SCOOTER SEASON

Once upon a time I use to work in Fort Collins for a spice company (Custom Blending Inc.). It was a very small company but it was a great company and I am sure they are still doing fine back there in Colorado still today.

I use to get to work extremely early in the morning and would often take my lunch break and get a bite to eat around noon. Well actually I hardly ever ate lunch. It was probably more like driving around the area smoking cigarettes.

One day not long after I got the job at Custom Blending I was driving back in an industrial area and came across a taxidermy studio (Chapman's Taxidermy).

I had just recently graduated from the Northern Virginia School of Taxidermy and was really thinking I was the best taxidermist in the world, but after walking through the front door and noticing all of the blue ribbons and awards of excellence discovered right then that I wasn't barely worth a sh** as a taxidermist.

I introduced myself and asked if he (Bob Chapman) could use any help. He told me to stop by tomorrow and we would talk about it. I agreed to that and bolted back out the door and almost forgot about my other job Custom Blending.

After talking to the wife and working out a plan we figured that I could work a few hours a day there, if he was interested.

The next day came and lunch time couldn't come soon enough. Finally 12 o'clock! I busted out the door, stuck the pedal to the medal, smoked a stog and rushed up to the front door of Bob's studio.

He had a customer and I felt as if he didn't remember who I was, but once the customer left he said hi, glad you could come back would you be interested in starting today? I of course was excited, surprised and very happy to say yes.

2 o'clock came and I busted out the door, stuck the pedal to the medal, smoked a stog and rushed up to the front door of Bob's studio. I walked in and he had 3 Rainbow Trout laying on the table. He had a fillet knives, a brown paper bag and a grease pencil.

I watched him trace out a pattern of the Rainbow and was just amazed because where I was from and how I learned how to do taxidermy was completely different then what Bob had done in just the first few minutes of my new job. I was wondering if I had gotten myself in to deep and was way over my head.

We worked on skinning and cleaning the first two fish together and quite naturally his was done much quicker and had a few less holes in it than mine did. After several years of working on skinning fish I learned not to cut as many wholes in the specimens due to the fact there was a doc in pay if I did cut holes in them. I wasn't the fastest skinner and probably still ain't, but I do a good job and I am very thorough.

So as the years went by and our friendship grew I also started going over to the shop more often. I would go over for my fifteen minute break at 10, lunch time and after I got done working at 2. It all became very routine.

That is until one day when I walked in the front door and couldn't find Bob anywhere. This was somewhat normal as Bob would leave the shop open for me because he knew I was gonna stop over and smoke anyways and he was probably just on a beer run just down the street.

I looked around and was looking at a fish that Bob had just completed when... WHACK! Right in the ass I feel this very sharp and stinging sensassion and I was like. "What the Hell was that!". Bob was laughing his ass off when I discovered him hiding up in the rafters.

Bob hopped down on a barrel and had a blowdart gun in his hand. I immediatly turned and looke to see if there was a dart sticking out my ass. There wasn't and he showed me that he had a handful of apoxy ball BB's he made in his pocket for ammo.

Still I had not a clue as to what the Hell was going on so I said "What the Hell is going on!" as I sat there rubbing my ass. He very cheerfully said and chuckled out "It's Scooter Season". Not thinking this was very funny I walked out of the shop rubbing my ass.

Lunch time came and I busted out the door, put the pedal to the medal and smoked a stog and as I walk in the back door of Bob's studio notice that he is not in his shop once again and when I turn to see if his motorcycle is still here feel a WHACK right on the right side of my love handle.

"What the Hell was that!?" I scream in pain. As Bob steps out from behind the dupster he very cheerfully voices out "It's Scooter season". I'm like are you friggin' kidding me? I am thinking that the paint fumes have finally caught up to this old man, and as I turn around and retreat to my Isuzu Amigo because I decide to take a short lunch today hear a WHIZ right by my head. I jump in the truck and head back over to the Spice company.

I get off of work and I slowly drive over to the shop and smoke two stogs and am just burning up inside because my ass and back are sore from this morning. I pull up to the shop and see Bob sitting on his bench and I notice that he is actually working rather that Fing off. As I approach him all I hear is WHAP! My eyes immediatly tear up and both he and Brett Kirk burst out into laughter.

I'm not thinking this is too funny as I am looking at Brett holding a blowdart gun hooked up to an air compressor. The only thing I can think of is asking him why, and what the hell was going on. But what came out was "How many PSI are you using". Come to find out it was only 75.

