Okay, so another long-fought battle with the yuppies has been the concept of using trash to save parking spaces after a snow storm. Yuppies think they’re badasses because they move the space-savers to use the spot for themselves, but true South Bostonians win out in the end with a few swipes of their car key to that blue Prius. Anyway, the South Bostonians also won out on Menino, as we now have an excuse to get rid of all those broken TV’s the garbage men refused to pick up. Thanks Menino, you fucking douche!
But you don’t have to take my WORD for it! (Reading Rainbow reference) Billy Baker, from the Boston Globe, did some research in this article.
I have this recurring dream that I’m in a cave surrounded by water. I enter the cave insecurely and I hear voices excited as I’m entering. I retreat, nervously, that I need to confront those within the cave. Eventually I enter the cave and its warm, warm water. I relax within and let the cave masters take me into the next cavern. I feel as if I’m foolishly following a Zork trap, almost self-determinately ruining my chances, but also knowing intellectually that I have no choice. The cave is my destiny. The cave is all that I’ve ever known. There will never be an exit. There will never be a departure into the daylight again. I am the cave. I am those people. I am the darkness.
There are neon lights within each cavern: Blue, Yellow, Red. There are children inside the cave. Those that remind you of yourself, while also annoying the shit out of you. One of them will bring you to the point of screaming. They will push you to the point where you never thought you could go. You are alone with a child that makes you want to reconsider your stance on being pro-choice. Eventually the cave-dwellers get rid of the children because they know it is counter productive to your progress. You are no longer a participant. You are now the experiment. Your life so far has lead to this moment and you have no idea where it will lead. You are the cave. You are the people. You are the children and the darkness.
In case you’ve missed our commentary on Fenway Bark thus far, it’s first here and then here, and kind of here. Unfortunately, our disagreements with Ms Fulton et al, which recently resulted in Fenway Bark’s permanent Shit List-ification, have descended in tone to the level of ad hominem verbal aggression. So, with that in mind, I’d like to say that Fenway Bark is gay. Gay, gay, gay. Continue reading →
Recently, the Staker’s critics have been engaging in somewhat of a feeding frenzy. I can call it that because we don’t get your standard, run-of-the-mill internet trolls on this blog. We only get people who actively dislike us specifically. And I love that! It means that I’m getting my point across.
To offer a little background, the Staker has garnered Shack heat for making the following two innocuous assertions:
Not only do yuppies try to shape the grooming landscape, but they try to replace our Pit-bulls and Rottweilers with this genetic abortion.
As my hetero-life-mate, there are many reasons why I love Staker. I have known him for nearly 17 years, and I remember vividly the day we met in our little league coach’s apartment in the Old Colony Housing Projects. But of all the reasons why I would love this hairy little grease-ball, I would have to say that I love him most for his ability to piss people off, and attract more violent energy than a hillbilly wearing steel overhauls.
What can also be a tragic character flaw really pays off here on The Shack, and the amount of heat we’ve received for his March 11th post, Passing Judgment on Fenway Bark, has lead us to make new enemeies of Zeltsonic proportions (mainly because his post is number 6 when you Google “fenway bark.” That can’t be good for business. Oops!). Now we don’t really care if you take your dog to a spa, just like we don’t care if you go down to Bella Sante on Newbury Street for a botox and Brazillian. The point is that there are many more practical uses for the limited property here in South Boston.