SQUIRRRRREEEELLLLLLL!!!!!!

I’m taking this opportunity to thank all the attendees of the Tripp Maddux and James G. Ewing, Jr Memorial Deer Camp Squirrel Hunting Championship of the World Invitational Tournament* for their patronage and to congratulate the Winner (Dad), First Loser (Seth), and Losingest Loser (Thomas Benton) on their new titles for 2008.

Subcommittee Estimator, Reid Maddux, through his exhaustive review of tournament results has estimated for us the following:

1. Rounds fired: 2,000
2. Squirrels killed: 42
3. Collateral damage (chipmunks and birds): 6
4. Alcohol consumption per person: lots, mostly by Tripp
5. Tenderloin consumed: 25lbs
6. Rounds required to sight in Mark Stephen’s 1942-vintage rifle: 300
7. Profanity: average
8. Food: excellent

In all, I deem it a “huge success”.

I’d also like to congratulate the winners of the Telling of the Lie Ceremony (which we forgot to hold). Had we not been so consumed with tallying the scores we’d have recognized Buster Slocumb and Bryan Nix for their fine, upstanding, RSVP card responses. Here they are:

Name: BUSTER SLOCUMB
Please Address me as: BBBUUUSSSSSTAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH
My rifle’s name is: JEANNE (incidentally also his wife's name)
The worst thing I have ever done is: FELL ON a 2’ LONG PIECE OF BAMBOO, ANAL TRACT FIRST.
The money buried on my property is located: IN THE BARN.

Name: BRYAN NIX
Please address me as: WORLD CHAMPION, SIR.
My Rifle’s Name is: SUZANNE
The worst thing I have ever done is: BRUNETTE…TEQUILA….NAVEL……OH NO WAIT, THAT WAS THE BEST THING I’VE EVER DONE.
The money buried on my property is located: 3’ SOUTHWEST FROM THE NORTHEAST CORNER OF MY SEPTIC TANK.

Among my favorite non-winning responses were Seth’s response to both questions which was “BEND OVER AND I'LL SHOW YOU” and Uncle Robert’s rifle’s name: “SPARKY” as well as the worst thing Uncle Robert ever did which he succinctly stated as: "A FELONY" (which he was completely unable to explain in mixed company).

I named my rifle Betty (a.k.a. Thor the Destroyer) – in honor of my friend at work who does not appreciate hunting…at all. She also does not appreciate that I now tell people “Betty killed lots of squirrels this weekend”, so I sort of win twice like that; and you know I like to win.

Despite suffering from an intense amount of depression due to the full month of zero hunting activity between now and turkey season - I’m happy to report that I’ve begun mentally planning the next BIG EVENT for this summer, as well as mulling over details of the next annual Squirrel World Championship in 2009.

So, please raise your glasses and join me in a toast: TO THE WICKED SQUIRREL!

SALUT!

JGE

*Celebrating the Dance of the Wicked Squirrel since 2008.

Financial Obligations

In response to my well-intended invitation to the Tripp Maddux & James G. Ewing, Jr. Memorial Deer Camp Squirrel Hunting Championship of the World Invitational Tournament I received the following email from the spunky wife of one of my favorite invitees:

"Let me warn you VERY STERNLY that I have a child growing in my belly. My husband is NOT to get shot on this little trip. I need his money."

Ahhh. Honesty. Its so refreshing.

A Normal Year

So, despite 2008 cranking up to an inauspicious start on many levels (and my generalized angst over kicking off a round-number year to a rough start): I have a great amount of faith - faith that in 2008 at least one or more of the following will happen:

