These Hands Don't Clean

The morning after the James G Ewing & Tripp Maddux Memorial Squirrel Hunting Championship of the World Invitational Tournament dawned bright and clear. I awoke to the sound of many snorers and the fresh, delightful scent of stale beer, jelled bourbon, and brewing coffee.

Lots of coffee.

I hopped out of my bunk and toured the Deer Camp for a brief survey of the general carnage and fallout which was, as you may have guessed, significant. Thomas was asleep on his back, snoring gently with one arm across his face, Marlin Dozier disappered in the general direction of the honeymoon cottage around 4AM, and hadn't been heard from since. Fred Hand (IV) was asleep on the floor under a blanket - even though there were three empty beds. When queried on his floor choice he responded, in an injured tone, with "I LIKE the floor, JIMMY".

I think the 4AM poker game played a significant part in the general malaise that seemed to hold sway over the slow-to-arise World Championship attendees but, at least on the part of Hank Farmer, I suspect sleeping outside in the back of his truck all night may have been a contributor.

Marlin Dozier, Subcommittee Bourbon Marshall (and normally a trooper), was unable to even form a full sentence until well after noon. A sign, I think, of a successful event.

Looking back on it, the Third Annual World Championship was a huge success, thanks mostly to cheerful participants, plenty of ammunition, and a healthy supply of raw oysters and malt beverages; but the cleanup is always the tough part.

Fortunately, I had a plan. I went right to work as soon as I got up, so by the time Tyler had arrived I already had the place looking fairly decent. I finished tidying up the bunk room, and walked into the den where Tyler was animatedly going over the details of the evening’s festivities with Kelly Logan. Broom in one hand, vacuum in the other I looked at Tyler and said “hey do you mind…..” whereupon she rudely cut me off, rolled both eyes high into her prodigious forehead and, hands-aloft, skinny fingers-wiggling - loudly announced “THESE HANDS DON’T CLEAN”.

I was dumbfounded.

I don’t think the irony of that comment, falling so close on the heels of our unfortunate domestic schism of the week before, even occurred to her. In fact, I know it didn’t.

But, oh buddy – I sure brought that smelly buzzard home to roost when, two nights later, I pushed back my chair from the dinner table, slid my plate across in her direction and said “THESE HANDS DON’T CLEAN”.

It was the first time I’ve ever seen her speechless, and I haven’t cleaned a plate since.

Thanks for NOTHING, Dad.

Chalk one up for Jimbob.