A tale of what not to doMature

A strange saga of booze, blood and blunders.

Deep in the backwoods of southwestern Ontario, in the timeless township of Ekfrid, there is a microscopic hamlet by the name of Middlemiss. This area is lush with lush’s, rednecks, wood ticks, field cars and boredom.....well at least it’s boredom until all of these ingredients come together....

It was a bright sunny day. At the time I was living just outside of the town of Middlemiss. Directly beside the forest which had just recently been officially designated “The Thameswood Red-Neck Conservatory”. It’s rustic charm grew out of the horizon like some drunk passed out on the curb on a Saturday night. With nothing much to do, my associates and I stood around contemplating the possibilities of the day...with beer in hand of coarse...we began to take stock of our implements for follies unknown : a case of beer, a 40oz of Gibson’s finest, a 2L bottle of coke, a chainsaw, a truck with a dump box, an old Honda civic, an old Honda quad, and a giant bush to play in..... No! Not that kinda bush. you dirty monkey.....
anywho.....

After a couple bubbly pops the decision was as clear as our skull cavities. Get the Honda’s going (the car and the quad) and race ‘em round the bush. The quad started without hesitation. A rustic growl that only a red-blooded country bumpkin could love blasted out of the tail-pipe. With it’s bungy-corded, retro-fitted dirtbike gas tank, bald front tires and non existent plastics it was a sheer marvel of man’s technological evolution.... this my friend, is what separates us from the beasts.....Indeed..... The civic, while essentially mechanically sound; had no battery, and so it required a boost. Which was easy enough parked lovingly in the back yard of my associate.... we were off! Like a parade of wounded war vet’s the vehicles roared down the road, towards the Thameswood Red-neck Conservatory.
While on the road the civic lead the pack, but once we reached the forest the quad revealed it’s agility and eagerness to stir up the shit....the civic was also surprisingly agile.( Being that the Honda Civic is a small car with front wheel drive, it is made for bush running. Wind out the gears and cover yer beers.....hit the gas, gear up, hammer down, then jam the clutch, shift down, crank the wheel, dump the clutch and crank on the gas)..... it was a totally surreal scene. Somewhere between Mad Max and Deliverance..... there’s something about being chased around the woods on a quad by two half cut, cheering, laughing, good ‘ol boys in a wounded civic that makes you think to yourself “does life get any better than this?”....


As we raced between the trees we blazed new trails and rutted the hell out of old ones. The noise of half muffled, revved out combustion echoed off of the trees from every direction. A symphony of downshifts and backfires.....then, tragedy struck.....my associates in the civic misjudged a downhill turn on the course. With too much speed they raced down the hill, but while attempting to negotiate the turn the car continued on it’s original line. Brakes locked. The car was forced to the outside of the turn where the extremely saturated clay ground provided nothing but more challenges. They were stuck. After a short attempt at driving the car out(and sooner than myself or my associate driving shotgun in the car could get in place to push); the beast died.....sunnovabeetch!!......well, no sense in wasting a perfectly good opportunity to quench our thirst....after some tire kicking, cigarette smoking, and situation assessment; the sad reality schmucked us in the face. This damn thing ain’t goin’ nowhere. No battery. No boost. No tow. No go.... So( for reasons of mass and spacial economy during the quad shuttle back to the war room), we drank the last couple brown pops left on site, smoked a cigarette and laughed about the present predicament......

I suppose it’s appropriate, for reasons of descriptive clarity and ease of narration; to give my associates involved in this debacle names....but for reasons of plausible deniability I will use alias’.....any likeness’ to any person’s, fictional, real, intoxicated or hallucinated is strictly a coincidence....or the result of a space-time warp...... Driving the civic, and proprietor of the war room: Cooter VonLuckenstein..... Riding shotgun and mixing up the medicine: Weiser Montana.
Now I could go on and on telling you in depth details about each of these individuals, but for reasons of “reader’s digestibility” we’ll simply say that neither of these two have ever said “I dunno man, that sounds too crazy for me”........