Anyhow, as I am sitting on the bench with my ass, back and now right pec in pain turn to the two A-holes and say "OK when does this Scooter season, start and when does it end?" Bob says "Today quite naturally, it's April Fools day". I say "OK, when does it end?" Brett says, "Turkey season". "Oh well that's not so bad" as I'm holding my blood blistered boob. Bob just chuckles, "Not fall Turkey season, next Turkey season,... Spring." I'm like "OK, if we are gonna do this we need to give Scooter a break. I say if I touch something here in the shop I am 'HOME FREE''. Bob and Brett both aggreed to those terms and elected the tool box in the shop 'HOME FREE' and if I touched it I was safe for the visit's intirety.

I finish skinning my two fish and head home, go to bed, wake up go to work, burst out the door at 10 am, floor the gas, smoke a stog, rush to the front door of the studio the next day and walk in and WHACK!!! Right in the same as cheek as the day before and without a chuckle he say very calmly as he reloads his blow dart gun "Scooter season". I immediatly sprint slide and tag the tool box and just like a kid scream "Home free! Home free!"

Three times a day, every day for five years I went zippin, sneaking, sliding and sprinting to that old beat up tool box and have had many of hunters buy a Scooter license (conciquently, the price of a pack of cigarettes) over the years in hopes of bagging a trophy Scooter. Some were successful, some were not. But for the few who were lucky enough to try can bet that they thought the opportunity was well worth the price.

On the very last day that I lived in Colorado I walked into the shop and of course did not see Bob at all. Not 15 minute break nor during my lunch hour. I of course was overly cautious and planned out my bolt for the last blitz for the 'HOME FREE TOL BOX'. I crashed the door did a summerslat roll and dove on my belly and slid across the floor. I hear WHIZZES past my ears as I am getting smacked in the ass by pellets and as i stand up see a bungee cord and rope obsticle course that I would have to navigate through to get to my 'HOME FREE' safety net. I make it through all of the sh** finally and turn the corner for the home stretch and notice that the tool box is missing and there sits a cardboard tomb stone that reads hear lies Scooter, bla, bla, bla...

I didn't have time to read the note as everyone that had baught a Scooter license over the years was there and was ready to bag them a Scooter. Well I finally made it to my make shift 'HOME FREE' station (My Isuzu, Amigo) and that was the end of Scooter season.

Since I moved to Nebraska they have not opened a Scooter season. Though, it was literally a pain in my ass at times, I do sincerly miss being stalked by Bob Chapman.

CATCH OF THE DAY...

Back on the Air Force Base, Ellsworth Air Force Base near Rapid City, SD. the thing for a young teen age boy was to go down to the trout ponds... On a daily basis, of course. There were if I can remember correctly two Trout ponds and a Catfish and Largemouth Bass pond. The two trout ponds were linked together by a small creek and when there was a lot of rain they often flooded.

Since we always went, and I am talking every chance we got, me and Tony Lay we would often run out of live bait, and after raiding mom and dads cupboards of all of the sweet corn we had to start using artificial baits.

Speaking of riding bikes. There was this one time that Tony and I were riding home after a good evening of fishing and I accidently stuck my fishing pole into his front tires' spokes. Yeah, it wasn't pretty. Just like in a cartoon or like you would imagine, that poor kid went flying over top of his handle bars and I was out a new fishing rod.

So back to artificial baits. Though we tried to catch worms as often as we could or try to catch as many crawdads as possible. We always managed to run out. That is when we were introduced to artificial baits by one of our friend's dad, Frank. Frank mentioned that his favorite spoon was the Red Daredevil. Upon learning this information and discovering that this was how he caught that 5 pound Rainbow Trout on his wall at home it didn't take long for Tony and I to purchase ours.

Several weeks went by and we not only didn't catch much, we didn't catch sh**. The long hours we spent casting in the sun and staying just wasn't panning out. Frank said that once you catch something on an artificial bait you'll be hooked.

I never believed him, I actually thought he was full of sh** and he just didn't want us catching our limit. Though, I thought he was full of sh**, I still wanted to prove to him and Tony that I was the best fisherman that there ever was. Tony and I tried and tried, and tried and tried with no luck. I started going even more often and staying out even later and I actually started to let my grades slip a little.

Tony and I were fishing down at the creek in between the two ponds when all of a sudden my brother and dad drove by and yelled for me to get my arse home, and Tony wasn't supposed to be out either because he was supposed to be working on his schoolwork while his mom told him.

Just like you would imagine of course, I had to make one last cast and of course I just had to get snagged on the weeds behind me at the same time. I yanked that lure as hard as I could and once again and it was really hooked this time. You know that pissed feeling you get when you are snagged, because you know your gonna loose your favorite lure, but your so pissed that it doesn't matter cause your just pissed and you yank it until your line snaps anyways?

