Madison McCrackin

If I offended any Caution Horses with that last entry, please send me a SASE with four proofs of purchase from any Riboflavin-containing product and I will issue a formal, notarized written apology written in fourteen-point "Fajita" font. Thank you.

Today the Family Atomic went for a hike at Dick's Creek up in Rabun County, off War Woman Road. We passed a church along the way that spelled out in clear terms exactly why Jesus Christ died on the cross. "Oh, now I get it!" I said, and wheeled off, over onto the side of the road, where the wife & I scrambled down to a creek and performed ritual baptisms of one another, then baby Eleanor, then Stella, even though she, as a natural animal, is inherently freed from volition and therefore the ability to sin. "Better do her to, just to make sure," the missus said, grabbing Stella by the scruff of the neck and dunking her in the ice cold mountain run-off, "I'd hate to get up to them pearly gates only to find that only good Christian dogs are allowed." Stella shivered free and skulked up the side of the mountain, now one with Christ. As we drove away, I noticed that the pastor's name was listed on a small wooden sign. It said, "Pastor: Madison McCrackin."

On our hike, I found a shotgun shell at my favorite campsite. There was trash everywhere, and even a condom laying dead in the dirt. "Whoever does this ain't worth a damn," I said to the missus, and she agreed, squatting to photograph a muddy Hershey bar wrapper, mashed into the pine straw girding our beloved trail. "Madison McCrackin would be doing a whole hell of a lot more for humanity if he'd organize a cleanup or at least start preachin' out against defiling the natural world instead of confining his rhetoric to the concerns of the ethereal hereafter," the heathen pinestraw whimpered.