Here's an arrow to the city where I was born and that saw me grow up: Madrid. The coat of arms shows the symbol of the city, which is a bear reaching out to a madrone tree. Some people think the name of the city derives from the word 'madrone' but not so. It actually comes from the Arab word 'Magerit.' (ed. 'Place of Many Streams')
When I was a kid I was told that the fruit of the madrone produced a certain drunkenness when ingested excessively but that turned out, in time, to be yet another line of bullshit from my elders.
Anyway, I don't know about the dumbfucks currently running the city but I know I speak on behalf of my fellow 'Madrileños' when I say that it is an honor to be acknowledged by the great burgh of Mount Holly. Send me your arrow and I'll make sure it finds a place where the vandals can't fuck with it.
Best,
El Fonso
Dear Dickweeds,
I present to you my Mount Holly M.A.S.H. pole offering. I think most of us “adults” know what the little berg known as Bonetown is all about, but let me pollinate your memories a bit for shits and giggles.
The origin of the term Bonetown stems from the BMX track behind the St. Mary’s Point Ice Arena. That’s where my gang of pre-pubed misfits used to shred. It’s also where Stip and Fish used to smoke ditch weed. They were the older dudes.[1]
On occasion, Stip would bring girls to Bonetown. Literally and figuratively. I didn’t think much of the steamed up Camaro at the time, but I do recall being a bit perturbed that girls were on the premises harshin’ our tabletop sessions.
The familiar term of Bonetown popped into my head years later--when I popped my cherry. Instead of a word used to describe the down-and-out thrasher days of yore, Bonetown was now secret code for carnal. A one-horse town comprised solely of pre-mature groping, French kissin’, and acid-washed zipper fiddlin’. If you made it to Bonetown, you were sure to get high-fives from the bros.
I’m 35 years old and I still describe sex this way.
May the Bonetown arrow always point straight to bedazzled asses, inebriated nymphs, and the rockabilly chick with the incurable case of daddy issues.
Thanks,
Casey Brewer
[1] Context: I first heard Led Zeppelin's "Kashmir" blaring out of Stip's 1979 Camaro.