Well that was how pissed I was during that moment when I gave that pole one last tug as hard as I could and heard a snap and a yell at the same time... Yep, you guessed it. I snagged my buddy Tony. You know that sick feeling you get when you do something really bad, but your relieved because you didn't loose your favorite lure? That's the feeling I got.

But at least I knew I didn't loose my favorite lure after all. It was just dangling from Tony Lay's right ear. A few weeks later or so, my mom said I could maybe go fishing again and Mrs. Lay had something that she wanted to give me. It was my Red Daredevil Lure!.. Minus the treble hook! I never got that hook back and I never went fishing with Tony again either, I mean how the hell did they expect me to catch a trout without a hook?

RE-CALL/RETARDED

Just a few minutes ago we were heading on down the road and on our way over to a doctor's appointment for one of my rug rats. We are also in the process of getting a garage sale set up. As we're drivin' my wife says "Oh! We gotta stop there on the way back home). She was talking about the Payless Shoe store we had just went whipping bye, because of course we are always two steps behind and always have a long ways to go.
So Anyways, now were done with our kids appointment, and my wife says "Don't forget we gotta go to Payless". So now I'm curious as to why and she states that her sister, said we can't sell those shoes on the garage sale because they have been re-called. My wife continues to say that she doesn't want to go in there because she didn't want to looke stupid... "So, you want me to?" I ask. She nods her head and burst out laughing. "Hun you're retarded! You're not gonna go in there because you don't want to look stupid, but you want me to, and that's OK?"

So I'm in the store now and I tell the lady there that I figure my wife and sister-in-law are trying to play a practical joke on me but they say these shoes are re-called. I also tell her we were gonna sell them on the garage sale for $.50, but I figured I better check, cuz I didn't want little boys or girls gettin' into a car wreck with these shoes or something.

As I tell her that, I notice a re-call sign behind the store clerk's head stating that these and two other pairs of these style shoes have been re-called.

So as the clerk hands me my $16.00 cash, I slip it into my pocket, thank her for saving some kids life and walk out the door to the van. My wife asks, "Did ya get em' returned?". I just shrugged my shoulders and said , "Do I look retarded to you?'.

HOLY CRAP!

First of all let me set this up. I was in a car accident about two years ago and was injured with a head injury. A MTBI to be exact. Which is short for mild traumatic brain injury. Mild is basically the opposite of what it feels like. I constantly have headaches, and this is almost two years later. My balance is off, my mood is depressed, I have short term memory loss, I can comprehend things I read, there is a bunch of goofy sh** goin' on up there, and a list of other sh** I can't think of. At least now you have a little bit of a handle on this now.

The other night I stayed up late, way past when my wifer went to bed. I have a hard time falling asleep sometimes and have to wind down and basically wear myself out before I go to bed. The wifer on the other hand, works hard at work and at home so she gets her beauty rest and she does it really hard. That is when she hits the hay, it's like a brick.

So anyways, I finally get tired after watching Deadliest Catch on the Discovery Channel and I go get ready for bed. I brush my teeth and what not, then I grab my medication and head off to bed.

I actually fell asleep pretty fast and slept fairly well for once. That is, only waking up every other hour instead of every hour. So the night is long and I am finally asleep and sleeping hard myself when all of a sudden I hear a humming in my ear. I spring out of bed like a Gazelle and grab my pillow and start pushing it into the bed as hard as I can. My wifer, jumps up with a look on her face that I'll never forget. It was like she was saying what the hell are you doing you freak without saying a word.

So hear I am standing upright on our bed squishing the hell out of my pillow with my wife looking right at me. Now what do I do? I say "Hon, there was a wasp in my ear"! She says "What"? I exclaim, "A freaking Wasp"! She of course thinks I am out of my mind as thinks I'm a spaz for the position I am standing in and begins to turn over as she say"Whatever".

Right when she starts to turn over I grab a flip flop at the end of the bed and start swinging it into the air like a mad man. She jumps out of bed and says "What the hell are you doing"? I am waving a flip flop in the air with one hand as I am holding a squishing a pillow on my bed and then she sees the Wasp. "Hon, there's a Wasp"! I look at her as to say "No sh**"! I finally swat the flying Wasp and kill it.

