ABC has canceled Tim Allen’s Last Man Standing sitcom despite good ratings, leaving some to wonder whether the show was canned because of Allen’s conservative politics.
Allen made headlines back in March when he appeared on Jimmy Kimmel Live! to remark on how conservatives have to keep quiet about any kind of pro-Trump leanings.
“I’m not kidding. You gotta be real careful around here. You get beat up if you don’t believe what everybody believes,” said Allen.
“This is like ‘30s Germany,” he joked. “I don’t know what happened. If you’re not part of the group, ‘You know what we believe is right,’ I go, ‘Well, I might have a problem with that.’”
This followed comments by Allen during an appearance on Megyn Kelly’s show shortly after the election in which he called out leftist intolerance.
“What I find odd in Hollywood is that they didn’t like Trump because he was a bully, but if you had any kind of inkling that you were for Trump you got bullied for doing that,” said Allen.
Now the comedian’s Last Man Standing sitcom is set to be cancelled by ABC, who cite disagreements over the series’ license fee as the reason.
According to Deadline Hollywood, the show “was considered the perfect sitcom for the Trump era, hitting ratings highs in its sixth season.”
“With a central character who is a political conservative and devout Christian adhering to traditional American values, the blue-collar comedy appeals to viewers in the Heartland, a constituency that helped elect Donald Trump as president and has been energized post-election as evidenced by the ratings success of new USA drama Shooter.”
With around 6.4 million viewers, Last Man Standing was outperforming other shows, “winning its 8-8:30 PM time slot.”
Were financial problems the sole reason for the show being cancelled?
It’s no secret that Hollywood and the entertainment world rigorously thought police the industry to punish conservatives who refuse to fall in line with the liberal consensus.
Conservatives in Hollywood are so heavily discriminated against that they are forced to go underground and even have secret meetings. Not identifying as a liberal in the movie industry is a potential career killer.
“In LA, there is a secret, underground group of showbiz conservatives,” Victoria Jackson, a former Saturday Night Live cast member, told the Huffington Post. “It started with two people in 2000. I was at the fifth or tenth meeting, and now there are over 2,000 people. The only ones out of the closet are Jon Voight and Pat Boone. There are famous people in there, but they don’t want to lose their career — and conservatives are blacklisted.”
The inherent bias against anyone who dares to deviate from the Democrat orthodoxy virtually ended the career of James Woods, who in 2013 said he never expected to work again as a result of his vocal criticism of Barack Obama.
Was Allen’s sitcom canned for financial reasons, or did the comedian’s politics play a role in ABC’s decision to cancel the show?
A family reunion turned ugly when an allegedly intoxicated man repeatedly berated the group with insults and taunts.
A man was caught on video delivering a long anti-Muslim tirade against a family vacationing last week on a Texas beach, repeatedly screaming at them about sharia law, ISIS, and Donald Trump.
Fourteen members of the family were on weeklong reunion in South Padre Island when the man, who was identified in a police report obtained by BuzzFeed News as Alexander Downing, of Waterford, Connecticut, approached them.
“You’re a fucking Muslim, motherfucker,” the man says at one point in front of the family, which included children playing on the beach just feet away. “You will never ever, ever stop me, my Christianity,” the man says, “from rising above your sharia law. Your sharia law don’t mean shit to me.”
Sharia — a religious code of conduct, no different than those contained in other Abrahamic religions — has often been used as a fear-inducing term associated with anti-Western beliefs in recent years.
The video, which was captured by Noria Alward, 19, and posted on YouTube, shows Downing, intoxicated, approaching the family in an aggressive manner — repeatedly shouting obscenities and veiled threats while pointing his finger in their faces.
Ahmed said he did not want to reveal his last name for fear of further abuse or harassment.
BuzzFeed News attempted to reach Downing for comment. A woman who answered the number listed for him on the police report said she would deliver a message to him.
The family, who kept their composure in the five-minute video, at one point called the police after Downing left for the nearby South Padre Pearl Hotel and returned.
“Guess what? ISIS don’t mean shit to me, motherfuckers,” Downing says again in the video, as he circles back towards the group, shouting in the face of another man.
“Donald Trump will stop you. Donald Trump will stop you! Donald Trump got you motherfuckers. Watch… watch.”
