|
| |
|
|
I AM KEN KESEY'S DOG I saw it all. Old bus, new bus. I saw a green parrot riding a ferret bareback in the living room, a joint on top of a Bible. I once saw goats dance through the back door , gambol past the couch and out the other door. I nearly coughed. I have seen hippies with no hair and bad dogs, dread hair, multi-colored hair, people just come off the road with wild desperate sweaty hair and delusional, paranoid thoughts, which were embraced with hospitality and home movies. They ran me ragged, all the visitors. I had to protect everyone. They'd wander off by the cows and talk to them like they were porpoises, smart and communicative. The hippie dogs wore bandanna scarves like city teenage girls and didn't seem right. When they saw ducks, they stood riveted instead of getting low down and tearing off after them. I showed them every hideyhole and every feral cat, and the dogs seemed disinterested. The old bus is a swamp lament down there all humble and mossy. I led groups down there to see it, Smithsonians, filmmakers from L.A., famous people and kooks. Not one of these people ever gave me a treat. I saw a nutria go after a feral cat near the pond. Its long yellow teeth showed and it tiptoed like a cold rat. The place is a hotbed of daily violence. The heron will shake a bullfrog in its beak like a crazy thought and gobble it down standing on one foot. The barn owl is as big as a bulldog and leaves strange messages in its dung balls, teeny bones and fur. When Hunter Thompson visited, he carried a pistol with him at all times. The hippies know how to celebrate. They call me Happy.
 Happy wrote in via Genie Murphy. Thanks Genie. Photo courtesy of IntrepidTrips.com
Page URL: http://pranksterweb.org/index.htm |