Now as you know my object (however misguided) in enduring all of this suffering, camping, the company of strangers etc. etc. was to get to Shitsville. About Shitsville the tourist guide was remarkably restrained: Sh*tsville (possibly derived from Shotsville) [it says, incorrectly]; Established circa.1920s; twin industries of blue films and drinking. No notable landmarks or noted citizens. Hotel: *
To this I would like to add my piece.
Shitsville’s propserity continued into the 1940s, as it was the hub of a circle of small towns so isolated they had never been informed when Prohibition was repealed, or that the Second World War had started. Possibly my grandfather Jack “Washington” Shitsville was well aware that this was the case, but he thought it prudent not to appraise anybody of these distressing facts.
Even in the middle of Prohibition, Shitsville made it a point of pride to be liquored up at all times, the duty of citizens to be a lushes with the grace of the great Irish poets. There are no ugly drunks here but magnificent men, humped like wildebeest, or floating like turtles on the vista of the curved mahogany bar, while the water evaporates around them. When the bartender calls last drinks they lift their heads and look at you sightlessly out of round, black eyes on the side of their massively deformed heads and one is reminded of the cumbersome antlers on the heads of steer — lifted as though weightless in the clear desert morning, as they listen for a sound coming up from far away, over the hills. –So the Shitsville men carry their liquor all in the head, and minding the step. Meantime the bar man stands dispensing drinks under a tinkling vision of hanging glasses and refracted light, dispensing pots like it is communion.
Image credits: http://emmapeelpants.wordpress.com/2013/09/27/inspirational-editorials-the-rest-of-the-picture/