I was like, "Dude-bra...

...it's probably not the best ding-dang idea to go bringin' your little California dog out here to Nebraska where it's cold as death and we've got a couple feet of snow on the ground." To which Mickey responded, "my dog has balls on him the size of grapefruit, Hoss!" That, of course, could be an even bigger problem, but I didn't want to piss him off as he's a touchy little s.o.b. and he's smashed a couple phones while on the line with me in the past. (Mickey Rourke can be particularly touchy about the "facial experiments" he's taken part in o'er the past decade or so and I have an affinity for bein' the fella that brings it up.) So I said, "aw, the hell with it... I know a nice little spot where we can put together a fire and toss back a few cold ones while your little cali-pup chases around some deers and rolls in cow shit." Of course, last time Mickey came out to take in some prairie woods and slurp suds he got so flippin' lit he built a snow fort, invited in a goddamn bucket calf and spooned the damn thing 'til I found him at sun-up. Plus, he left from that visit with a wicked case of Hemorrhoids.

Now I don't want to try and make you feel as though Mick only shows his face to chug beers till he's comfortable enough to take an animal as a bedmate, but it's not too damn far from the truth... this last visit I thought I'd learn him a little with a trip to a former skunk farm just outside of a small rustic village near the Kansas border. Sadly he was unimpressed with my spinners involving the skunk pelts and the little pond they pulled ice blocks from for selling to the area farms, but was far more concerned with trying to weave the deer dingleberrys found around the lo-cal into hemp necklaces and earrings. I gave'em a good "hipster" ass chewing and bullied him into shotgunning a couple tall boys and we were right back in business with him checkin' under every evergreen for a warm bundle of skunk to squeeze in his dog-purse for later.