1. I will make money.
2. I will eat something when I am hungry.
3. I will make sure the thing eaten in #2 will under no circumstances be "dog".
4. I will go to the beach
5. I will not inentionally burn down my own house
6. I will not increase my love of cubicles
7. I will either gain or lose weight, but likely will not stay the same.
8. I will go to another country
9. I will watch tv and read books
10. I will build something in the workshop that takes me 12 times as long to do as it would a professional.
11. I will unsuccessfully pursue some sort of wild game animal
12. I will successfully pursue some sort of wild game animal
13. I will continue to invest in happy, successful, exciting relationships with all sorts of people.
14. I will be overappreciated and underappreciated. Both will lead to drama.
15. I will wish I could be a fly on the wall.
16. I will realize someone else was a fly on MY wall
17. I will avoid prescription drugs (including tylenol) on principle
18. I will love at least one new movie. It will most likely involve guns.
19. I will laugh until I hurt myself.
20. I will go to a superbowl party and I will not watch the superbowl.
21. I will complain significantly out-of-proportion to my illness in the event I get sick.
21. I will constantly wish someone else washed my clothes.
22. I will constantly remind myself that nobody else is going to wash my clothes.
23. I will avoid malls.
24. I will shop online.
25. I will forget to take my vitamins.
26. I will lose the pill organizer I bought to make sure I didn't forget to take my vitamins.
27. I will shoot at squirrels on my neighbor's birdfeeder when he is not home.
28. I will spend entirely too much money and wonder where it went. When I wonder where it went it will remind me of Granddad who squandered his
money on me.
29. I will pay taxes.
30. I will not gripe about paying taxes. I will make sure I get a refund every year so it feels like THEY are actually paying ME to live here.
31. I will squander the tax refund in #29 on trips, stuff that I ultimately lose, and people who don't realize I'm squandering my money on them.
32. I will, as always, appreciate it if you squander YOUR money on ME.

See, it could still be a normal year after all.

Sophiserated

I made a quick run down to the Woodruff the other night to see "Sophisticated Ladies" at the Alliance. Naturally, I didn't bother to look at the program, read up on the performance, or otherwise educate myself ahead of time. I had a general, fuzzy, sort of idea that I was going to see "a play," and I knew exactly how to get there, and where my seats were - so I decided not to stress too much over it. I've learned to give myself some leeway on the tiny details. It’s the little surprises in life, you know.

So, first of all its miserably cold out. We're talking nose-hair-crackling, eyeball-watering, meat-storage kind of cold. I don't mind the cold really, except when it makes ME cold. This time: I was cold, but I get there and manage to guide my lovely, charming, unspecified-non-date-accompaniement-person into the theater without taking any significant down-stair tumbles (quite a feat in the monstrous black buffalo robe she was wearing). Breathless, we plunk down, Nanuk of the North arranges her many robes about her, and we begin to take stock of our situation.

I quickly realize: we're in a nursing home. My generic-unspecified-non-date-individual and I have become literally, the single youngest people in the room. I'd estimate Becca at roughly 32 or 36 and I'm a light, flavorful, 27. Our seat neighbors (Norton and Donna) were in their late 70s and the rest of the crowd would have seated them at the children's table.

The "show" starts and, in a moment of shining clarity I realize: "oh, THAT Duke Ellington." We're quickly listening to jazz music and we're surrounded by geriatrics. Norton, to his credit, is sitting ramrod-straight and, literally, dead asleep before the first dancer skips out. I'm busy checking out the crowd when I hear non-specific-un-date beginning to cackle under hear breath. Upon directing my attention at the stage I realize the dancers are jumping around on stage clawing at each other lasciviously in skirts of fake bananas.

I am, to put it mildly: surprised.

The third banana-shaking pelvic thrust sent poor Norton's eyebrows nearly through the roof and he started furiously unwrapping candies and popping them into his mouth.

I leaned in and said "hey, can I get one of those?" He arched a bushy eyebrow in my direction and said "you want a nitroglycerine tablet?"

Yeah, why not.

Full Circle

I ran out to lunch yesterday. On my way back in I rolled my window down, entered the parking deck, parked, and hit the "up" button on my window.....Nothing. After several minutes of banging furiously on the "up" button I looked up and realized a woman in the car next to me was staring; looking at me quizzically with a look bordering on concern. I shuddered involuntarily because I knew that I had initiated an inescapable sequence of events known only as The Eternal Wheel of Destruction. Once you're on the Eternal Wheel of Destruction you have no choice but to come full-circle.

The wheel has three phases:

PHASE ONE - "Get Some Pliers"
So, my first thought was "I better get some pliers" because, generally, I can fix nearly anything with some good pliers. If I CAN'T fix it - it at least feels good to have a pair of pliers handy. Then I'm standing there with some pliers instead of....just standing there. Standing there with some pliers announces to passers-by that "you are actively engaged in remedying your own misfortune." It doesn't matter what the misfortune is. You can spill a gallon of popcorn at the movie theater, whip out some pliers and begin frantically squeezing the lip of the empty container and people will think things are under control. If something happens and you're just standing there empty-handed - you look stranded and helpless; like a baby seal in a parking deck. Plus, if you're just standing there chances are good you're also "gaping"; and that's no good. If you gape - somebody will offer to help you - then its over: you're officially never going to be self-sufficient again. No matter what - you'll always know there was that one time when a stranger had to help you.