He then proceeds to grab his crotch, in front of children, telling the group to “suck my dick.”
“I want people to understand that this man needs to be charged with indecent behavior in front of kids and a minor,” Ahmed said of the man’s gestures.
The end of the video shows Downing in the distance being arrested by officers from South Padre Island Police Department, according to Ahmed.
BuzzFeed News contacted South Padre Island Police Department and confirmed Downing’s May 2 arrest. The incident report states that he was arrested for public intoxication and the responding officer “determined that he was intoxicated in a public place and was a danger to himself and others.”
Ahmed said that, despite being arrested, Downing appeared in the lobby of the hotel the following day.
“I want people to also know that the hotel did not do anything to protect us,” Ahmed said, claiming the hotel staff originally told him they would be evicting Downing if and when he returned after his arrest. “We will definitely go back to the beautiful island but will never go back to the Pearl Hotel,” Ahmed said.
Abdel Zouari, general manager at the South Padre Pearl Hotel, told BuzzFeed News that the incident in question took place outside of the hotel on a public beach, and the hotel was unaware of the details of the incident until staff watched the video on Wednesday morning.
“So we couldn’t really have the full story except that the police arrested the guy and the next day the guy checked out. But we care about our guests, we care about whatever happens in our hotel. Unfortunately, this happened outside the hotel,” Zouari said.
Looking back, Ahmed said he wanted to make it clear that he believes that this individual “doesn’t represent the masses” but “needs to be charged for what he’s done.” He also wanted “to thank all the beachgoers that stood by our side,” specifically referring to a man who can be seen throughout the video attempting to create a buffer between the two groups.
The story of a former Army soldier who shot and killed her dog on what became a horrific viral video has taken a new and even darker turn. Marinna Rollins was found in her apartment by unidentified friends on Sunday. She was dead. The police have yet to release information concerning the cause of death, but it appears to be a possible suicide.
Rollins and her boyfriend, Jarren Heng, became infamous last month with they were arrested for killing a service dog. The pair had tied the dog that belonged to Rollins to a tree and then shot it several times with a rifle.
After the incident went viral on social media channels, the Army acknowledged that Rollins had been medically discharged. Heng was still on active duty.
Marinna Rollins, 23, from Fayetteville, North Carolina, had been charged with animal cruelty and conspiracy relating to the death of her pitbull, Cam. The dog had been given to Rollins to help her cope with her PTSD.
Rollins and her boyfriend, Jarren Heng, took the dog to a wooded area, shot it five times, and even joked with one another as it died.
Heng is still in the Army. Rollins had recently been medically discharged.
Rollins is the one seen in the video, though Heng also shot the dog. At one point in the video, which we’re not including for obvious reasons, Heng says “Let me hit him once.”
Rollins voice is also on the video. “It’s been real,” she says. “I love you, you’re my puppy, you’re a good puppy, but….”
After shooting Cam, the pair drag the body around briefly before they bury the dog in a shallow grave they’d dug for the purpose.
To make matters worse, the Cumberland County Sheriff’s Office found multiple videos and text messages relating to the death of Cam. They arrested both Heng and Rollins and Heng remain in jail awaiting a court appearance.
The dog, who had formerly been named Huey, came from the Cumberland County Animal Shelter. His death sparked an immediate backlash. A Facebook page called Justice for Cam sought attention for the crime.
The Daily Mail reports that one of the posts had a screen capture of Facebook post Rollins had posted that said “Great last day with the pooch! Sad he has to go, but he will be much happier where he is heading off to :)”
Sometimes they blend in and other times, like the one found early Tuesday morning by the Marquette, Michigan Police Department, they stand out. A captain with the department says when officers noticed the sign, they turned it off immediately.
Officials say someone accessed the security panel.
In Wisconsin, Randy Asman, a traffic engineer, with the DOT says the agency works hard to keep people from tampering with its message boards.
“We want to make sure that we have a unique password that prevents other people from getting into it,” said Asman.
He adds, access to the message boards is on a private network and, “Also we have the signs themselves are locked up,” he said.
But let’s say someone managed to change the message.
“Anytime that we want to see what message is being displayed on one of our message boards, we can actually look up that message and see what message is on it,” he said.
The signs would either be turned off or turned away from oncoming traffic.
The DOT says these signs are in place to help keep driers aware and also prevent drivers and construction workers from getting hurt.
