You know what happens when you live in the boonies without a soul for miles around, besides your gf who is sick and tired of your shit, and you’re chatty? You post irrelevance on the internet.
I’m pretty sure my punctuation is so jacked in the above text, What can you do? Fifth grade was a rough time for me.
A strange occurrence has been going on for the past couple of months. I’m losing weight without trying. I move less while eating just as much. I’ve been mulling over a new diet plan for the masses. I’ll call it “The Biggest Loser”. It requires you to quit your job and to stop seeing your friends. I know I’m stealing a title. Maybe I’ll change it to “The Biggest Looser”. I’ve noticed a common misspelling of the word on the internet so it works. Third grade was a rough time for some. I get it.
On to the bad news. I think I have arthritis. My left hand is giving me fits. I’m too young for such an ailment. It hit me that I turn 35 in a few months. Halfway to 70. Perhaps that’s why I have half the arthritis. I’m not a fucking doctor.
When I gave my pit bull/American bulldog a bath the other day I did so in the nude. My reasoning is solid and is based on not getting my clothes wet. My reasoning for mentioning it is to let you know how Cris has become immune to my ways. She didn’t even bat an eye as I chased him around naked. It’s nice to have someone get you.
We were offered fresh chicken shit to help our yet to be worked on garden. It was quite the gift. The gentlemen who wanted to give it to us, gave very detailed directions to his mounds of chicken shit. I found the spot but alas no chicken shit was found. He must have moved it. I didn’t know chicken shit was such the commodity that it required strategic hiding spots and black ops type of movements. I haven’t called him to find out its new location because that just seems like an awkward conversation.
“I sold the shit, Keg. Flu season is over. Walgreens needed a gimmack.”
Have I told you about Cris’s collection of beetles? No? Okay. Cris has managed to acquire two colonies of beetles that are of the eating dead flesh variety. They clean bones. We feed them leftover drumsticks and deli meat. The beetles make homes and breed in styrofoam. We feed beetles leftovers. I’m not sure where my life is headed.
I’m the worst hunter in the region. First off, I’m not a huge fan of killing. I don’t have the heart for it anymore. I do however need to keep the coyote population in check because they don’t share my stance on killing. I think they would if they had their own grocery stores. Secondly, hunting takes dedication, patience and stealth. I’m none of these things. So, what I do is grab my coyote call, set it up at way too close of a distance for any coyote not stricken with schizophrenia to get near, sit in the bed of my truck and play on the internet. I occasionally look up. I’m not distraught about it. I enjoy nature amongst the backdrop of dying jackrabbit sounds in the distance. I’ll play with the call features here and there by simultaneously playing dying bunny with female coyote howl. I feel like a DJ for a redneck rave. I imagine a bunch of camo’d up bearded men having spasms to the sweet melodies of my stellar nature mixes.
“You have a mighty fine erection, Carl.”
“DJ Buckshot gets me real amped up, Peter.”
I’m done being chatty now. All this socializing is mentally draining.