I still have one arm and one leg on the bed so now I turn my attention to the pillow Wasp. I slowly but surely lift up the pillow. As I do, I hear a "ZZZZZZZZZZ"! I immediately push down on the pillow and squish and push and pound and stomp on the pillow with all my might. Of course even after seeing the Wasp that I killed my wife is thinking I look like a real dumb ass right now. So I peel back the pillow and "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ"! I immediately push down on the pillow and squish and push and pound and stomp on the pillow with all my might again. Surely it's dead now. So one last time i peel back the pillow. "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ"! Holy crap! Did you know that a 290 pound man can't kill a freaking wasp on a bed with a pillow no matter how hard he tries?

I proceed to grab my wifers flip flop and I rip the pillow off that Wasp as quick as I can and he flies up and I am smacking and swinging and finally I knock him to the bed and I am hitting this thing so fast and so hard it felt like I turned into a jack hammer. So the flat part of the shoe wasn't working at all on the bed either, but it was keeping him down on the the bed so I finally turned the shoe and started stabbing him. It looked like the showere scene from Physco. I stabbed and stabbed and finally cut him into two pieces.

My wifer has got to have the weirdest facial expressions in the world. She can give someone a complex just by looking at them. She looks at me, shakes her head, grabs her pillow and covers turns and says "I ain't coming back down here until you fix this"... You know what? I've been sleeping like a baby for about a week now. I probably aught to get to fixin' that hole with the hornets nest in it sooner or later. Naw, I'll just tell her I haven't caught all my ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ's yet!

Scooter

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We love hearing about your hunting adventures. We publish only stories that are done in good taste. Stories are reccomended to follow and capture the essence of the hunt or adventure as closely as possible. Begin with something about yourself: how old you are, how long you’ve been hunting, how you got into the sport, the kinds of hunting that you enjoy most. Then, tell us how you came to hunt at this spot mentioned in your story.Who were you with? How well have you known them? Let us know something about preparing, early season scouting, and getting ready for the hunt. Think about how you felt that that day, what were the conditions like, what went through your mind? Build some anticipation. Next detail what it was like as your quarry came into sight, how did you prepare for the shot, how did you think you did, and what went through your mind? How did you feel after you let go? Was the tracking difficult? What did you think after you found the animal? What did your friends say? Has this changed your view of hunting?What would you tell your kids about the experiences?It’s easy to get your story published, just e-mail your whitetail hunting story and attach your image file to: scott@thesteiners.org (by sending my story to Scooter, I agree that I am giving him permission to post it on any or all of the Everything About... the franchise blogs or websites.)