Robert Ott is in the sign making business. He’s a senior account executive at Reinhold Sign Service. It sells a lot of the sings you see around the Green Bay area.
Ott admits, some of these signs can be hacked, but he has advice.
“We prefer to have the signs to be set up on a local network,” Ott said.
And, like your computer or phone, Ott recommends a secure password.
“Anything that’s easily thought of is probably not the best idea to use,” he said.
The DOT says the digital message boards you see over the interstates are controlled by the statewide traffic operations center in Milwaukee.
On Saturday, East Texas was hit by massive storms and deadly tornados that left four people dead and over 50 more injured. Ten miles north of Canton, a group of brave good samaritans came to the rescue of a family in an overturned vehicle that was caught in a heavy stream of storm water. Tom Mitchell, one of the individuals who arrived at the scene, recorded a video of the incredible rescue mission that involved a group of heroic strangers rescuing a 2-year-old toddler and an infant.
Mitchell told WFAA that as the storms began to fade he felt compelled to take action, and began to drive to see if there was anyone who needed help. That’s when he came upon the scene of the overturned truck near Myrtle Springs with a father, toddler and infant trapped inside.
WFAA asked Mitchell how fast the water flowing past the car was moving.
“Fast enough that they can’t get the doors open,” Mitchell said.
Mitchell caught the entire incident on video, which included a group of heroes doing all they could to get the car open and removing the infant and toddler.
Mitchell described the infant as “white going blueish-gray” and knew CPR had to be performed immediately.
“This baby is gonna die if we don’t start CPR fast,” Mitchell said. “Having a negative feeling coming over me. This baby may not make it, this baby may not make it. No reaction, nothing is happening.”
A woman can be heard on the video praying wildly over Mitchell’s shoulder.
“Dear Jesus, please let this baby breathe,” she can be heard saying. “Dear Jesus, please let this baby breathe.”
“Well the first prayer she said, I felt a response in that child,” Mitchell said to WFAA.
The father of the children said he and the infant were doing much better. He also reported that the toddler was still under sedation but they were pulling the breathing tube to see if she could breathe on her own.
“I think it shows how the community and strangers all come together,” Mitchell told WFAA.
Watch the extraordinary rescue by heroic strangers below:
OTTAWA NATIONAL FOREST — The cabin belongs to the mice now, and they make their nests at will.
In the past they never had enough time to get a good nest going. But the family that owned the cabin was recently forced out, and now the little piles of mouse shreddings grow without interruption in the rafters, and in the corner where the stove used to be, and along the wall where beds once were.
Armas Ojaniemi looked at the fluffy nests. The lifelong Yooper was standing inside Woodtick Camp, the name he gave his family’s cabin a quarter century ago, when they’d used a sled to haul timber down a high hill, a few boards at a time, and spent a whole summer working hard to build this little hideaway just yards from the Ontonagon River, deep into the woods, far from any town.
“It took a lot of work to get here,” said Armas in a thick Upper Peninsula accent. “Our uncle Willie, he had polio when he was a boy, and he was pretty crippled. He crawled up and down the hill to come help build it.”
To get to Woodtick Camp, you take a gravel road to a hidden trail. Then you need a four-wheeler or a snowmobile to take you a mile and a half into the woods. From there you have to hike 300 feet down a steep slope while holding an old rope tied from tree to tree to keep you from falling down the hill. Then, after a hike through the forest, you reach the cabin. If you didn’t know where it was, you’d never, ever find it.
For years, this was a second home for the 60-year-old logger. He even built a little sauna behind the cabin. “We’d come over here quite often,” he said. “My wife and I would come down and stay for a month or so, stay down here and enjoy the spring like right now, when the ice would go out.”
More from John Carlisle:
Even old, sick dogs find love at Michigan’s only animal hospice
U.P. party store owner becomes cult figure
His 34-year-old daughter Kristin Ojaniemi stood in the open doorway, listening to him reminisce. “It didn’t take much to enjoy yourself out here, ‘cause it’s so peaceful,” said Armas, who lives in tiny Bruce Crossing, the nearest town. “And everybody would say, ‘How can you go down there for a month? What do you do?’ Ah, there’s so much to do. All the hikin’ you could do and watch nature at its finest. As you can hear, it’s quiet. You don’t have to hear no traffic at all. Just love it down here.”
