Some groin-seeking yellow gopher or something launches itself at resident embarrassment Jack Delasonia. The gopher was soon followed by my boot and a series of blows from a bowling pin to his skull. This picture wasn't taken at the South Appleton Bowlery-o-rama, but it was after I wandered into there (just a LITTLE tipsy but not drunk) and passed out on the 11th lane. The manager, who was 14 feet tall if I remember right, told me to leave so I stabbed him in the leg with my car keys and took a bowling pin and ran off and tipped over the prize machine that was rigged so you never get the expensive Rolex watch in the back. Then I wandered into some fruity disco dance place and I saw Jack there and thought he was his brother, Frank Delasonia, who owes me $50 from the time he bet me $50 that I couldn't drive my car through his neighbor's backyard without smearing his pussfilled wife across my windshield. Well who's the winner now, you Romanian bastard? Oh wait, shit, I guess I actually lost that bet.


Future medical mishap Karen Parkens stares into the camera while I cram a garden hose into her gut and turn on my air compressor.

Skunkboy McDale takes a little nap, allowing me to practice my throwing skill. I missed all those times because the wind was blowing crazy all over the goddamn place and I was dizzy from the weird fumes that my Chrysler has been spitting out ever since I tried to replace the air conditioner myself. Also I didn't drink that lemonade shit because that crap is for nancyboy jackoffs who watch PBS.


Free-range freaks of the West Appleton plains. You don't need clay ducks when you've got live targets like these.