Friday, August 17, 2007

Fusel tells a story

About his grandfather, who was a fighter pilot. Seems he was flying low over the Urinals on his way off patrol and late one night. And out of the moon glow at 12 o'clock a fuckker bi-plane shot the crap out of his tail.

Nifferpult 109, Grandad's plane

So he ditched in an oxbow lake in the bitter hills homewards (no parachute you see, and water landing much preferred to rock scratching).

Anyway, he wakes up in the gray dim dawn wrapped in felt and lard, a walking stick in his hand and a fucked off wolf a yard away.

The story goes on and involves homburg hats and more lard.

And he goes on to become this word-renowned artist. So Fusel tells me.

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