Monday , May 27 2019
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Tag Archives: prose

Skull smoking

Heaven, Hell, and the Dead!

A Stumbling Otis Original In May of 1995 the Grateful Dead played their last show in Las Vegas, Nevada. Four months later Jerry Garcia would die of a suspected cocaine-induced heart attack. Though the legacy echoes on, the death of Jerry Garcia was essentially the coffin nail to one of the greatest phenomenon of modern human history. Quite literally this tiny handful of hippie musicians tapped into an energy unrivaled and spurned a migration only comparable to the wildebeest herds of the Serengeti; this isn’t spinnerhead bullshit, the numbers are simply that large. Listen, you don’t have to like the Dead, you don’t have to get the Dead but despite your personal visions of the cosmic, everyone should respect the Grateful Dead. They earned it. ...

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Mostly True Tales on Thrill Society

I Lit My Balls On Fire Coach!

A Stumbling Otis Original   We were broke, bored and fifteen. It was the final weekend of a six month long wrestling season, by then we were beyond burnt, body and mind. As a finale to our self-induce torture we would be trapped either on a greyhound bus, a sporting arena, or a motel room for five straight days; who could be surprised this story ultimately can be reduced to a delicate interplay of fire and the groin. High school freshman often struggle to qualify for the state wrestling tournament, competition can be fierce, but in 1988 four gangly frosh boys from the thriving metropolis of Cut Bank, Montana made the cut. I haven’t asked any of these peoples permission to use their name, frankly ...

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Mostly True Tales Pic

So We Egged A Porn Shop!

This weeks Mostly True Tales submission winner is Stumbling Otis Find him on Instagram at @grandreopening for tons of great pics and prose  In the early 90’s there was a quaint little porn shack on the main drag in Kalispell, Montana. It was nondescript in a way typical for a boutiques of its type. The building looked to be a converted old house, slightly ramshackle and in need of a hug. The windows were painted over white to shield the Flathead’s citizenry from forced acknowledgment of their inherent horniness. Little more than a window placard and a slightly embarrassed, glowing OPEN sign advertised its invitation for commerce. There was no official parking lot, the front door swung directly onto the narrow sidewalk, almost past the ...

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