The long road home.

So I left.

Again.

Now I am back.

…

Probably.

Because of our aggressive efforts to ensure the construction and operation of Oglethorpe’s Claw and Fist Luxury Hotel and Electronic Bingo Hall in Natural Bridge, we’ve been laying low as the bingo prosecutions ramp up. In the meantime, I briefly had a job in Mississippi, where I oversaw a state-funded ad campaign to deal with one of the state’s biggest problems:

I also spearheaded this ad campaign to clarify a new law passed by the Mississippi Legislature.

Of course, the whole thing was a ruse — and not just because the Cockfight Family technically owns Mississippi due to a treaty to stop one of my ancestors from raiding the state in the mid-19th Century.

I was really there to investigate ways to get the Oglethorpe’s Claw project off the ground, such as by importing “Kitty-Kat Bingo,” which is basically electronic bingo but with cat players, instead of human ones. You know, with their paws and stuff.

(It kind of works.)

Kitty-Kat Bingo is legal throughout Mississippi based on that state’s dominant legal theory of “FUCK YOU LAWMAN YOU CAN’T TAKE THE MONEY FROM ME IF MY CAT DOES IT!” And we had such high hopes because of the concept: Bringing Kitty-Kat Bingo into Alabama would not only have ensured Oglethorpe’s Claw’s legality, but it would have allowed us to charge for all kinds of new “amenities” and expand our target audience to smoked-out cat ladies.

(Well, the ones who don’t already play electronic bingo, at least.)

But alas, the investors decided to pull out as it looked like electronic gambling in Alabama’s days have passed. In May, I came home. And last week, thanks to Scott Beason being a dumbass, we felt the heat had sufficiently cooled to do what we do best: Lord over Alabama and its lessers with a sense of power and ownership that we don’t really have.

Just like the Governor under the 1901 Constitution.

I thought about getting back to Weblogging here again, but the appeal just wasn’t there.

It was time to do something different. It was time for something fresh. It was time to dispose of those years of girl-on-girl erotica I had stored up from years of drinking alone and writing on Sunday nights while watching girl-on-girl erotica.

It was time to lezblog.

So I started work on my lightly fictionalized Weblog “Hot Lez in Bay Minette” that would both stretch my creativity and draw attention to the oppression of the LGBTQ community in Bay Minette. I guess.

Yet, as I was wrapping up my third post on Sierra’s deep thoughts about Tennessee’s “Don’t Say Gay” legislation and trying out new bath soaps with her partner—whose handle is “Mexican Christina Hendricks”—I spotted some headlines that showed my idea of faux lezblogging was not that original. At all.

So I reluctantly decided I would come back to this.

Like most of us living here in Alabama who have somehow managed to scrape out a basic education and not drink enough to paralyze the parts of the brain that allow functional writing capability, I don’t seem to accomplish much, but I have survived the brain damage from banging my head against the wall day after day.

And at least that’s something I’m good at.

An update on what the rest of the Family’s been up to the past few months:

• In addition to helping out with Alabama Republicans various machinations of late, Uncle Eagle began divorce proceedings against his latest wife on her thirtieth birthday, as contractually planned since the beginning of their courtship. He is in the market for new wife who meets all of Mountain Brook’s system requirements, though he acknowledges it may be hard for him to woo a new bride while nursing the visible erection he has been perpetually sporting as America’s social safety net frays away.
• In addition to rebuffing my revenge lay overtures, the soon-to-be former Karolina Johnstone-Cockfight has been busy trying to woo the Bravo network to produce a Real Housewives of Mountain Brook. Unfortunately, negotiations have all but collapsed of late because of her stipulation that she and the other prospective housewives not see a black person during production.
• Uncle Carter got out of the mental home a few months back once we felt certain he would not kill all of us because he was not elected Agriculture Commissioner. He’s lost some confidence in his chances of being elected President, given that he is still sure that “the goddamn federal government is gonna come raise [his] taxes and pull out [his] motherfuckin’ teeth and use them to make a robot bite out my asshole” if he lets his name be put on a ballot. In the meantime, he recently started an anti-immigration nonprofit, Americans for Immigrant Freedom (AIF). We think this might be a front for a militia.
• My dad has been preaching and listening to a lot of Steely Dan. He was going to do something the night the Rapture was supposed to have happened in May, but I think he saw Thor that night instead.
• My mom remains a total bitch.
• My sister is somewhat of a bitch—what with her actually doing things with her life and all.
• Brewer T. Alberts III, the Family Historian, is hopeful he can land an animation deal to adapt his children’s books Stand Up for Christmas: How Hank Williams, Sr., and George Wallace Saved Santa for the big screen. The big screen of the Denny’s near his trailer off the interstate, that is. In 3D.
• Cousin Collins, Carter’s boy, finally crossed a line that the Family could not cleanly pull him back from. Collins, if you did not know, tends to go through phases, particularly since his stint in rehab just before his mom left right before he graduated high school. His most frequently manifesting one involves a made-up Christianity sect of his, which he has mostly used to justify being a fucked-up masturbation addict, probably as a result of being raised by Carter. (Though if you can get past the typographical errors, subject matter, and … stains, the Book of his Prairie Orthodox Bible about masturbating with a stick of butter to Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen double as a shockingly devastating treatment of Law and Economics.) In March, after mixing Mountain Dew: Code Red and some pretty shitty wine coolers, Collins apparently got the bright idea to steal a tractor. They eventually found him in a Big Lots parking lot in Prattville covered in Mountain Dew syrup and Combos crumbs and making love to the tractor while listening to this:
  
  Apparently one of the sex offender laws the Legislature passed years back made tractor kidnapping and molestation while listening to Ray Stevens a fairly serious felony. We’re hoping the prison rape builds character.

I know we’ve been away for a while, but I hope you’ll keep up with us again.

I mean, you should enjoy the Internet before your service provider comes and takes it away from your unemployed Alabamian ass.

Or you’re arrested to run the Jefferson County Courts’ metal detectors.

Or you try to buy a taco and end up in jail.

…

This State is fucked.

…

And I’ve just been in Mississippi.