Drop, Kicked

The weirdity of humans: to this there is no end.

Take New Year’s Eve. For reasons Unknown, the American variant of human has developed a tradition involving ushering in the new year by dropping things.

This may have begun in New York City. Where, as the clock ticks into New Year’s Day, a large and colorful ball is, from a great height, dropped, while many humans, gathered below, shout and cheer and screech and weep.

Elsewhere across the nation, other objects are for the new year dropped. In North Carolina, a large pickle plunges into a barrel. In Wisconsin, humans heave to the ground a frozen carp, monikered “Lucky.” Pennsylvanians splat to the earth a 200-pound hunk of bologna. In Key West, Florida flutters earthward a giant shoe bearing a beaming drag queen.

And down in the tiny Appalachian hamlet of Brasstown, for many years the yeehaws assembled marked the coming of the new year by lowering from the roof of a gas station, in a plexiglass cage, a live possum, while braying “five, four, three, two, one! The possum has landed!”

These people were profiled here on red, and at some length, back in January of 2011.

Today, these people’s lives are utterly changed.

For, in a stunning victory for Godless Communism, an administrative law judge has ruled that the state of North Carolina cannot lawfully issue a permit permitting a bunch of yeehaws to cram a possum into plexiglass confinement, and then slowly lower the fear-paralyzed creature to the ground, while they shriek maniacally and loudly abuse tubas.

The judge himself may be something of a screwloose. For, wrote he: “Hunters must afford wild animals the same right Patrick Henry yearned for. ’Give me liberty, or give me death!’”

Clay Logan, doyen of the Brasstown Possum Drop, has traditionally possessed a state-issued license permitting him to kill a possum. This, ruled Judge Fred Morrison Jr., he may lawfully do. But, under color of said license, he may not “keep animals in captivity.” And no reasonable reading of any state statute allows “possum-caging on a special and temporary basis”: to wit, ramming it into a cage and then subjecting it to gravity while humans prance and howl.

Possums, they do not go in for this sort of thing. At all. As I wrote in the initial red look at the wanton possum abusers of Brasstown:

I’ve communed some with possums, and I can tell you that they’re spooked creatures. Just about anything can and will kill and eat them, and they know this. So, they live a life of Fear. Back at the Old Place, I was sitting out on the deck one night, having a smoke, when a tiny little possum came skittering onto the deck, hugging close to the wall. I softly said “hello,” as I usually would to whatever rat, bat, skunk, deer, coon, snake, or fox ambled onto the deck. And this possum leapt high into the air; when it came down, it stood stock-still, frozen, shivering. I thought it would have a heart attack. That possum there in Brasstown, I’m sure all that it is thinking, as the chortling celebrants cage it away in preparation for the drop, and then during the drop itself, is “Someone Is Killing Me.”

I also then suggested a more humane alternative to the Possum Drop.

Clay Logan, in musing to the Times reporter about possibilities for next year’s Brasstown Possum Drop, unwittingly hit upon a much better substitute. Said Logan: “Next year, I’d love to get me an albino. They’re rare. And hard to catch. But imagine that. An albino possum drop.”

Well, Clay, I say you’re halfway there. For you should indeed get yourself an albino. But not an albino possum. What you need, hoss, is an albino human being.

Because lowering from your gas-station roof there in Brasstown an albino banjo-player would transmit the same message—”we are different from New York City”—and would be regionally quite appropriate, as Brasstown abuts the Chattahoochee National Forest, where the boys of Deliverance did play. And the famous pigment-less banjo-plucker in that film did indeed wail away from atop a platform at a gas station.

And provided a brief and brutal recent history of the place.

Brasstown briefly attained 15 minutes of fame when the folks thereabouts were suspected of sheltering the crazed Christianist terrorist Eric Rudolph, who bombed the 1996 Atlanta Olympics, various and sundry abortion clinics, and a lesbian bar. Rudolph grew up around Brasstown, and comes from interesting stock: while Rudolph was on the run, his brother David videotaped himself cutting off his own hand with a radial saw, to “send a message to the FBI and the media.”

Once the Rudolphs were put away, Brasstown withdrew again into obscurity: the Possum Drop was contrived, says Logan, because the town “desperately needed something.”

Now, I understand all about “desperately needing something.” For surely there comes a time when we all “desperately need something.” I myself have been there. But never did I feel that what I “needed” involved stuffing a small marsupial into a cage and lowering it from the roof of a gas station while chanting a descending series of numbers.

Might I suggest that what Brasstown may really “need” is some black people?