But those days are now over. Their cabin, which had been in their family for three decades, is no longer theirs. They’d already emptied it out. And soon they’d have to abandon it.
Since the 1950s, a local power company had leased little plots of land it owned to 155 locals for a few hundred bucks a year so they could build cabins along the Ontonagon River. Then, in 1992, the federal government acquired the land, and said the owners had to move their cabins or abandon them after their final 25-year leases expired. Any structures left after that deadline would be demolished, and the trails leading to them would be blocked and smothered.
Twenty-five years ended on New Year’s Day this year, and the extra 90 days the owners were given to clear out ended on the last day of March. Any day now, the cabins will be torn down or burned to the ground. The U.S. Forest Service now owns the land, which has been made part of the Ottawa National Forest, and the agency is against private property on public land.
The cabins, the Forest Service has said all along, have to go. This land, they have insisted, should be open to everyone, not just a few cabin owners. And even though everyone knew this day was coming, it doesn’t make leaving any easier for the handful who are left.
In the Upper Peninsula, a cabin is called a camp, a term that describes not so much a location but rather a lifestyle. It’s a place where the world is stripped for a while to its bare essentials — fresh water, hunted food, candles and flashlights, family and friends. Families pass them down through generations. They’re an integral part of U.P. living.
For the families who are losing these camps, this isn’t just the loss of property. It’s the end of a big part of their lives.
“It’s not right,” Armis said. “Just don’t seem right at all, you know, for all the time you put in here and stuff, to have to lose it. But that was somethin’ we were told at the beginnin’, but we said we’re still gonna do it, build a nice sauna and everythin’ and enjoy it for the 25 years that we got, and hopefully they’ll change their mind is what we all said.”
He stood in the cold, empty cabin, maybe for the last time.
“They didn’t change their mind.”
‘It’s just not right’
The Ontonagon River starts as several branches spread throughout the western U.P. that come together as one before flowing into Lake Superior. The river spawns several waterfalls and skirts dozens of lakes on its way. And it’s tainted a muddy brown because the red clay and sandstone beneath it stain the water.
For years, much of the forest around the river was owned by the Upper Peninsula Power Company, which serves two-thirds of the population of the U.P. and which bought the land in the early 1950s to build dams for generating hydroelectric power.
Since the company had no real use for the land on either side of the river itself, UPPCO leased scattered 1-acre parcels to local residents who couldn’t afford to buy their own property so they could build small cabins near the water, where there was good hunting, great fishing and beautiful scenery.
People built structures in all shapes and sizes, and gave them names like Bar None Lodge, Doe Haven, Altoon’s Alehouse, Da Troll Camp and Fuzzy’s No Road Condo. Most were bare-bones log cabins without power or running water. But they were solid camps that lasted for decades.
When all this happened, 25 years seemed like a long time away. Surely something could be worked out in that time, most owners figured.
Nothing changed, though.
As the deadline approached, efforts by local politicians to sway the Forest Service failed. A resolution was passed last year in the state Senate calling on the agency to grant exemptions to the families, partly based on the roughly $45,000 in total taxes and fees that cash-strapped local municipalities stood to lose from all of the camp owners each year, and partly based on the 15,570 single-family cabins currently permitted on National Forest System lands throughout the country under the Recreation Residence Program. Why not, they argued, add these mere 155 people to that number?
It didn’t work.
“It’s just not right,” said state Sen. Tom Casperson, R-Escanaba, the sponsor of the resolution. He argued that the trails leading into the woods were provided and maintained by camp owners, and with those trails soon to be gone, only the most adventurous hikers would ever make it this far into the woods, thus defeating the Forest Service’s stated purpose of opening the land for everyone.
“They say it’s for all of us so we can enjoy it, and then they turn around and block things off, which means you and I can’t go out there.”
Casperson said he has brought the issue to the attention of federal officials both inside and outside the Forest Service, with no luck. “The clock has ticked down here,” he said. “I think if the right people were aware of it and the appropriate people stood up it could be changed, but it’s getting late. Once these people tear these things down, it’s over.”
Three years ago, Armas’ daughter Kristin, a director at a TV station in Wisconsin, began shooting a short movie about life at her father’s cabin. “To tell our story, you know?” she said. “My dad’s camp is being taken away. In a few years he’s not going to be able to come down here and use it anymore.”
