I found these absolutely wonderful illustrations in this ancient-as-hell book I got through inter-library loan. It's Methods in the Art of Taxidermy by Oliver Davie published in 1894. (I'm holding the actual 1894 edition, falling from its spine and reeking of that lovely old time water damaged book smell.)
What's great is that the last time this book was check out it was in 1974. I guess that makes me special... I guess.
This. 5' x 5'. On my wall.
This is a common past time of mine. You know, poking birds in the eye.
What is on his tail?
I want one of these. So bad.
Some of this stuff I just want blown up full-sized and framed on my walls. They're just amazing to look at. I'd even like to have what they're representing, a partial taxidermy, just hanging out on my bookshelf. I'm afraid, though, my cats would like them too, a little too much, and I'd have to set them up in really hard to reach places.
It was just a graffiti ruin when I moved into Guthrie.
But then some stupid rich bastard bought it for 150K and spent a million or two renovating it. Totally stole my idea. I was going to have the biggest, creepiest house in the whole damn town, but noooo.
But I'm going to live forever. (I speak this from the grave, as God felt it was too good NOT to throw a drill press conveniently through the fiftieth story window of the building next door and smash me to bits.)
Just so you know, I'm actually insanely, neurotically superstitious, and I'm now paranoid that I will, in fact, die, and that I may have partially prevented said death by quickly joking about it coming true. I will proceed to knock on various objects hoping one will be made of real wood, and then I will chastise myself for being an idiot, then I will quickly unchastise myself, because chance/God/spirits/whatever-the-fuck might get offended and jinx me.
It physically pains me to say: "I've never had a car wreck." "At least I have a job, I could be homeless and starving." "I haven't hit a deer." "Guthrie's never been hit downtown by a tornado." "I've only been allergic to silly things like gummy bears and bandaids." "I'm healthy!"
If I don't do something stupid, like rub mini Buddha's tummy or roll around in a mud puddle or let my cats bite me or light candles in my bizarre altar of cremated and skinned animals (the skinned ones weren't pets), I believe all these things will not only come true, but in the worst way possible. Like, I'll get famous for being a homeless person who caused a ten car pile up after a violent psychosomatic allergic reaction to water caused by a terrifying memory of a tornado that destroyed all of Oklahoma.
I'm going to go count all the steps in this building now.