A Cat Named George

Way back when my dad was in the service we use to go back home for the summer. He would visit all the family on both sides and usually spend about a week with each side. I loved going out to Grandpa and Granny's farm and seeing all of the farm animals and being in the great outdoors. We would go down to the pond and catch Bullfrogs and Bullheads. One of very favorite things to do was to climb up in the hay loft of the barn with all of my cousins and play tag. We would run around and jump from bail to bail as if we were Indiana Jones ourselves. We would play for hours. One time I was up there alone making a fort or something and moving bales around and I stumbled across a nest of kittens. I had never seen a kitten before let alone 7 or 8 of em'. So quite naturally I was fascinated with them. I started bringing them fresh milk and little scraps of meat to see if they would take to it. There was one that wanted to try everything and would always investigate no matter what I brought. So I of course had to name him George. After Curious George. Well the summer came and the summer went and the whole next year I thought about that stupid ole cat. The next summer came and when we got to Grandpa and Granny's farm I rushed right back to the hay loft and climbed the ladder just as quick as I could to see if ole George was still there. Not only was he not there there wasn't nothin' but nothin' up there. I couldn't comprehend why he or the hay wasn't up there. I talked to Grandpa and he told me that a lot of the farm cats sometimes would get runned over on the gravel road, or they would just disappear for no good reason. Just then as I was tearing up, a large orange cat started walking and figure eightin' in and out of my legs. I hear a "PRRRRRRRR". "No way! It's George!" It was George for sure I'd remember that stupid ole cat anywhere. Grandpa just smiled and walked towards the barn and asked me why I named that stupid ole cat George. I told him he reminded me of Curious George because he was always gettin' into trouble. He said "Yep, if I named those mangy ole cats that's what I'da named em' too." He told me remembered one time he decided to play with the electric fence and tried to bite the thing. He said that was the last time I ever saw him do that. There was another time he tried to go into the hen house, and how funny that was seeing a cat get chased by a hundred chickens. Anyways, my cousin showed up because he heard we were back and I was braggin' to him how George came right up to me when I got here to the farm. Right then and there as I am telling him about my reunion with George I notice he has a lump on his left under side of his lip and just then I see him spit a blackish stream of spit out about four and a half feet outwards... "Wow!" I exclaim "What the heck was that?" He, sits there for a second and says "Copenhagen". I look at him and say "Copenwhattin'". Jamie says "Copenhagen, it's chew". " Yeah, I know, but your only 12". He said "Yep, you want some?" I said "Yep". It took me awhile to decide to do it cause once he reached into the back right had side pocket of his jeans whipped it out, held it at a 45 degree angle, gave it three quick thumps and started to twist that fancy western styled lid off of the can, was completely physced out. Not to mention here comes Grandpa! "Jamie! Here comes Grandpa! Put it away!" I was sure we were both gonna get our asses whooped with a switch. "It's OK, you see this fancy lid? Grandpa gave this to me for my birthday last year". "Wha" I kinda of tried to say, cuz I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Anyways, he continues to open the can and just as I get a wiff of the sh**tty and very distinguishable Copenhagen smell, Grandpa flings open the door of the barn and says. "Thanks" and grabs huge dip of chew from Jamie's can and shoves it right into his mouth. I literally about gaged when he did that, and just as I am about to puke, he says "You want some?" As he is holding out a can that he had just whipped out of his can from his back pocket as quick as he was Billy The Kid or something. So now I have two cans of Copenhagen staring me right in the eye and I didn't want to be considered a pussy, so I grab a healthy pinch from both cans and shove it into my mouth as if I was the chewing champion of the world or something. Grandpa and my cousin were amazed and couldn't believe I was such a chewing stud. So with this big wad of sh** in my mouth I say to Jamie "Let's go find George!" Grandpa went about his chores as if nothin was wrong and I am turning every different color a kid age 12 can turn without dieing. But the way I was feeling at that very moment I would have rather been dead. Jamie says "So what's ya think" You like Copenhagen?" and he pats me on the back. I think I swallowed some spit along with a few pieces of the chew now. He quickly says, "You don't look so good, your not swallowing that sh** are ya?" and he spits a huge blackish stream of spit right across my face. It looked as if it was in slow motion. I think I could have counted the bubbles, and particles of Copenhagen in that stream." So with that said, I actually instead of spitting it out took another swallow. I turned green and he says, "You don't look so good cuz. You might want to spit that sh** out." Without missing a beat, I grab that wad of sh** and threw it in the sand. Of course George was right there to sample what I gave him and I never have seen a cat take such a big bite of anything but I didn't see any of the Copenhagen left when he went running off and went under the grain bin. My cousin thought that was pretty funny, and he said "Oh, now I get it. That's why you call him George. Curious George." Hes then says "Don't you know curiosity killed the cat?" Right then I puke a puke stream straight across his face and as he gets the wiff of my puke he pukes and of course beings how Grandpa had a weak stomach and was working and watching all of this go down near by, he starts dry heaving. So a few minutes later I see George come out from underneath the grain bin. He heads directly over to the sandy driveway and digs the quickest and deepest whole I have ever seen and lets loose with a great big burst of green diarrhea. Every time we saw that cat the rest of the day we seen him diggin' holes and sh***n'. The next day I went out to the barn with a fresh bowl of milk and climbed ever so slowly up the ladder to the hay loft so not to spill the milk. I didn't see George up there, and I never saw him again. I'll never forget that stupid ole' cat, and I'll never forget the smell of Copenhagen.