I am no stranger to The Wheel; so I quickly rustled up a pair of pliers and commenced to standing there with some pliers. That was okay. I felt relieved and I know several people saw me and approved, but I got tired of it pretty quickly and figured I could at least try to "get it unstuck." This is PHASE TWO

PHASE TWO - "Thrashing The Water"
Now, if you've ever attempted to get something unstuck you know that there's a 50/50 chance "unsticking" will also involve "crushing", "shattering", "mutilating", or at least "chipping."

In this instance I quickly went from trying to get it unstuck back to just standing there with some pliers; except, this time I was just standing there with some pliers holding a piece of my window which is, as you may have guessed, Phase Three.

PHASE THREE - "Complete Destruction and Defeat"
So, there I am pliers in one hand, chunk of window in the other, door panel in pieces in the parking deck. There was only one thing to do: bang furiously on the "up" button.

The wheel was complete.

1-800-STOOPID

I had a missed call on my way out the door to work the other day. I operate tangentially to the rest of the world in that if I DON'T recognize the number I'm much more likely to answer the call immediately. That seems to be opposite the normal tide of human behavior.

The truth is: I harbor secret hopes that answering an unknown number will culminate in a really good surprise, and you know how much I love surprises.

I've found that when you know the number - you generally have a solid idea on whats about to happen. Sometimes its good, sometimes it ain't so good; but its typically not much of a surprise either way.

Of course then 800.555.2391 shows up on my Blackberry screen. My friends don't have 1-800 numbers, right? But you know who does? Publisher's Clearinghouse, the Georgia Lottery, Cabela's, Beretta USA, Remington, Harvard, Puff Daddy, Gregg Allmann, Dave Mathews, Chifuti Safaris, the White House, and Winchester (to name a few).

So, yes: I'm going to answer that 1-800 number and I'm going to do it fast. A tiny glimmer of hope drives me.

In this instance I answered the phone and the guy said something garbled that sounded like "work on your tap." I had been waiting on a call from the county to come work on their part of my sewer line (the county "tap") so I immediately launched into a long description of my plumbing issues culminating in my frustration over having to pull up and dispose of $4,000 in fine laminate flooring RUINED from a sewer line backup. Before I wrapped up the inning I went into my final stretch and came across the plate with a high, hard, fastball describing in detail what its like to come home and find your brand-new, recently-finished basement covered in an inch of standing water.

I paused briefly to admire the black plume of complaint swirling smokily over my head; when nervously over the phone line I heard: "I'm sorry sir this is Tim from Tech support. I was just calling to see if you got your Blackberry fixed."

Thanks Tim. Its fine.

Stupid Snuck In

I was at dinner with Matt "Caveman" Dunn last night talking finance (thats "f'nance" to you, my highbrow friends). I was just slinging some advice around; you know - testing out the 'ol CPA license. I am, after all, in f'nance. I'm not sure if you knew this or not but: I know about stuff.

I apparently know just enough about stuff that all I need is a well-intended friend and some cheap mexican food and I will have made a complete ass of myself by the time the cheese dip gets cold.

The rosy glow from my brilliant advice on credit cards hadn't worn off yet when I got to thinking - maybe I should look into the 'ol credit balance and see just exactly who's getting fat in MY pigsty these days. They know I'm a CPA over there, so I'm nearly certain Chase Manhattan wouldn't dare to tinker with my interest rates, right? It makes sense. You'd think that having one's very own CPA would be sort of like having anti-finance-charge balm on at all times - like mosquito repellent. Flap that CPA card around hard enough and creditors buzz on down to the next picnic. Intimidating, I know.

Normally.

In this case it'd been so long since I looked at a Chase statement I hadn't noticed the 14.5% rate increase. Initially I wrote "couple" of months ago, but lets be honest - it was definitely a "few" which, to me, typically means "more than two, but I'm not man enough to admit how many." At least, that’s what the credit woman at Chase said; "a few."

She was completely resistant to all of my charms; even the "wheedle" which I consider particularly effective against callcenter women. So, my early Christmas present to myself was: paying off a credit card for major home improvements.

Sure, building the basement was a good idea. And yeah, a little outstanding debt is Smart if it pays for itself, right?

Well, Smart left the door open and Stupid snuck in.

Bandito

I couldn't help but notice the other day that my friend Ernie's parents have something horrible and terrifying standing in their yard: tiny midget horses. Several of them actually. I find them extremely disconcerting and, to be perfectly honest, I'm more than just a little bit scared of them. But for some reason every time I see one all I can think about is: "I'd really like to ride that little horse."