The town is located in the smallest county in North Carolina, Clay County, named for Henry Clay, a howling racist, and a man credited with bringing the mint julep to Washington DC, thereby introducing to the already legendarily bibulous residents of that city a new way to get wacky. Besides Brasstown, other metropoli in Clay County include Pinelog, Shooting Creek, and Elf. Some 98.01% of the county’s population is white, as compared to an infinitesimal 0.8% for black folk. Since there are only 8,775 people in the whole county, with 240 in Brasstown, that means that the entire black population of the latter would fit into my bathroom.

Amazingly, 98.01% to 0.8% is an even worse racial disparity than that on Daily Kos, which I guess at least proves that such a thing is possible.

I note that last Tuesday, of the denizens of Clay County, some 70.7% cast ballots for Captain Underpants. Only 28.1% managed to go for the black man. Not quite as bad as, say, Utah. But still.

Comes the thought: the Brasstowners need something to put in their cage. And Captain Underpants, he needs something to do.

So, rather than scare up an albino banjo-flailer as a sub for the possum, Logan & Co. could hoist ol’ Underpants up to the top of the Citgo gas station. Ram him into the plexiglass cage. Then, as this year slides into the next, slowly lower him to the ground, while chanting “five, four, three, two, one! The Endowed Penis has landed!”

Works for me.

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16 Responses to “Drop, Kicked”


  1. 1 nancy November 15, 2012 at 7:44 pm

    I remember being appalled by this story upon first reading of the practice here and also somewhat shocked, since in certain regions of Icepick, possums have a privileged status that allows them to share platters of food with outside cats..Side by side..

    So yes! A victory at last for North American’s only Marsupial.. I do like that Judge..but i am sure it is really Obama’s Fault. : )

    If Underpants is otherwise engaged on 1/1/2013 ( say off in the Caymans or in Federal prison) or if he is — ahem!!– unable to squeeze his endowment into said plexiglass, then may i suggest some stand -ins, such as the ferret-like John McCain??

    Or the weaselly Lindsay Graham?? Kinda his neighborhood anyway right??

    • 2 bluenred November 15, 2012 at 9:21 pm

      Old Man Shouts At Cloud is too big: he would break the cage. As For Graham, I don’t think the people of Brasstown allow folks of his closeted persuasion within city limits.

    • 3 bluenred November 15, 2012 at 11:22 pm

      P.S. Kinda amusing, dontcha think, that the Kos people smugly chortle that Underpants took only the votes of white people, that the demographics are changing, that people of color are ascendant, when the Kos people themselves are 85% white, a percentage that massively dwarfs the white-people percentages attained by ol’ Underpants.

      ; )

      • 4 nancy November 16, 2012 at 11:26 am

        Yes it is : ) Mighty White – literally and figuratively as we know..

        The last time i checked quantcast, i see the class and age disparities remain, and the gender gap has become a gulf.

        75% Male now. Stunning really.

        It is the Underpants Voting Bloc on Steroids, over there in The Land without Mirrors………………

        • 5 bluenred November 17, 2012 at 8:13 am

          Maybe it is no coincidence that women began fleeing the place like it was on fire around the time the Marine began swinging “dick” in just about every damn diary and comment.

      • 6 nancy November 16, 2012 at 12:50 pm

        you know i had just replied here, and then, i looked

        the Badness made me log in :)

        Touché

        • 7 bluenred November 17, 2012 at 8:26 am

          Hey—nice to see you over there. You, briefly, pumped up the wimmin stats some. ; )

          Otherwise, a lot of thundering silence, there in that Diary.

          Probably just as well. ; )

          • 8 nancy November 17, 2012 at 10:21 am

            ha! I contributed .0005% for a second or two

            Of course i had plenty to say but must preserve my Scarlet NR : )

            Always grateful though for alternative spaces such as this

            I think you are right btw re the timing of The Great Fleeing of The Womyn — all coincide with The Purge,The Boycott and Aftermath.

            The Marine and Co are really not up for “reality-based” after all..

  2. 9 Julia Rain (the deviant daughter) November 15, 2012 at 8:14 pm

    Good for the possum. And good for the somewhat over-dramatic judge.

    I’m not sure I really WANT to know why Pennsylvanians splat to the earth a 200-pound hunk of bologna, but I imagine if I ask around, someone will Know.

    Mitt can’t weigh more than 200 pounds, so I’m sure a Mitt-drop could be made to work.

  3. 11 Comrade Red November 16, 2012 at 9:26 am

    dropping a large black ball was, in the days before radio, the visual method used to give the precise chronometer time to the ships in a harbor. I believe that it was generally done at local sidereal noon. of course the ball was hoisted aloft in a high vantage point. the instant that the ball touches bottom is the exact time. dropping other things – well, that’s a mystery….

  4. 15 Miep O'Brien November 16, 2012 at 11:59 pm

    The whole Internet is apparently kinda guy-oriented. Makes one wonder what the wimmen are up to. Trying to organize for civil rights or some such paltry crap again, no doubt.


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