The Jackalope

Ever since I could ever remember I wanted a Jackalope. Little did I know they were so hard to come by. Let me start the story back in 1990 while I was living in Virginia. I had just completed a wildlife art and preservation course and received my certification of completion with my diploma and all from the Northern Virginia School of Taxidermy. Sounds kinda important don't it? So now I'm a taxidermist, oh and before you go tryin' to sign up, that school doesn't exist anymore. So anyways, like I said before, I always wanted a Jackalope and instead of going out and buying one or trying to find out where I could shoot one myself, I decided since I was a big time taxidermist now, I could actually just go ahead and make one myself. Only one problem... You don't see many Jackrabbits in Virginia. Well a few years past and of course I would've bought one from Cabelas or Bass Pro if I wasn't so damn stubborn (cheap) and didn't want to waste the money since I was a full fledged taxidermist ya' know. After awhile of living in Virginia, and even though "Virginia is for lovers" the wifer and I decided to move back towards home. Nebraska, the good life that is, and no, it wasn't because I wasn't having any luck with finding Jackrabbits. We figured we wanted to move back closer to home to be closer to the family because we missed everyone, but we didn't want to move back quite all the way, cuz we didn't miss em' that much. Beings how I love wildlife and the outdoors and so does my wifer, we figured Colorado would be a great place to set up shop, not to mention there's a sh** load of Jackrabbits! Upon making the decision to move to Colorado, my brother and my wife's sister decided to move there as well. Oh did I forget to mention, my brother, married my wife's sister?... Yeah, it's legal. Think about it. So back to our story now. Anyways, for the first several months we lived with them since they made the move first and already had a place for themselves, and a new taxidermist without a reputation and no clientele doesn't make much money stuffin' imaginary Jackalopes and my bro is a rich high-techneck. While living with them it only took a little while for me and my sister-in-law to develop a great relationship with one another. We had a love hate relationship. We loved to hate one another. Naw, not really, when it comes down to it we actually could tolerate one another if we had to. So anyways, we all are living in Loveland and Ma and Pa decided to come up and see their girls. While they were in town we were constantly on the run shopping at the finest antiques stores that Loveland and Fort Collins has to offer. So one day on our umpteenth trip to the Antique Mall over in Fort Collins we passed a road killed Jackrabbit! My heart about started going a mile a minute and I blurted out "Hon, there's a road killed Jackrabbit out in the middle of the road! Can I have it?" Back then we didn't have cell phones and my wife quickly told me no and that we had family in town, we didn't have time and they would wonder what in the hell we were doing pulling over since they were following us and if they saw me pick up road-kill they would probably think we were having it for dinner. Not to mention she didn't want her mom and dad to think we were a bunch of hicks. Of course not, we wouldn't want her parents thinking WE were hicks. Isn't it her parents that suggested a double wedding for us and to have our reception in a bowling alley? Very reluctantly, I proceeded toward our shopping expedition at the Antique Malls over in Fort Collins. Yeah, you bet Ma and Pa heard about the Jackrabbit, and how long I had waited to have a chance at picking one up so I could make my very own Jackalope. So the day went on and many dollar bills were spent on a bunch of old sh** (and they all thought I was crazy for wanting to pick up a road killed Jackrabbit). Now finally we are on our quest back to my brother and sister-in-laws house with our loot, and for some odd reason my sister-in-law is riding back with me instead of her Ma and Pa and my wifer is with Ma and Pa instead of riding back with me. Of course now is my chance to ask my nature-lovin'-tree huggin'-sister-in-law if I can pick up that dead Jackrabbit. I know there ain't no way in Hell she's gonna let me, but I just had to ask anyways. So on the way I home I told her how long I have waited for the opportunity to pick up a Jackrabbit and reminded her that she was my favorite sister-in-law (my only) and that I didn't actually kill it, it was dead already. Oh my god, you are never gonna believe this. She actually said yes! So while we are driving back there to pick it up I will set up the situation. OK there are two lanes going this way and two lanes going that way and one lane right in the middle, and that is where the Jackrabbit is. So I turn my signal on and pull over and park right behind it. I see my Pa-in-law pull up right behind be and park. I get out of the car with the biggest sh** eatin' grin on my face and start walking towards the Jackrabbit like I had won the lottery or something and as I am standing there looking at my treasured road killed Jackrabbit I notice that my wife, Ma and Pa-in-law go speeding off down the road. I am bewildered as to why they would just leave like that but guess it's because I'm a dumb ass. So anyways I am back to picking up the carcass and all of a sudden, a very abrasive and loud voice is heard right over my shoulder. "May I help you son?" Well of course being a quick thinker I very quickly responded. "Well hello officer". Again the officer replies, "May I help you son?" I quickly respond again "Ah, well hello officer". Very frustrated he states that I can not park in the turn lane and notices that I am from Virginia. I reply "Thank you officer, I am sorry to be parking here, I didn't realize you couldn't park here, I never seen a fancy lane like this before, but the reason I'm parked here is because me and my wifer" smiling very cheesy and pointing towards my make believe wife (my sister-in-law) as I am waving back to her I state that "me and my wifer hit this poor little bunny on the way over to the movies, and she wanted me to check on it to see if the poor little thing was OK." The officer says with a firm voice "That's a Jackrabbit, and a dead one, this is a turning lane and I should write you a ticket, but I'll just give you a warning this time". So I hop back into my car and we drive off and wave to