Soon, she met other camp owners in the same situation, and her short film snowballed into a full-length movie called “Up a River,” a two-year project that took her to 30 of the camps, where she interviewed the owners, filmed their lives and captured some of their last days in their cabins. The film was shown at a number of regional film festivals, and she drew further attention to the issue by writing letters to politicians and starting online petitions to get the camp leases extended or grandfathered.
It didn’t work.
“I really don’t know what their logic is for really wanting us out,” she said. “There’s way too many more pros than cons for us being out here.” She mentions the lost canoers who became stranded deep in the forest at night several years ago and were rescued by her dad, who happened to be at his camp. And the Boy Scout troop that sheltered in someone’s cabin one night during a rough storm. Most of the camps remain unlocked throughout the year, she noted, and camp owners encourage people to use them if they’re facing trouble or they’re lost. In that sense, they already essentially belong to the public.
“I think the U.S. Forest Service just doesn’t like people on their land,” she said. “They want the public to utilize it, but at the same time they’re kicking us out. It’s the public’s land, but I think they feel that it’s their land, not really the public’s land.”
Lisa Klaus, public affairs officer with the Ottawa National Forest in Ironwood, said there’s no provision to allow people to keep their camps, no matter how sympathetic forest rangers might be.
“As you can imagine up here it’s hard for some people to lose access to those cabins, so we totally understand that they want to stay,” Klaus said. “But we just do not have the authority to extend those leases.”
The Recreation Residence Program, which started in 1915 to entice people into America’s newly designated national forests, ended nearly 50 years ago, and while those cabins already on federal land at the time were grandfathered in, no new private structures have been allowed on federal property since the program ended. And having private property on public land simply goes against the concept of “public.”
“The Forest Service inherited these camps as part of a land purchase in 1992, and typically the Forest Service does not acquire private property when we purchase land, but because of the unique situation we’ve been working very closely with these lease holders,” Klaus said.
“We truly do understand the attachment these leaseholders have and we recognize the challenge it posed for them, but the intent of the 25-year period was to allow them the time to find a place to move those camps.”
The last days
Alvin Hiitola looked out the window of his little cabin. Outside, the river swept past the snow-dusted banks on either side of it. This was a view he’d soon lose. And he had a culprit to blame.
“It’s the federal government,” said the Trout Creek resident, “and the federal government is beholden to the federal government. They don’t care what anybody says or does. They make the rules, and that’s basically it.”
It was just days before the deadline to clear out, and Hiitola sat inside his unheated cabin, sunk deep into an old couch, which was still there with all his other belongings — the stove, the fridge, the bed, the table. He hadn’t removed anything yet. He couldn’t bring himself to. Besides, he figured, it would be a long time before officials made their way this deep into the woods to tear down his cabin.
“I guess I’m still in a state of denial,” said the 59-year-old propane deliveryman, whose cabin is called the Agate Hilton, named for a nearby waterfall. “I can’t understand why they couldn’t work with us, extend our leases. I just can’t fathom that.”
“You think anybody’s going to come down here out of the blue? Where now we got a nice trail comin’ in where people can actually come down here and actually enjoy the forest? When this is gone they’ll have that road bermed off, gated off or whatever, and nobody will have access down here.”
He used to stand on his deck in the mornings, and the only sound he could hear was the rushing river and the faint sound of the waterfall that feeds it. A partridge living in these woods used to come greet Hiitola every time he came to camp because it was completely unfamiliar with humans. And just about every day, a bald eagle would swoop over the river, looking for fish. “Can’t beat that,” he said, smiling.
Inside the cabin, skillets and pans still hung from nails over the sink. Beer mirrors featuring images of wildlife still hung on a wall. Hornet nests that he collected from the woods were still hanging like decorations, delicate and papery, from the ceiling.
And he still had a framed photo of his partridge on the wall. “I had my camera, and he’d be pecking the lens,” he said. “He was there for seven years. Seven springs. And one day he disappeared.”
Hiitola built his camp three decades ago. He and his buddies tore down an old house to get the wood to build it. A lot of effort went into dragging those boards this far into the forest. And soon he’d have to abandon it.
