This is a call
This is a call to all my
Past resignations
It's been too long
Alright you futhermuckers.
Wuss crackin'?
So, tomorrow, I'm going on another little adventure.
Once again, this adventure involves a couple of kayaks.
This remote float has a peak season for kayaking, because of the flow from snowmelt.
That peak is now.
It will take place, officially, in The Middle Of Fucking Nowhere, Montana.
Officially.
But it just so happens that the Middle Of Fucking Nowhere is obscenely gorgeous.
How do I know this?
Because we (me & Bells, currently performing gigs as "Thundercake") just drove an hour and a half to drop a truck off at the takeout on the Missouri.
It was some serious Mad Max, post-apocalyptic, Martian-style terrain.
I swear, some freaky midget cannibal kid popped out of the hillside and threw a razor-blade boomerang at me, which I ducked, and then some mohawkin', S&M, assless-chaps, leather-clad sociopath tried to catch it and lost four fingers right there in the dirt.
I swear.
You'll have to take my word on this, because I forgot to bring my fart-knocking camera.
I know, I know.
Serial, though.
It is beyond gorgeous.
And I WILL bring my camera tomorrow, dutiful (obsessed?) chronicler of adventures that I am.
It is supposedly a bit of a hairy kayaking adventures.
I mean, besides the midget cannibals and Thunderdome.
It is super-remote and it travels through a lot of private property.
Some of the landowners have strung barbed wire across the rio, and there are some ginormous sieve-like fences sunk into the flowage, to catch logs.
These we must portage.
Obviously.
Supposedly.
The flow should be quite vigorous.
Anyway.
I am as happy as I have ever been.
I am as settled as I have ever been.
I am as comfortable in my skin as I have ever been.
I look forward to each and every day.
With relish.
And mustard.
Especially tomorrow.
I hope all y'all are having a boot-knockin', block-rockin' Friday.
Peace out, suckaz.
P.S. Guess what else?
Today, I met a dude named Darold.
Darold.
I scrunched up my eyebrows and asked, "Harold?"
"No, Darold."
"Darrell?"
"Darold."
"Darold."
Hmmph.
He wasn't black.
If you were wondering.
Wuss crackin'?
So, tomorrow, I'm going on another little adventure.
Once again, this adventure involves a couple of kayaks.
This remote float has a peak season for kayaking, because of the flow from snowmelt.
That peak is now.
It will take place, officially, in The Middle Of Fucking Nowhere, Montana.
Officially.
But it just so happens that the Middle Of Fucking Nowhere is obscenely gorgeous.
How do I know this?
Because we (me & Bells, currently performing gigs as "Thundercake") just drove an hour and a half to drop a truck off at the takeout on the Missouri.
It was some serious Mad Max, post-apocalyptic, Martian-style terrain.
I swear, some freaky midget cannibal kid popped out of the hillside and threw a razor-blade boomerang at me, which I ducked, and then some mohawkin', S&M, assless-chaps, leather-clad sociopath tried to catch it and lost four fingers right there in the dirt.
I swear.
You'll have to take my word on this, because I forgot to bring my fart-knocking camera.
I know, I know.
Serial, though.
It is beyond gorgeous.
And I WILL bring my camera tomorrow, dutiful (obsessed?) chronicler of adventures that I am.
It is supposedly a bit of a hairy kayaking adventures.
I mean, besides the midget cannibals and Thunderdome.
It is super-remote and it travels through a lot of private property.
Some of the landowners have strung barbed wire across the rio, and there are some ginormous sieve-like fences sunk into the flowage, to catch logs.
These we must portage.
Obviously.
Supposedly.
The flow should be quite vigorous.
Anyway.
I am as happy as I have ever been.
I am as settled as I have ever been.
I am as comfortable in my skin as I have ever been.
I look forward to each and every day.
With relish.
And mustard.
Especially tomorrow.
I hope all y'all are having a boot-knockin', block-rockin' Friday.
Peace out, suckaz.
P.S. Guess what else?
Today, I met a dude named Darold.
Darold.
I scrunched up my eyebrows and asked, "Harold?"
"No, Darold."
"Darrell?"
"Darold."
"Darold."
Hmmph.
He wasn't black.
If you were wondering.
posted by Joe at
10:16 PM
2 Comments:
I wish I had a buck for every time someone mispronounced my other brother's name as "Darold." I'd have made some good cash off my cousins alone.
Sucks to have a mom who can't spell. I should know!
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