Despite years of requests, his parents still won't let me.

All this "you weight 215lbs and that horse only weighs 30" business is ridiculous. Everybody knows horses can lift much heavier things than themselves.

Look at the Budweiser horses and that big wagon they're always dragging around. I find it hard to believe that thing is hollow and weighs less than a horse. Its got kegs of frosty, delicious beer in it. And we all know that's not light stuff. Even lite beer is heavier than say, feathers, for instance - you know? And a whole wagon full of feathers would be heavy as lead if you packed them down right.

I saw an impossibly small children's saddle on a hobby horse the other day, and I thought: that would be just the ticket for riding one of those tiny midget horses. You could strap on your capguns and plastic spurs, spur that little midget horse into a gallop and you'd be 300% faster than the kid on that hobby horse any day of the week.

If I was a kid again, and I managed to get myself a midget horse I'd be THE MAN. All the other kids in the neighborhood would be tooling around on there stupid Huffy bicycles, and I'd come galloping in on the wings of a dove - clippity clop!! There'd be 7-year-old girls camped out on the lawn day and night.

I guess its a good thing I didn't have a crazy little midget horse in 1987, because I'm not sure I could have used all that power for good.

Sure, the potential would have been there for me to become a little Lone Ranger - serving the cause of all that is good, noble, and right: I might have been a one-child neighborhood watch on ponyback.

BUT I probably would have ended up a tiny little bandito instead; terrorizing the neighborhood on my ignoble steed - pasturing in your geraniums, watering in your sprinklers - it would have been chaos.

No Further Questions

I've always wondered if every person in the world eventually comes to a crossroads where he or she is confronted, unavoidably, with the questions: "Am I completely okay? Is the way I perceive the world right, wholesome, and good? Is my character lacking in some fashion that I'm unaware of? When people see me, do they think I'm normal; or do they sort of 'wonder' about me a little bit?"

I began tackling those tough issues this morning during my commute - headed south on I-75 right about Mt. Paran Road. I'm not sure what it is about the Mt. Paran Rd. exit, but if I'm going to have a deep thought before noon; chances are good it'll start right there. Maybe its my lack of cell service from there to Moore's Mill Rd. - I really couldn't say.

Regardless, as I passed by the Northside Drive exit I glanced in the rearview and realized I'd been lip-synching the words to "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" by Cyndi Lauper since Moore's Mill Rd, you know - really getting into it, and a guy in a dump truck one lane over was staring at me.

Girls, after all, just want to have fun.

No further questions.

Double-Entendre

I went to an ASA "Late Model" stock car race the other day, which despite the concrete bleachers; was incredibly gratifying. I always forget how loud the cars are and I love that racing-fuel-smell.

Take some of that fuel smell mixed with burning rubber smell and maybe a little sweat and you've got yourself a seriously marketable cologne. I'm surprised more perfumeries don't think of the simple things like that. Sort of cuts down on the need to collect 1,000,000lbs of jasmine blossoms off the north side of Aghanistan, wouldn't it?

If you wear designer colognes your options are limited to stuff like "Suede", "Eternity", and "Obsession" and I can't help but think - those guys don't know what "eternity" or an "obsession" really smell like, you know?

I bet a real full-on obsession smells more like sweaty palms, stale popcorn, binoculars, and dirt - not that fruity-alcohol smell that comes in the bottle.

I don't even want to know what eternity smells like. It would most likely make my brain explode.

That should be the rule: you should have to name cologne what it smells like, and vice-versa - and NO foreign names. For all you know "Aquadigio" means: "hydrated redneck" in Italian. And French colognes? Please - if its not spelled out clearly in English I sure wouldn't say it out loud. Those guys haven't liked us much lately and I wouldn't put a little good-natured double-entendre past them. Seriously - we're talking about the country that INVENTED the double-entendre. Stamping something snide all over a product Americans PAY for like that would be a nationally-celebrated French triumph. You have to watch for that.

Actually, that’s not a bad name for a cologne now that I think about it: Double Entendre. I bet it would smell like mustard mixed with cocktail olives, linen, freshly-mown grass, hairspray, and gin.

I can smell a double-entendre coming a mile away.

Shark Bait

You know the funny thing about lakewater is that when you hit it hard enough - it really hurts. And I mean "real bad." I spent a full hour on Lanier last weekend getting dragged through the water like hairy shark bait and let me tell you: go from 20mph to 0 once or twice using only your face and you'll see what I mean.

