The lovely Sadie, who is definitely invited to a farm fete (fest?) whenever she next crosses the Mississippi, writes, in regard to teats:

Steve H: i’m not sure if it means the nipple or the whole bag or what
Sadie: i think it’s the latter.
Sadie: no the former.

Well, Sadie, dear, if you had comments enabled, one of the Naked Villains might have been able to enlighten you. Comments don’t have to be about “show us your tits!” They could be “I’ll define teats for you.”

But since you don’t have comments, I will embargo my assidously acquired attainment of astoundingly arcane agricultural (and alliterative) awareness.

Predictions:

Sadie will lose no sleep over my embargo.

The Minister of Propaganda will rapidly register a ridiculously ribald remark in the comments section, thereby proving the perspicacity our pulchritudinous partner’s plainly prohibitonist policy.

UPDATE: The MOP points out that I mispelled pulchritudinous in my haste, using dictionary.com as a reference. I am embarassed by this particular mispelling, as I am of all of my poor grammar and spelling as exhibited on the blog since movable type took away my spell check (and composing in word adds odd characters when I cut and paste). I would like to point out that I at least knew what the word meant - and I adore the word because its meaning is quite different from its ugly, harsh sound. So accidental misspelling versus illiteracy - I guess Longwood trumps Yale yet again.

Greetings, loyal minions. Your Maximum Leader hopes that you all had a festive Thanksgiving spent in the company of family and friends. Your Maximum Leader had a great long weekend. He visited with family from far and wide. He cooked a huge feast. He’s eaten leftovers. And now he’d like to speak about something bugging him…

Your Maximum Leader was driving home from his sainted in-law’s house on Saturday night (after a quick day-visit) and was listening to XM Radio along the way. He was listening, as is his habit, to the “80’s on 8.” About halfway back to the Villainschloss they played the extended dance mix of Bruce Springsteen’s “Dancing in the Dark.”

Now, first off let your Maximum Leader go on the record and say that he believes that “Dancing in the Dark” - the album version - hasn’t aged well in his mind. As the years pass that song seems more dated and flat. But if you want to hear something that truly offends the ear dig up a copy of the extended dance mix of the song. You’ll recognize it by the presence of the xylophone in the first few measures.

Gawd the very act of rememberance makes your Maximum Leader cringe. The xylophone. The cheesey back-up singers. The constant repetition of the same riffs over and over and over. Indeed, your Maximum Leader thinks that Springsteen intentionally screwed up the song just to “stick it” to the record promoters who said to him, “Look Bruce we need a dance mix… You know… For kids…” After realizing that his contract required him to do a dance mix at the behest of the label Springsteen probably said to himself, “I’m gonna make this the shittiest dance mix ever.” While your Maximum Leader cannot confirm that the “Dancing in the Dark” dance mix is the most horrid one ever re-recorded - it certainly ranks right up there in the annals of regrettable recordings.

Your Maximum Leader feels that this post will go a long way towards exorcising the demons of that song…

Carry on.

Boris “The Fist” Timisov still marveled at America. It was 2:00 am and he was waiting in a line at a convenience store. Two in the fucking morning and there was a line at the Qwik-Mart. Amazing country.

The clerk hardly looked at him. “What for you?”

“Fifty pounds of ice.”

“Big party?”

“Yeah.”

“$10.95.”

Boris paid for his ice and went out to get the bags. He carried them to the trunk of his car. He looked around and opened the trunk and threw in the ice. Alexey’s lifeless body had hardly even cooled yet.

Breakin’ the law! Breakin’ the law!

As an aside, $9.49 a gallon of milk?! I need to start selling milk!

Here is the grea story of a sixteen year old with her own dairy business. She is a small farmer (ONE cow), raises the cow humanely on pasture, and amrkets directly to consumers. You go, girl!

The Maximum Leader is looking forward to Easter.

He and his lovely family will join the Smallholders at our little farm. Mike, my neighbor Paul, and I will retire to the kitchen and spend the day cooking a home-raised leg of lamb and a home-raised ham. While drinking beer and scotch.

And it gets better.

I know the Maximum Leader will soon be gleefully atwitter.

Paul and I were discussing how Scottish cuisine developed as a dare: “I bet you won’t eat that!”

Paul jumps up and finds his recipe for haggis, lamenting that he has never had the chance to make it. Stomachs are hard to come by in the United States.

A lightbulb goes on over my head. “I’m taking a lamb in to the butcher right before our Easter meal! I’ll have the butcher save the stomach!”

Paul then declares: “I’ll bring my bagpipe CD and pipe the haggis into the dining room! We’ll toast the haggis with Scotch!”

I suspect that the Maximum Leader is, at this very moment, running to see if his kilt still fits.

Easter is gonna rock!

Greetings, loyal minions. Your Maximum Leader had just a moment so he decided to write a quick entry. The impetus behind the entry was, ostensibly, the op-ed piece in the Washington Post today by Henry Kissinger concerning the rise of Angela Merkle as Chancellor of Germany. You should take a moment and read what Henry wrote on the subject.

