I guess now I'm a certified Badass!

Excerpt from Bastardized Version:

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

WHY I'M BADASS: Weston Ochse

ART BY RUSS DICKERSON

Tennessee. Humpback humpback, crooked letter crooked letter. Wait. That's Mississippi.

Okay, let's start over. Tennessee. Home to the Dollywood Mountains and the timeless classic, Hee-Haw. The land is covered verdant rolling hills, cradling Nashville to its ample bosom - the town that brought us Miley Cyrus and Garth Brooks and Regions Bank. Tennessee, known for the dental hygene and higher education of the top 5% of its citizenry - beating out Arkansas and Mississippi by mere fractions. (Thank god for Mississippi and Alabama, sayeth the Arkansan, or we'd always be in last place.) Tennessee, where the barbecue is more piquant than sweet due to the copious use of vinegar.

In this fiery cauldron of country music, religious fervor, snake handling, and gigantic breasts, a warrior was born. A warrior unlike the world has seen before.

A warrior to praise before all others. A warrior whose coming was foretold in the Book of the Dead and the 1957 Almanac.

The original badass, Weston Ochse.

Tennessee, where Weston doesn't live anymore. He lives in Arizona, where all the great warriors of this dimension go to fuck and feast eternally at the Table of Kings, where they serve fajitas, higado encebellado and really strong margaritas, sometimes topped with a shot of Grand Mariner (for only $4.99 more), and other delectable victuals for your eupeptic delight and where it takes a month to get a reservation. There. That's where he lives. Badassville.

Please give a standing 21 gun salute to author Weston Ochse, total badass.

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JHJ: Why are you badass? Please explain your badassery.

WO: I’ve been to 55 countries, jumped out of aircraft, swam in the Coral Sea, hiked through Death Valley, eaten snakes, bugs and maggots, fought for the honor of women, friends and my country, stared down enemy soldiers and fired rounds in certifiable anger. I entered the crucible of badassery and was spat out the other side as a 230 pound man who can kill with chopsticks, eviscerate with a machete, and remove any obstacle by placing the claymore mine with the side that says ‘This Side Towards Enemy,’ at whatever target I desire and depressing the clicker. I’ve driven tanks, fired artillery, and boarded U.S. Navy ships at sea. I’ve faced down cannibals in Papua New Guinea, skipped along the Great Wall of China, played a game of golf through two warring tribes, and pissed on the DMZ between North and South Korea. I’ve conducted jungle operations in the Golden Triangle, ran from four forest fires, and been stung by more than 200 bees and yellowjackets. I am the badass of badasses. I’ve convinced bad people to tell me secrets and removed terrorists to places where they can do the least amount of harm. I’ve walked into prisons in more countries than a redneck has toes and come out the other side without a hair out of place. I’ve been knocked out three times, had my nose broken eight times, broke my hand, my wrist, my ankles and still came back fighting. I’ve been a bouncer at UFC cage matches and stared down more badasses that most people see in their entire life. I’m a badass father to two badass kids, son to badass parents, and husband to a wife so badass, I had to up my badassery just to marry her. Yeah, I’m a badass.

JHJ: And you forgot to add that we've both seen General Wesley Clark buck naked. That guy ain't afraid of dropping trou right in the Little Rock Racquet Club locker room, let me tell you. Moving on. What’s the most bad-fucking-ass thing you’ve ever done?

For the rest of my badassery, go here.

PS. John Hornor Jacobs is a badass himself. Keep your eye out for Southern Gods, coming soon from Night Shade. I read an advanced readers copy. That is one Badass Southern Cthulhu book.