There's really only one way to get up on the accursed thing to start with but I'm amazed at the number of new and graceless ways I can think of to fall OFF a wakeboard. Mostly you have to get UP to fall OFF though, and instead I just dragged around chugging lakewater like its my job: Jimmy Ewing, Lakewater Flavor Tester. Lanier '07 is piquant with notes of oak and fish and a light salmonella finish (if you're curious buy a wakeboard).

Do you ever have that experience where you hammer through the water so long that you actually pause a little at the very peak of your descent and have time to think "Hmm. I wonder when I'm going to come back up?" It happened to me - everything sort of slowed down, I hung there for a second, thunk a quick thought or two, then was completely shocked at the direction my life jacket suggested might be "up." If I hadn't taken McGuyver's advice and followed the air bubbles I'd still be down there. Its funny the TV shows you remember when you're about to die, isn't it? I'm just glad I didn't spend much time on "Start Trek" because I don't think Mr. Spock was into watersports.

Fortunately, I DID watch McGuyver and I DO remember everything he taught me about underwater rescue, makeshift weapons (that injure, but never maim), and the explosive properties of cotton socks; so I bobbed back up like a big, freckled, cadaver in a life jacket and they fished me out of the water with a boat hook.

That’s when it started to hurt.

Properly Accessorized

I was sitting around last week looking at guns on the internet (something I've been known to do) when it occurred to me: I don't NEED anymore guns (except an elephant gun, which I don't have yet). What I NEED is gun accessories.

So last Monday I changed tactics.

Did you know that a tactical stock cheekpiece (with bullet holder loops and nifty, zippered accessory pouch) is only $39.95 at StubbyGear.com? I didn't know that either, but I have so enjoyed learning.

I pretty much can't get away from anything marked "tactical". If they sold "tactical' soap on a rope I'd have 16 cases of it under my bed and more on the way. I figure that "tactical" means "special" and if its "special" chances are excellent that none of my hunting friends have it and, really, that’s the key to buying a good accessory: nobody else has one.

Over the years I've grown to understand that most people don't "get it." That’s ok with me. They think accessories should be "useful", or at least add some form of value to whatever you're accessorizing. I understand the confusion, but thats actually not true. In extreme cases not only does an accessory NOT add value, it may completely destroy the utility of the whole thing, but you'll be so excited about it you'll hardly notice. Of course, you can't do anything about that anyway - its too late! You're properly accessorized and now the finishes match but it'll only fit that one gun, they don't make weatherstripping like that anymore, tires don't come in 31.29 x 75 after 1993, BFGoodrich won't send you a price list for a replacement, Redfield went out of business, your Dad likes it, you lost the thread protector nut, nobody knows where the wrench to tighten it went, the drill bits are too small, or the instructions are in Russian.

That’s not really the point though - sometimes the added value comes from the simple act of making the purchase itself. I don't know what it was about that $39.95 in my wallet, but that particular $39.95 was making me absolutely miserable: I had to get rid of it and instead of just throwing it away; I turned it into a mil-spec nylon cheekpiece (complete with special little bullet holders and a sniper notebook) that I'll probably never use, don't need, and will likely end up putting in the attic.

17 years from now a future wife or child will find it, poke it with a stick to scare off nesting spiders, then throw it away when I'm not home. Later that afternoon I'll think to myself "I wonder whatever happened to that tactical stock cheekpiece" and I'll spend the next 17 years looking for it. I'll find the instruction booklet and warranty card. I'll know where the replacement zipper pulls are, and the optional waxed cotton lining. I'll have a copy of the receipt and date of purchase. Maybe even a UPC symbol. But the cheekpiece itself'll be long gone.

My last words in this life are likely to be a confused murmer from the floor of my special huntingstuff closet: "Tactical Cheekpiece?" I'll whisper, then I'll slip away.

Seersucker Salute

To the gentleman next to me at the gas pump this morning sporting seersucker pants, black shoes, blue socks, brown belt, and a white longsleeve shirt let me say simply this:

For exhibiting bravery in the line of fashion duty and a portraying a deep and abiding disdain for the color wheel - I salute you.

Welcome to the Family

I am extremely happy to welcome a very important addition to my family: a Beretta Mato rifle in .338 Winchester Magnum.

I bought it for grizzly bears and big hairy stuff that bites back because hey; how embarassing would it be for there to be a sudden grizzly bear infestation in Sandy Springs and I'm the only one without the appropriate grizzly bear medicine, you know? That’s not cool.

It kicks so bad that every time I shoot it a fairy loses its wings.