But the article reminded your Maximum Leader of a dream he had the other night. Once before he’s blogged about a dream he had. That one wasn’t too wierd. This one was sort of odd…

If you are interested… Click below the fold… Otherwise…

Carry on.
(more…)

Greetings, loyal minions. Your Maximum Leader wanted to take a brief break from his vacation to with his favourite wooly, meaty, and snippy bloggers a Happy Blogoversary. He thought, for some mad reason, that they had been blogging for longer? Humm… Time flies when one is contemplating Melissa Theuriau…

Robbo and Steve, your Maximum Leader doffs his bejeweled floppy hat and wishes you many happy returns.

Carry on.

A few posts ago, I asked readers to come up with an appropriate “farewell address” for the Naked Villains.

And now the Maximum Leaders says he is going on vacation?

We all know what happened to the despotic Shah when he went on “vaction” for treatment in America.

Just call me the Ayatollah Smallholderehni.

We shall put a sword to the infidels!

When the revolution comes, my friends, Naked Villainy will be all artificial insemination, all the time!

Anyhoo…

Do you suppose the Foreign Minister will cover for the Mximum Leader? We haven’t heard from our warmongering right wing ideologue in a while.

Greg: Here are some suggested post topics.

Why Germany’s strict labor protection laws have hobbled economic growth.
The German view of the French riots.
Why Sweet Seasons Farm is the bestest vacation spot EVER.
How living abroad has changed my opinions about gun control.
Maximizing the fat content of milk through genetic improvement.

Oh wait. The last one is mine. I know you will all be on the edge of your seats before I get that one up.

Loyal Minions of Naked Villainy know that one of our favorite topics is artificial insemination. Okay, it is one of my favorite topics:

Bonnie Lass Bonnie
Norweigen Red genetics
Grass fed dairyin’

So much cow data
Focus: fertility, long teats
Excellent love match

Bonnie is pregnant
Frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!
Smallholder’s herd grows

Today we have a story involving artificial pollination.

Plus, the story involves the Maximum Leader’s stinky favorit plant, the Titan Arum. (I’m too lazy to provide a link to his paeons to the smelly flower. He can feel free to add a link if he is so moved)

Greetings, loyal minions. Your Maximum Leader wanted to let you know that he is going to be taking a little blog vacation. He’s got lots going on this week and has decided that he’ll probably not blog much or at all. Consider this fair warning.

This is not to say that he’ll not pop in from time to time and post a little something. It might happen. Just to keep you on your toes. Under ordinary circumstances your Maximum Leader would tell you to keep checking this space for pithy observations from his various ministers. But he’s not sure he can even promise that knowing that his ministers are men-about-town and quite busy.

In the meanwhile check out the high quality blogs on the blogroll… Buy some Naked Villainy stuff. (It makes a great holiday gift!) And otherwise…

Carry on.

Words are cool.

The following words entertain my little mind:

Preposterous. It sounds like what it means.

Moonbat. Adding “barking” in front of it and it makes me think of a Lovecraftian apparition.

Assclown. Vulgar and insulting, but it makes me chortle.

Chortle. Chortle makes me chortle.

Erudite.

Ig’nant. The opposite of erudite. As in: “Boy, youse so ig’nant, ya couldn’t pour piss out of a boot if the ’structions were on the heel!”

Pugnacious. It too sounds like what it means.

Pernicious. Followed by knids.

Luddite.

Philisitine.

Nimrod.

Enigmatic. Though what it means is a mystery to me.

What words amuse you, oh Ministers and faithful readers?

Greetings, loyal minions. Your Maximum Leader, using his keen spider sense, notices that we’ve gone a few days without an Intelligent Design/Evolution/Science Curriculum frackas.

So, here is a little gas for the embers:

Vatican Official Refutes Intelligent Design.

Debate away.

Carry on.

The death of the blog can either be a great tragedy or a mercy killing. Sadie is a bit upset that some of her blogrollees (is that a word) have given up the ghost.

I am still inconsolable about the death of Kilgore Trout’s Chaotic Not Random.

Farewell messages are interesting windows into the minds of our departed bloggers.

Some cite the need to prepare for real publication.

Some cite real world crises. (Is that the plural of crisis?)

Some cite the petty meanness of the blogsopshere.

Some admit that they have nothing more to share.

Some, like Skippy the uber-whiner Luddite with blogger crash problems, just want their egos stroked before they come back to blogging.

This got me to thinking. The Maximum Leader and I have no literary ambitions, stable lives, thick skins, inveterate bloviators, and can’t stand whining. So, having removed the usual suspects, what could make us quit?

It strikes me that there a humorous answers to this question.

Unfortunately, I’m not a humorist.

But some of you are funny people.

Comments are open. Write a blog farewell message for either the Maximum Leader, Smallholder, or even the Minister of Propaganda. Extra credit if you can work “nimrod” into your MOP letter.

Here is a thoughtful application of theology to current events as discussed over at the Volokh conspiracy.

Would Martin Luther advocate turning the other cheek?

OR

Would Martin Luther cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war?