Back at the war room, the sun shone warm and bright in the mid-afternoon sky, a slight northerly breeze pushed the sparsity of clouds across the panorama like belly lint stuck on a conveyor belt of infinite length. A cargo train horn, off in the distance, echoed loud through the surrounding tree-lines while a few small sparrows sang in the trees above, serenading us with their songs of freedom.......but we really didn’t give a flying fuck ‘bout any of that shit....cooter’s fuckin car was stuck, and there was way too much daylight left to commence with any serious consumption. So what the fuck were we gonna do now.... With nothing much to do, my associates and I stood around contemplating the possibilities of the day...with beer in hand of coarse...we began to take stock of our implements for follies unknown: a 2L bottle of coke, the tail end of a case of beer, a 40oz of Gibson’s finest, a chainsaw, a truck with a dump box, an old Honda quad, and a giant bush to play in.....

now this, my friends, is where things start to become vaudevillian and hazy. Somewhere between the Three Stooges and Bevis and Butthead.....

Well after about as long as it takes a fish to get wet Cooter was struck by the notion that he needed to stock up on firewood. It was after all, late-mid novcemberish. And although unseasonably warm that particular week, the frosty shit was sure to be coming soon.....luckily for us we knew where there was a bountiful supply of dry wood. An’ so we loaded the beer, the coke, the 40oz of Gibson’s Finest, and the chain saw into the truck with the dump box. Cooter jumped in the captains seat, weiser hopped into shotgun. I mounted the quad like a Doberman on a Shiz-tsu.....and back to the Conservatory we went......

The Red-Neck Conservatory is a region undergoing a slow, deep metamorphosis..... the old archaic timber is gradually dying off and being replaced by a new generation.....at present the ground cover has gained a higher stake in the plot.....vast expanses smothered in stinging nettle and poison ivy.....dead fall covered in various species of mosses and fungi....a place where the fox, turkey, and cougar roam free.........
It’s a sanctuary from all things “modern”, “metrosexual”, and “politically correct”..... a place where boys can be boys, and men can be men..... pure preternatural instincts and freedom saturate the air.... ever wonder what the world would be like if’n we didn’t have to worry about laws and cops and douche-bag neighbors and all that other bullshit which keeps us from exercising our true free will of intellect and action? Well I’d imagine you’d get something exactly like The Red-Neck Conservatory....anything is possible as long as it’s in the name of fun and “grabbing life by the balls”.....

Once our little convoy reached the bush and located the optimum spot to log we observed a few moments of reflection.....with beers in hand, of coarse....and “assessed the situation”.... Being as it was Cooter’s chainsaw we figured it a good idea for him to do the cutting. If someone was gonna break shit it might as well be the sonovabeetch ‘at owns it. So Cooter went to work chopping up the wood while Weiser and myself carried the shit to the truck and slung it in the back. There’s nothing like a little manual labor to get the muscles flexing and the blood flowing....time raced by as we became more and more involved in our routine of cut, grab, toss, repeat....pausing only to catch our breath, light a cigarette, or gulp a beverage.....zen and the art of......running out of beer.....
Now there aren’t many rules associated with The Conservatory. But the one’s which are in place are strictly enforced. Failure to comply may result in the offending party being flogged, or worse yet, being called a pus, a bitch, or a girly-man.... The rules are as follows : 1)you must be consuming a wobbly beverage at all times(generally this beverage is beer). 2) when the beer runs out be prepared to drink the whisky. That’s it folks. Them’s the rules. Like it ‘er lump it. If you can’t obey than you can’t play!!......just so you know.....for future reference and what not.....

During one of our scheduled union breaks we stumbled over the grim realization that the beer was gone. Which meant only one thing: a 40oz of Gibson’s Finest....being too excited about getting back to the bush, we forgot to grab cups for the hooch....so it was time to get a little rustic.... we polished off our beer, shook ‘em out as good as possible and then committed an act which would make the most puritan Red Green fan stand up and rejoice... Weiser bartended us up some rye n’ coke’s in our beer bottles, which proved to be rather difficult given the tint of the glass...”.three shots look like one”....... “So whatever you fucking do DON’T ask for a double, there probably won’t even be any coke in it”..........

The beginning of the end..................

The End

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