the officer as we drive off, my merry and gay wave as we drive down the road turns into a finger as now I am just really well you now pissed. Believe it or not I almost had a tear in my eye as we were leaving. So now we are back at my bros house and we are getting ready to barbecue. The wifer says I need to run down to the store and get a few things. So I yell to my bro to hurry up and hop on in the truck cuz we are gonna go grab some grub real quick to throw on the grill , and we just have to go right up the road. I never until just now and this is about 15 years later understood why Ma and Pa-in-law had such a weird look on there face as we were leaving. So anyways, while we are on our road trip to get some grub, I ask my bro if it's OK that I pick up that road-killed Jackrabbit. He of course says yes cuz we are already ahead of schedule. So on the way back over to his house I pass the road-killed Jackrabbit, go to the next block, turn right turn into a drive and back out. I pull up to the Highway turn my signal on cross the two lanes of traffic when it's safe, then the fancy lane and now am heading west bound on the highway. I see the road-killed Jackrabbit, I signal to get over, I pull over this time on the shoulder, and not in the fancy lane. I then turn on my flashers and tell my brother to give me the Walmart bag so I can throw the road-killed Jackrabbit in there, cuz I didn't want any one to think I was weird if I'm walking across the street with a dead road-killed Jackrabbit. So now! Finally! I get to get my very first road-killed Jackrabbit so I can start my Jackalope project. I grab the door handle and just as I start to open the door, two cherry colored bright as Hell ass lights turn on with high beams pointing directly in my direction. Oh no! Now what? I tell my brother I didn't think I was speeding, I turned my signals on I didn't run a red light and I turned on my... Just then a bright flashlight beams down into my face and you will never guess what happens next. Yep, you guessed it. The same cop! That son-of-a worked a double shift. The next thing you know he blurts out "What seems the problem son?" I blurt right back to hime my answer, cuz I am such a quick thinker, said "Well you remember my wife earlier and how bad she felt about the poor little bunny?" "Jackrabbit" the officer says. "Well, she felt so bad about that bunny, I mean Jackrabbit that she told me I needed to come back here pick it up and bury it" The officer looked as if he almost gave a sh**, but just for a split second before he put his hands over his face, started shaking his head back and forth and opened told me to step out of the vehicle. I about sh** my pants when he grabbed my hand pulled me across the two lanes of traffic and said, while holding my hand like a little kid, "Is this the bunny?" I said "Jackrabbit?" He says, "Jackrabbit!?!" "Why, yes sir it is." "Is the Jackrabbit dead?" the officer asks. "Yes!" I exclaim. He says in a very scary voice. "Then pick it up, and get the Hell outta here before I write you a goddamn ticket!" I have never been so scared or excited as I was at that very moment. I threw open the sack, grabbed the road-killed Jackrabbit and shoved it into my bag as quick as I could so that he wouldn't change his mind. I didn't care about getting a ticket, I just didn't want him to take my bunny, I mean my road-killed Jack-to-be-alope. As soon as I place the animal into the bag, he grabs my hand like a schoold child again, walks me across the traffic and tells me to get the Hell outta there, before he changes his mind. I'm not for sure but I think I may have even burnt a little rubber as I was leaving. Anyways, Yipee! I finally got a road-killed Jackrabbit and now my life long dream of mounting a Jackalope was about to come true. I was so excited I called my wife about it and totally forgot about the fact I was supposed to be picking up some meat to grill. Anyways, before she started bitchin' about how long it was taking I hung up. We pull into the driveway and the garage door opened, as we are pulling in everyone is standing in the garage, and they all know why it took so long. My wife says "I suppose you had to go back and get that road-killed Jackrabbit didn't ya?" I said "Yep" and my brother blurts out " And we didn't even almost get arrested or anything" Have I ever told you I hate my brother? I don't know how long I got yelled at but it must've been midnight before we got done with the barbecue. Well anyways, I left the road-killed Jackrabbit in the trunk so I wouldn't get busted by my wife, but since she busted me and knew about it already, I went and grabbed it outta the trunk. Everyone, for the most part anyways was all gathered around me in the garage as if I were opening a Christmas present or something. I don't know, I guess they were just as excited about it as I was or something, but after several years of waiting for this and talking about how I was going to make my very own Jackalope reached into the bag and pulled it out. Would you believe that frickin' road-killed Jackrabbit, that I got bitched out about and almost arrested and waited almost an eternity for had both of his eyes popped out, half of the hair on the side of his face was missing and he was missing a ear, not just a piece! A whole ear! I about threw up, had a heart attack, cried and sh** my pants all at the same time, on top of all of that I make believe married my sister-in-law for a few minutes. The god damned thing was totally worthless. I shoved it back in the bag. Sped straight back way over the speed limit, slammed on my breaks, did a 180 threw the car in park in the middle of the road and threw that sucker as far as I could into the weeds. Needless to say I was pissed, but at least the cop went home and didn't see any of that happening. So anyways, a year or so passed and I am replenishing my business cards at Walmart and I hear a chuckle behind me and a voice say "I should've known". As he is looking at my business card. "Why didn't you tell me you were a taxidermist?" I just shrugged my shoulders, turn my head and tell the cop in plain dressed clothes, "I didn't wanna feel stupid". He says, "So how do ya feel know?" I didn't answer him, but now 15 years after the incident still do not have a Jackalope in my living room to this day. Believe it or not, I am actually thinking about buying one, but with any luck I may come across another road-killed Jackrabbit sooner or later.

