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22 December 2023
Two months ago, Sal Swayzo created this freaky image for a story that was pulled. (Yeah, we actually don't print everything.) Instead of tossing the pic, though, we decided to have 12 staff members write 12 different stories about the image for a 12 Days of Christmas type of thing. Dig,...
SMOKIN'-STYLE
When I was a little kid, I used to look forward to the Holidays. Not for the presents, because as a family we were so fucking poor that I once received pencils with my name on them and an orange in my stocking. My cousin got a Commodore 64, which he broke three days later. And it wasn't spending time with my parents, because I hated my stepmother with a vengeance normally reserved for Hitler or disco. It was the food.
As I previously mentioned, we were poor. Going to someone else's house for the Holidays was code word for: EAT A GREAT DEAL. And, luckily, the hosts always seemed to have a prejudice against leftovers.
I don't remember where I was when the following anecdote took place, but I know the "elders of the tribe" had come back from the butcher with a giant chunk of a deer they had bagged a few days earlier. I remember watching this chunk of beast being prepared, and I asked, in my city-boy naivete, "Where does bread come from?"
One of them turned to me quite casually and said, "Deer."
BANG! Talk about having your mind blown. I realize now that he probably thought I had asked, "What is that?" or, perhaps, "What's a four-letter word for a forest animal that rhymes with beer?"
I suddenly imagined them stalking this animal through the woods like Rambo, cutting off its escape, and finally launching that lethal arrow into a big, brown, thundering, jumping thing made of soft, piping hot bread that tasted great with vegetable dip and venison sandwiches.
It took me years to get that out of my head.
SMOKIN'-STYLE
When I was a little kid, I used to look forward to the Holidays. Not for the presents, because as a family we were so fucking poor that I once received pencils with my name on them and an orange in my stocking. My cousin got a Commodore 64, which he broke three days later. And it wasn't spending time with my parents, because I hated my stepmother with a vengeance normally reserved for Hitler or disco. It was the food.
As I previously mentioned, we were poor. Going to someone else's house for the Holidays was code word for: EAT A GREAT DEAL. And, luckily, the hosts always seemed to have a prejudice against leftovers.
I don't remember where I was when the following anecdote took place, but I know the "elders of the tribe" had come back from the butcher with a giant chunk of a deer they had bagged a few days earlier. I remember watching this chunk of beast being prepared, and I asked, in my city-boy naivete, "Where does bread come from?"
One of them turned to me quite casually and said, "Deer."
BANG! Talk about having your mind blown. I realize now that he probably thought I had asked, "What is that?" or, perhaps, "What's a four-letter word for a forest animal that rhymes with beer?"
I suddenly imagined them stalking this animal through the woods like Rambo, cutting off its escape, and finally launching that lethal arrow into a big, brown, thundering, jumping thing made of soft, piping hot bread that tasted great with vegetable dip and venison sandwiches.
It took me years to get that out of my head.
artid
1889
Old Image
6_4_reindeer.jpg
issue
vol 6 - issue 04 (dec 2003)
section
stories