“This will be 30 years we’ve had this camp, and to see it gone after all the work we’ve put into it, after all the good times we’ve had down here, it’s just sad,” he said. “And, I believe, for absolutely no reason.”
Too many memories to leave behind
The two old friends made their way up the long, icy trail toward their camp. Their two dogs led the way.
Tom Caudill and Pete Heidemann have walked this long path for 40 years. They’ve come to know every tree along the way, every dip on the path, every turn of the trail. They know which poplars blew over during a fierce windstorm, which valleys were the landing spot for cars that slid off the trail during winters, which tracks in the snow beneath their feet came from the wolves.
“The wolves have taken out a lot of bear dogs,” Caudill said. That’s why he walked with a pistol on his hip. “They’re efficient killers. By the time a guy can get to his dog, it’s half eaten. They kill ‘em quick.”
Freshly cut tree stumps lined the way, and just-sheared spruce branches were scattered along the trail. It made the air smell like a Christmas wreath. Somewhere up ahead, a logger contracted by the Forest Service was removing trees, widening the road to give the agency better access to the remote area.
On the way to their cabin they walked past the sites of other camps. One was nothing but an empty space between trees. The owner had cleared out last year. There was no sign a camp had ever been there.
Another was the empty cabin of an old friend who’d passed away not long ago. They went up to look it over.
“I’m sure the door is open here,” Caudill said.
It was freezing inside the cabin. The faint spring sun was too low still to make its way through the trees into the windows to warm the place. Their friend’s bed was still there, along with his stove, his table and his easy chair. It was as if he’d just been here. A beer even waited for him in the old fridge. Water trickled from the faucet. It came from a nearby spring.
“Don’t shut it off. It’ll freeze,” Heidemann said.
The camp passed on to the owner’s family after his death, but they weren’t here as much as he used to be. It just wasn’t the same. And soon they’d have to abandon it.
A quarter mile ahead and a sharp turn later, the two old friends finally arrived at their own camp. It sat in stick-throwing distance from the Ontonagon River, rushing past in its spring thaw. They’d had this place for 40 years. They called it Hillbilly Heaven.
Like most camps up here, the door was left unlocked, and they went inside. “The only thing that ever broke in there was a porcupine,” Caudill said. “The porcupine went in there and ate a table.”
After four decades coming here, every part of their camp was imbued with memories belonging to them, their friends, their families, the small towns around here.
The cabin was made of pines that were cleared when the state moved a nearby highway and gave the men the logs for free.
The floor boards were once gym bleachers in the school where they both taught.
The thick wood dining table was made by kids in their school’s shop class, and the names of countless friends and relatives had been carved in it over the years.
The heavy black iron stove came from a church in Ewen, and its layers of thick grease came from years of wild-game meals.
Everything here had a story, but none more meaningful than the hats hung on the antlers nailed over the front window that overlooked the river. Each hat had belonged to someone close who’d passed away, and each hat’s story spoke of how central the cabin had been over the years to everyone’s lives.
“My brother Bill, my brother Dick who just passed away, my sister Gery is the cowboy hat,” said Caudill, pointing to each hat as he spoke. “The corduroy hat is my dad, the hat underneath my brother’s is my father-in-law’s hat, the two old World War II hats are my uncles Clifford and Bud Murphy, and this is my wife’s uncle who used to hunt here for years. And then we have some other hats that are supposed to be up there. But we were tearing the thing down and it was such a mess in here they just got knocked off.”
To lose this cabin means losing many lifetimes worth of memories, of long nights talking at that carved-up table, days spent leaning out the windowsill to hunt, anxious good-byes for sons sent to war, happy homecomings when they got back safe. And soon they were supposed to abandon it.
With all that at stake, there was no way they were going to leave it behind. Unlike most of the other camp owners, the two old friends decided they had to take the place with them.
The plan was to try to move it out of the woods, up the narrow trail, and put it somewhere else. It wouldn’t be by this river, it wouldn’t be the same, but at least some stranger from some agency wouldn’t be able to tear it apart or burn it down.
They’d already torn off the back bedrooms, which were now just a pile of siding and timber. The front porch was next. If the cabin was made smaller, they reasoned, it might just fit on a trailer and make it out of these woods.