REDNECK

Definition of the word redneck:

n. Offensive Slang.

Used as a disparaging term for a member of the white rural laboring class, especially in the southern United States.

A white person regarded as having a provincial, conservative, often bigoted attitude.

Jeff Foxworthy's translation of the word redneck:

Southern comedian Jeff Foxworthy defines "redneck" as "a glorious lack of sophistication,"
stating "that we are all guilty of [it] at one time or another.

What's your favorite country song? Right now mine is Jason Aldean's Hicktown. Jason really hits the nail on the head of how it all goes down in a small rural town not to mention the kick ass sounds that the band is backing up his great lyrics and voice with. I remember growing up in a small town like that in the Midwest, and I remember doing several things sung about in the song or at least things that were very similar. Yeah, those were the good ole' days, and I do remeber very clearly going mudding down minimum maitenance roads on rainy days on either my four wheeler or in my Grand Toreno. Jumping the railroad tracks in my hot rod like Bo and Luke would've done and once even trying to out run our town cop that lived only a block and a half from mom and dads house on my Honda CR 125. Well, not quite I guess he did catch up to me on the long stretch after I went whizzing down main street strait out of town at 85 mph with my mullet blowing in the wind! I am not sure why he was chasing me, I only was driving without a license, no signals, I ran every stop sign in town and was only going over the speed limit in some spots by 65 mph. He probably would have never caught me, but when I jumped the ditch and looked back over my shoulder as I was going across the corn field instead of down it and noticed him leaning over the hood of his cruiser with his 357 mag drawn. I very quickly decided to turn around and face the consequences. I never would have turned around, and my balls wish I hadn't, but after hearing several of the kids talking about how Pettingale shot a Whitetail buck running with his pistol on opening day at 250 yards wasn't going to take any chances at seeing if I could fair better than that Whitetail. Being from a small town it is funny how everyone knows everyone and everything about who, what, where and why they did something. Probably a good thing... I guess at least in this case.

I Hate Stickers!

I just stepped on a motha-f'in' sticker! This is exactly what the little son' of a B looked like. This quite honestly though reminded me a time when I was growing up and I was testing my man hood. Being from the city, I always enjoyed going back "home" oover the summer and spending time out at my cousin's farm. We would hunt and fish and just goof around mostly, but the one thing that always seemed to mess up a good thing was steppin' on motha-f'in' stickers. It don't really matter, where ever you go in the state of Nebraska you're bound to run into a patch of stickers. I am not sure how many different types of stickers and different types of stickery plants and weeds we have here to offer but it sure does seem like we have a bunch of things here that'll stick ya. But my least favorite is the type I have pictured up above. There were many occassions where I was the grunt for deer drives, since I was young dumb and didn't have a license, since I lived out of state. I remember climbing through briar patch after briar patch. Half the time I came out with cuts and even bruises from triping over vines and stuff. If I wasn't covered in Caca-burrs by the time I came out of the woods, they would send me back in, whether not I had pushed out a buck or I did. I'm sure the joke was on me and I could almost here them snickering in the background as I would walk off. Well, pay back is a bitch, and one summery afternoon the whole clan was out at my cousin's house and we are all having a family type of reunion and I am sitting in the sandy driveway brushing my hand back and forth when all of a sudden I stick my hand in a patch of stickers. These were the variety that were much more clusterous and pointy than the ones pictured here and they hurt really bad, like a thousand needles going into your hand. Anyways, my Grandpa laughed his ass off when he heard me scream. At that very second I grabbed a hand full of those stickers and drew back my arm like I was going to throw them at him. Everybody just froze and just like it was a show down, my Grandpa chuckled at me and said "You better not, or I'll beat your ass." With a tear in my eye I thought about the consequences and beings how everybody was standing there and my Grandpa really didn't have a mean bone in his body, snickered to myself and thought that the joke was finally gonna be on someone else and decided to throw the handful of stickers right at him anyways. You know, I have never seen an old man jump so high and run so quick in my life and I hope I never do again, because just like he said, he beat my ass, and that's why I hate stickers. But looking back at it now almost 30 years later, do think that the joke was on him, because everyone that was there on that day remembers the day Scotty threw a handful of stickers on Grandpa and everyone that remembers laugh there ass off.