Shoot Me Now

I want to briefly address a recent influx of comments directed at me concerning the possibility that Meredith's recent supposed "bass catch" was bigger than mine. Friends: that spurious rumor is completely false. Despite several obviously altered photographs which may indicate circumstances to the contrary: I maintain that not only did Meredith NOT catch a "bigger" fish, she also did not catch a fish at all, period, ever. Let me be perfectly clear: under no circumstances at all, whatsoever, did Meredith on July 17th, 2007 at 11:04AM catch a bass at The Deer Camp (on MY ROD, just off the edge of the island, on a submerged hump) that may or may not have exceeded size of my bass by a grotesque and embarassing margin. You can't believe everything you see on Facebook.

There has also been some discussion concerning whether or not my acquaintance Dr. Jennie Cheesborough, MD actually caught several salmon the size of my truck on a fly rod in Alaska. Despite the clearly doctored photographs circling Facebook suggesting that it might have happened; again I maintain - impossible! You can't believe every picture you see in print. I saw winged pigs on the cover of the newspaper* last week and I don’t believe for a second that they actually flew, nonstop, all the way to the moon. We all know they'd have stopped off in Iowa. All that corn? Please, no oinker would pass that up.

I heard that Dr. C. also had the audacity to suggest that bass fishing was somewhat "lowbrow," to which I can only reply: my brow has steadily increased in recent years, and by all accounts it appears to be gearing up for an acceleration.

Anyway, lets not make this personal. I'm not necessarily out to prove that I'm right; just that you're all wrong. Even if Meredith HAD caught this supposed "fish" - it couldn't possibly be larger than MY fish: Gigantor the Horrific. It doesn't even make sense - a simple, logical, look at the circumstances and facts should indicate exactly that. In short: Meredith is "mini," hence - all fish she may or may not catch must ALSO be "mini". How can a tiny, midgety person catch a huge, massive fish? Its just not possible. Eh? It violates all the laws of the sporting universe. Am I right?

Personally, I don’t want to live in a world where I get routinely trounced at all things "outdoors" by a certain brunette little person. Unfortunately, I also don't believe in suicide and no asteroids have hit me yet - so it looks like I'm destined to suffer constant insult and injury at the hands of the freakishly talented Meredith Q.

Shoot me now.

JGE

*The Enquirer

Welcome to The Cow Show

My good friend Tommy Statham launched into a long story last night about…something - I don't remember what. I think it was something about his cousin, but I don't really know exactly. I sort of phased slowly out when I heard him say "then we went to the livestock show."

Regardless, the point is this: his story involved a livestock "show"; more specifically - a cow show…..And that set me to thinking.

At some point it seems to me that every cow owner, before he or she became a cow owner, was confronted with a particular cow and immediately thought to himself, "if only I had that particular cow in my life, everything would be better. I gotta have that cow." Then, at some point our cow owner caught a glimpse of his special cow when the light hit her just right and he thought to himself, "my, that’s a beautiful cow."

Ultimately, our virtuous cow owner decides that beauty and perfection of the magnitude exemplified in his pet cow shouldn't be hidden away on a small farm in Yatesville, GA, but should be put on display for the entire world to see. So, that is why 11 months, 8,000lbs of feed, and 14 shampooings later; we catch up to our cow-owner friend at his first cow show, nervously fiddling with his suspenders and praying for total cattle-show domination.

As I understand it: in a cow show a full-grown man walks up to the center of a ring or stage with his pet cow and another man looks at the first man and says into a microphone, "this is quite a cow you got here. I bet you've spent a lot of quality time with this here cow."

The first man says, "I won't lie to you: this really is a great cow."

The second man says, "I know a great cow when I see one, and I really think this might be the very greatest cow in the entire barn. Here, let me give you this blue ribbon to put on your cow."

The first man says "Thank you, she'll love this ribbon. It'sanhonor. ThankyouGod...Icouldn'thavedoneitwithoutGod, my family, and this here cow."

And the two men part ways.

That’s it.

To recap: what we're talking about here is a grown man taking his pet cow down to an event for the sole purpose of allowing other people the pleasure of admiring his cow, and possibly admiring some cows himself.

And that’s fine with me.

I'm just concerned about the cows. Nobody asked them if they wanted to be paraded around stark naked in front of God and country like that.

Seems to me they could at least dress 'em up a bit.

Lie 'Til You Die

I get quite a lot of questions about my deer picture here. I don't blame you for being interested, that’s a fine specimen of an animal represented there. In fact, you might even say it’s a monster, Big Bucky, Buckeronimo, The King of the Deer Herd, or even "Buckus Maximus."

