There's nothing better then meeting up in the middle of a barren expanse of acreage to slay birds with your longtime bros. That's exactly what I did last week. It's a gentleman's sport, but this trip was all about crude dudes fartin' in our overalls and drinking Labbats Blue Light. Our hosts at the Medicine Breaks were up for the challenge of beer soaked debauchery with a cadre of old dusty nut bastards. Here's some of the fond memories.
Jake Lancaster sounds like a real wing master's name. But like the rest of us, he couldn't shoot for shit. He is good at crushing canned beers and clearing rooms with bowel emissions though. This whole trip was his idea. Probably one of his best ideas ever.
The Mayor didn't carry a firearm, he summoned red tail hawks to carry their pray to clandestine corn palaces where he will sew cod pieces from their mortal coil.
As Sweet River likes to say, our pal and guide Al Dickman is what you call the "apex of the food chain."
Al was so stuffed after a hearty meal that he couldn't keep his eyes open. It had nothing to do with the bottle of Jim Beam he laid to rest. We'll miss Jim.
Welcome to Cock Country. It's an exotic, luxury retreat for well mannered gents and their feathered friends. Holster up your hand cannons and spit out your lip dip. Cock Country is a peaceful respite.
Two of the original members of the band Gardenbrau. A bit older. A bit fatter. Far less skilled at taking birds home.
For some reason I didn't have a single picture of Garrett Garnos. The biggest swinging dick in Presho, South Dakota. He was our gracious host, and solid dude.