the summer.

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Fast Fact: The Aztecs invented the H2 and worshiped it as a pagan god. For their transgressions, Leon allowed the Zulu army to over take them, and the Aztecs perished. The band Yes wrote a song about it. Or maybe it was Jimmy Hendrix. It isn’t really important.

Chapter 1:

The Price of Glory

Once there was a man named Andy. Andy was a carpenter by trade, and he loved to work with his hands. But Andy was not a smooth talking ladies man. In fact, he was a humble lummox with no social skills. The townsmen mocked him incessantly and the townswomen turned him down, also incessantly. Poor Andy had no friends. Every day he would work hard shaping his beloved wood into tables, chairs, disco balls and ergonomically correct mouse pads. And every night he would go home, sad and alone, to drink his Cup-o-Soup and quietly sing songs about the Southland with his favorite box of Cap’n Crunch (whom he called Sir Francis of Kitchen Table). Then he would cry himself to sleep. But I’m sure he had some redeeming qualities or something. Like, he was a nice guy and loved to read and care for baby birds or something.

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One day, the evil witch Winona Burpellete came to town and cast a magic spell on all the townspeople (except Andy, just so you know). The nature of the spell was such that something happened and all the sudden there were like, termites everywhere. Soon, everyone's wood furniture was gone. This caused demand for Andy’s wares to skyrocket. He began making money hand over fist by only outputting a few pieces of woodcraft and then charging as much as the poor, simple people of the town could afford. Everyone still hated Andy, especially now that they had a reason. Greed consumed Andy and he lusted after nothing but money (and some tart named Janice who wouldn’t return his calls).

Andy, fearing the townspeople might try to take his beloved money, began building a massive fortress (a female fort) and soon went into total seclusion behind its massive walls. During the day, he would roam the parapets cursing at ground squirrels and singing the very same songs about the Southland that he had sung with Sir Francis of Kitchen Table (whom he had earlier had an argument with, which resulted in Andy selling Sir Francis to organ harvesters on eBay). During the nights, Andy would sit alone on his solid gold, commemorative, Alan Greenspan autographed barstool and count his money. It wasn’t so much that he had a lot of it, it was more that he couldn’t count very well and he lost track of what he had counted the previous nights.

One night, the townspeople, lead by a dashing man with a dashing shock of curled hair and a dashing jutted chin, prepared to storm Andy’s fortress. Andy was alerted to the townspeople’s plan by a passing Scarlet Ibis (it’s a well-documented fact that the Ibis is incapable of keeping a secret). Andy prepared for the assault, and when the townspeople charged, led by that dashing young man with dashing hair and dashing teeth and dashing designer clothing, he was dashed to bits by a not so dashing boulder.

The townspeople, being cowardly, ran away. Andy lived out his depressing, miserly life in his fortress, alone, with not a single living thing to give him comfort. The townspeople had no where to sit and nothing to eat on. Eventually, they did substitute the wooden disco balls with reflective plastic ones. The balls were more distracting that way, but the townspeople needed to dance. Basically, it was bad for everyone.

The End

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Fast Fact: Putting things in the microwave is fun. You’d be hard pressed to find something that ISN’T fun to microwave. This is because Microwave Ovens cook by vibrating the "fun particles’ which occur naturally in almost all objects. Be careful, though, because prolonged exposure to Fun Particle Radiation may cause stomach cancer. Which is not fun.

Chapter 2:

The Second Chapter

For my Masters Degree, I’m going to write a 200 page thesis on why Livin’ La Vida Loca is responsible for the Dust Bowl and Great Depression, retroactively. The song is responsible for the events retroactively, not that I’m going to write the paper retroactively. In the first book of Colossians it speaks of one called Ricky Martin that will come and bring darkness to the world for at least half a year. You just have to find the right translation to make it clear. I prefer Saint Doug’s Translation of the Order of Operations: Mo-town edition. St. Doug is the Patron Saint of Garlic Toast and other Garlic flavored breads. He was canonized when he rode a mechanical bull for 13 hours straight, then got up and won a game of darts. It was said that when he preached, seagulls would scream in pain and fall from the sky, as a sign that Leon hates Seagulls.

Seagulls remind me of Minnesota, the land of the midnight sun, and my pilgrimage there 14 years ago. The US was at war with Canadia at that time, and border standoffs could be intense. It was my solemn call to go, stand in Minnesota and pee on Canadia. And so I set off. After several hours of walking I found I was still in Kansas and I was growing distraught. I had to get to Canadia, do my business and be home in time for dinner. Luckily, a passing military convoy picked me up and gave me a ride to the front. I rode from 3 hours outside Topeka, Kansas all the way to Minot, North Dakota with the 341st Armored Motorcycle Division, our boys in leather, nice lads. Unfortunately they got lost, went too far west, and never figured out where Canadia was. But some guys with the 899th Grand Super Fantastic Impressive Division gave me a lift the rest of the way to Minnesota. I got to ride in their Gigantic Awe Inspirer and they even let me shoot the Amazing Cannon at trees and barns and things as we drove along.

I finally made it to the border. It was then that I learned a little about life and love. Just as I was dropping my drawers on the border, the most beautiful Canadian woman caught my eye. She was 7 feet tall with hair that flowed like a beach towel and eyes that shown like headlights. She had no nose and her mouth seemed to change shape dramatically when she talked. Her eyes were gigantic and captivating. Her voice was like a siren. Not the mythical kind. The pull over to the side of the road and let the hostages go kind. She was like the summer wind coming out of the north and whispering advertisements for the RonCo Vegimatic. I was instantly smitten.

She approached me as I was hanging in the breeze so to speak. Her laughter was like the laughter of some kind of angel, mocking me as I peed across the border. She started pointing with one dainty (gigantic) hand, using the other to dial her cell phone and call her friends. As (mis)fortune would have it, I had been drinking gallons of ice tea on the trip up and the show lasted a lot longer than I had intended. Local village children were trucked in to watch and I instantly became an international super star. But when it was all over, I never saw that laughing gigantic bug eyed angel, again. This was to be my life's greatest sadness

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They say that when you see love, you must never hesitate. I hesitated, and she was gone, and I was alone (expect for the crowd). Naked and peeing in a harsh land a thousand miles from my family and my favorite pair of socks. A man walked by and spewed forth something in Canadiaish that I couldn’t understand. A kindly old lady from Ontario translated for me, as I zipped up.

"He said ’That is amazing! In my home country, we have toilets and human bladders and decency. How would you like to cross the now desecrated border and be a Canadian day time talk