Let me put it this way: if there is a more monstrous 8 pointer out there, I'm not aware of him - and if he DOES exist, I certainly don't want to know about it; so keep your grubby emails to yourselves.

Most people also seem very interested in the story of his demise, which I have told numerous times in the past; but have never gotten around to setting down on paper. It’s a pretty simple story, really. I was on my way to King & Spalding to look at some deal-related financial information and I noticed him standing at the corner of 14th and Peachtree, waiting on the bus. He leaned forward out of the wind to light a cigarette and rub one antler on a Marta advertisement and all I had to do was sneak up behind him and scream "AHAH HAHAHAHHA HA." He jumped right out in front of a Cox Sanitation truck. Once the cops left and the intersection cleared I simply slung him up into my truck and took him to the taxidermist.

See what I did there? I used the deer's natural nervous tendencies to my advantage. That’s the mark of a true hunter and I'm fairly proud of it, on the whole.

In fact, I'm inordinately proud of Big Bucky. I feel a certain sense of ownership and accomplishment in his demise; at least partly because I created him myself. Yup, I formed him from clay and breathed life directly into his nostrils. Its true.

Actually, that’s not at all true - its a face-melting lie straight from the pit of hell, but compared to some of the other hunting whoppers I've told its really not that bad. I figured I should try that lie on for size before commiting to it wholeheartedly and I needed an audience. I couldn't just waltz out on a limb with that one - it deserved a test run and you were my guinea pigs. Did you like the escalation? I like to ease into a good lie, you know: start off small, but finish up with a hell-raising crescendo of immaculate lies fit to make the Devil himself blush and shuffle his feet.

You have to understand: the art of fabricating a good hunting or fishing story requires a certain lack of moral compunction coupled with an absolute, lifelong, dedication to the lie itself. Its not a conversation piece - it’s a way of life. You don't hop back and forth across the fence with the details of your story - you stick to it. Own it, brother! Speak that lie forth into existence and then follow it with complete, immoral, Bible-scorching, self-sacrificial dedication. If you're not going to stick to it, don't bother - you'll just ruin a perfectly good story for everybody else. Then you've got a double-handful of nothin': your lie is shot, everybody knows you weren't man enough to walk that story all the way to her door.

Well, I have to go. I would write more, but I'm late to pick up my Tyrannosaurus Rex mount from the taxidermist. Now, THAT was a hunt! Remind me to tell you about it some time - it involved a canister of weapons-grade plutonium and a nine-iron. After it was all said and done; I'm just lucky the doctors were able to sew my head back on.

In the meantime, learn from the pros and hold fast to the code because, its like my Uncle Robert taught me in 2nd grade: if you're gonna lie, you gotta lie 'til you die.

Ya Caught Me!

I was sitting at work a short while ago, feeling sort of low - a touch of general malaise I guess, when suddenly it hit me - I know what my problem is: I haven't gotten "caught" at anything in years!

I've been too good; I've lost sight of what is important in life. I no longer live on adrenaline and hot Cokes purloined from the pantry in clear violation of the "one-coke-a-day" rule. I can't remember the last Twinkie I snuck off the top of the fridge, but I know it was delicious. A Twinkie taken in honesty only tastes like creamy styrofoam, but a Twinkie greedily burgled out of Mom's stash: gustatory halcyon.

The truth is: getting "caught" was the best - it made EVERYTHING better. You remember those days, don’t you?

Sneaking out wouldn't have been fun if there hadn't been anybody around to catch you. There's no sense in blamming a ladder up against your bedroom window when you can just walk right out the front door on your own.

Why hit your sister if theres no fine? (It was $20 for angry-hitting, $10 for public embarassment, and $15 for a burp-and-blow within 3 feet - I paid for Margaret's education in dimes by the time she was 12).

Cigarettes are no fun if you don't have to steal 'em from your grandmother and who wants FRESH chewing tobacco when you can swipe a 4-year-old, moldy, pack out of Uncle Buster's bass boat?

Why shoot BBs at the garden statuary if nobody notices the chipped fingers and cracked noses?

If Granddad isn't there to freak out over a lost remote, why hide it?

Its no fun to stuff a plastic fishing worm up your nose if nobody spanks you for it in the doctor's office parking lot, you know?

Theres no sense pouting in front of the minister's wife anymore - now it just makes ME look bad, not my parents.