“We’ve had a lot of memories here,” Caudill said. “All my sons grew up here. My daughter, my grandsons caught fish here, shot deer here. I came from a big family of 11 kids, and all my brothers have been here for parties and deer season, and nothing but good memories here. Really nothing but fun.”
The two old friends stood outside their cabin in the slowly melting snow.
“Are we going to change the name after we move it?” Heidemann asked.
“I don’t know,” said Caudill. “Probably not, Pete.”
“When we move it,” Heidemann replied. “If we move it.”
“If it happens,” Caudill said. “It might fall apart. Who knows?”
“It remains to be seen,” Heidemann said.
It was so peaceful and quiet as they stood there, with just the sound of their dogs playing on the shore, and the river rushing forward, and the logger moving ever closer to their camp, bringing with him the end of their lives here.
Hunters and cooks are always looking for different ways to prepare venison.
With deer season fast approaching, it’s time to start using up any venison you might have left, to make room for new.
Grill up Legendary Whitetails’ Bacon Wrapped Venison Cheese Sticks for a treat that’s perfect to eat as a kabob or on a bun.
– 1 lb. Ground venison
– 1 package string cheese sticks
– 1 lb. bacon
– 1/2 cup diced onions
– 1/2 cup diced green peppers
– 1/2 cup diced mushrooms
– 1 egg
– Salt & pepper to taste
1. Mix ground venison with diced onions, peppers, mushrooms, and egg in a large mixing bowl. Season venison burger to taste.
2. Slide a piece of string cheese down the length of the skewer so the string cheese sits in the middle.
3. Form the venison burger mixture around the piece of sting cheese so that the cheese is completely encased by the venison burger.
4. Wrap the ground venison and cheese on a stick with bacon.
5. Grill until bacon is done… [continued
Tell us what you think in the comments section below.
One Florida man learned the hard way that water moccasins do not make the best kissing partners. According to Fox 13, 18-year-old Austin Hatfield of Wimauma was hospitalized last Saturday after being bitten by a cottonmouth while attempting to kiss it.
Friends said that Hatfield had captured the snake from his girlfriend’s yard several days before and was keeping it in a pillowcase. Hatfield occasionally took the snake out to kiss it on the mouth, but on Saturday, the snake decided to end the relationship.
“He took it out, put it on his chest and it was acting funny, and it jumped up and got him,” said Jason Belcher, who witnessed the attack. “He ripped it off his face, threw it on the ground and he started swelling up immediately. It was pretty frightening.”
The 18-year-old was transported to Tampa General Hospital’s emergency room in critical condition, but doctors have since said that he is expected to recover. Although cottonmouth bites can be effectively treated with antivenom, the snake is still considered very dangerous and have been known to cause fatalities. Common symptoms of a cottonmouth bite include severe swelling, intense pain, and signs of shock due to the body’s reaction to the venom.
Officials from the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission (FWC) said they are investigating the case and have euthanized the snake that is believed to have bitten Hatfield. According to FWC spokesperson Gary Morse, Hatfield could face charges for illegally capturing and keeping the cottonmouth without a permit. Cottonmouths, also known as mangrove rattlers or worm-tailed pitvipers, are considered dangerous animals and Morse said that those who come across them should keep their distance.
“It really doesn’t want to eat you, but it will protect itself,” Morse told The Tampa Tribune. “Cottonmouths have a reputation of being somewhat skittish when you get near them and they will readily defend themselves.”
You can watch a brief interview with Florida Poison Information Center expert Alfred Aleguas below.
Department store giant Nordstrom is now selling fake muddy jeans to make it appear that you’re not afraid to work, but without the actual working.
The PRPS jeans are called the “Barracuda Straight Leg” and look like they’ve put in a hard day on the job in the mud. However, the person wearing the jeans will actually pay $425 for the honor of fooling the public.
According to the Nordstrom website, the jeans “embody rugged, Americana workwear that’s seen some hard-working action with a crackled, caked-on coating that shows you’re not afraid to get down and dirty.”
Many of the comments on the site ridicule Nordstrom.
HipsterJoe writes, “I love that I can now fake a work ethic! Can I get one with fake oil stains? I want to pretend to be a car guy!”
While RuralEconomist chimes in, “Gotta love being able to look like I have fed the pigs, helped deliver a calf, and get the tractor unstuck without ever having to leave my BMW. Love it.”