Red-Dirt Marijuana and Other Tastes
Terry Southern
Language: English
Pages: 276
ISBN: 0806511672
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
This collection of Southern's short pieces -- two dozen hilarious, well-observed, and devastating sketches that expose the hypocrisy of American social mores -- is widely recognized as an underground classic
Lawrence laughed. They struck the creek hollow and followed it in file, Lawrence ahead, stepping around tall slakey rocks that pitched up abruptly from the hot shale. Heat came out of this dry stone, sharp as acid, wavering up in black lines. Then at a bend before them was the water hole, small now and stagnant, and they turned off to climb the bank in order to reach it from the side. Howard was in front now, as they came over the rise, he saw the rabbit first. Standing between two oak stumps
silence, hungry but with deliberation, sampling each dish, occasionally grunting an appreciative comment. “Dig that bridge, man,” said Buddy once, turning to the phonograph and moving the needle back a couple of grooves, “like that’s what you might call an ‘augmented oh-so-slightly.’ ” He laughed. “Cat’s too much,” he said, as he leaned forward to touch a piece of chicken to the mayonnaise. Murray nodded. “Swings,” he said. They lay on the grass, smoking and drinking the cognac, closing their
mashing it out on the ground, “you’re crazy.” C.K. laughed. “Sho’ I is,” he said. They fell silent again, C.K. appearing almost asleep, humming to himself, and Harold sitting opposite, frowning down to where his own finger traced lines without pattern in the dirt-floor of the shed. “Where we gonna keep this stuff at, C.K.?” he demanded finally, his words harsh and reasonable, “we can’t jest leave it sittin’ out like this.” C.K. seemed not to have heard, or perhaps simply to consider it
arrived. But, even so, I could not meet his eyes: I was compelled to look past, over his shoulder. And it was then that I noticed the plaque on the wall directly behind him; it was a framed certificate, and I could make it out easily: GERRARD DAVIS NEGRO MINISTER AND NEGRO MAN I forced myself to look directly at his face. With all that muck on his face, he was so white, or rather, so unlike anything I had ever seen before, that I asked at once: “Are you Davis?” He replied by immediately
or so it seemed, steadily. As before, it happened so quickly that M. Pommard must have been taken by surprise. He broke off in the middle what he was saying to the other gatekeeper, “Attention!” he shouted, “vous vous trompez là! Attention!” and he went after the man, calling out, running, hopping in wrath, across the platform to the very door of the carriage. When he came back he was evidently quite shaken. He looked once defensively at the other gatekeeper, “What would you have me do then,