"Denny you need to start a blog so next year I won't miss your wonderful and witty insights on life.... SO START A BLOG!!!!!!!!" That was my literature teacher. I may have forgotten entirely what she said so I simply improvised. My shoulder hurts. Me and my dear old father took the trek out to Pawnee Grasslands today to go terrorize some pop cans. Along the way we stopped in Ault to get breakfast. It was pretty good. Except for when I puked it all up. You see a few days back I had to rake up all the goat crap and hay in our backyard (I'll explain the goats if I ever get around to making another post) and dump it in the back of the truck. I managed to get rid of all of it and the rest blew out on the ride home. But there was still a little up against the back of the truckbed. So anyway I and my father were going to go shooting, and I had put some chairs and one of those folding tables in the back of the truck, the table went all the back so it was touching the left over crap. Anyway we got to the shooting spot and I unloaded the table. That's when I noticed some hay and mud on it, so I wiped it off with my hand. But in one moment of the most retardation thing I could do, I lifted my hand to my nose and breathed in. It was when the odor of the stench I am all too aware of became clear to my brain did I realize it was not mud, but goat Schmitt. I then shook my hand violently, and my esophagus lunged out of my oral entry, and all three pancakes I had eaten were set loose upon the ground. Indeed, it was freaking nasty, no not the puke, I see that everyday, but the goat crap. It was on my hand!!! My hand! In my pores! Needless to say I poured my water bottle all over my hand to purge it of the unholy crap. After we had everything set up we quickly got to business. Shooting was fun and I'm not going to go into too much detail, but a Colt 1911 relived it's glory days, a pop can was asked if it felt lucky, and a 12 gauge and a 7.62x54R both ganged up on my shoulder. On the way back my father suddenly stopped the truck, got out, and said "Ok son you drive". It was a long dirt road so the only passerbys were 16-wheelers and rednecks. It was a memorable time. "Slow down! Speed up! Stay in the middle!" were crucial phrases in my father's vocabulary. Nevertheless it was awesome. Once I got home Lillian started texting me. Weirdo freakazoid. Maybe I should work on my book report... nahhhhhhh.
~Your Affectionate Fat Man
Den Den Carl's Jr.
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