When was the last time you and 42 friends bought 850 raw eggs, all at once, all from the same Kroger; and thought nobody noticed? I don't want 850 raw eggs anymore because I know I can't expect to see a line of parents stacked up out front waiting to catch me red-handed. Its just no fun.

Temper tantrums in Target just get you arrested, they don't threaten to "call your father at work" (gasp). What use is a temper tantrum if you can't follow it with 8hrs of sheer terror - wondering if Dad will make good on his offer to "kill you" when he gets home?

Its just not the same anymore. Misdemeanors are felonies, nobody grounds you after going to traffic court, you can't even slam a door and get hollered at; now the glass panes just shatter and I gotta go fix it myself.

Its only a hint of consolation, but after spending some time thinking it over - I've found a way to get back a tiny bit of that just-been-caught satisfaction: Uncle Buster, remember when your hubcaps kept falling off your truck in the driveway? That was ME. I DID IT AND BLAMED IT ON THE BEAGLE!!! AAAHHHHHHHHAAAA!!!!!!

Ya caught me!

Why, Hello Placebo!

Why hello there.

Lets talk briefly about those paper "germ-preventative" disposable toilet seat covers you find in public restrooms.

You know that doesn't work, right?
No?
Did they have you fooled?
Yes, they did??

Well, let me ask you this: when was the last time you were wheeled into a surgical procedure and greeted by a doctor wearing paper gloves?
Eh?
No? Paper gloves? No - not common in your area?

Well, theres a reason for that: those seat covers aren't for your rump, buddy - they're for your BRAIN. Let me introduce you to the concept of the "placebo."

Webster's has the following to say on the idea:
pla·ce·bo n. pl. pla·ce·bos or pla·ce·boes: A substance containing no medication and prescribed or given to reinforce a patient's expectation to get well.

(2) An inactive substance or preparation used as a control in an experiment or test to determine the effectiveness of a medicinal drug.

(3) Something of no intrinsic remedial value that is used to appease or reassure another.

I bet you felt reassured, didn't you - last time you saw that dispenser on the wall? Don't let me burst your bubble, but that paper seat cover would be every bit as effective at preventing germs if you wore it around your head, ate it, or tied it into your shoe laces.

The point is: it’s a public restroom. They're nasty. If the office building you're in is so certain there will be a furious riot when the public realizes the dangers of the communal facilities they provide that they supply each little human sheep with its very own comfort blanket made of thin paper; maybe you oughtn't go in there at all! There's something they're not telling - and no amount of paper in the world is going to save your sweet cheeks from the risks.

DON’T GO IN THERE. I recommend to AVOID at all costs.

But if you must - sure, use those seat covers to your heart's content! I don't mind, because when I hear that seat cover dispenser busily dispensing its soul out in a nearby stall, I think to myself: why hello, placebo!.....And it gives me joy.

Fishing, Naturally.

I finished up part 3 of the CPA exam on Tuesday and, to reward myself for long hours spent in study, I took myself fishing.

Unfortunately, I don't have a boat.

Fortunately, my Uncle Buster DOES have a boat which, for some reason - he lets us use. It is a very large, very fast boat with lots of electronic equipment, little tiny buttons and knobs everywhere, and other things that go "Beeeeeeep" that someone (me) who doesn't really spend tons of time on a boat is liable to bend, fold, spindle, snap, or otherwise mutilate while furiously thrashing around on deck.

The other problem is - this particular boat's motor is stuck in the "OFF" position right now because something was going "kaawackitywackitywatckitythumpthumpthumpthump" last week when it was cranked up. Normally it would go "baaaarrooommmma aaaaaawoomwoomwo mwoowmm wwaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaagrggrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrwooshwooosh."

That is not a huge deal because you just lower the (new, expensive) trolling motor down in the water and fish to your little heart's content. Then, instead of running the boat back up on the trailer with the big motor, you take a run at it with the trolling motor and - in a complicated series of co-ordinated movements not unlike those you might see at a local performance of the Nutcracker Ballet; you pirouette on the fishing stool, snatch the trolling motor up 1/10 of a second before hitting the trailer (remembering to compensate for the big motor's swinging effect), and then hop off and balance on the edge of the trailer while quickly winching the boat back into its berth.

Of course, you should not hit the trailer off to one side, get the trolling motor hung up in the bunks, crank up the big motor when its going "kaawackity wackitywatckity thumpthumpth ump thump", accidentally back the lower unit over the top of Uncle Buster's submerged sprinkler system pump ($680), fall in, run the boat up over the trailer wheel-wells, run the boat into the tailgate of your truck, get our truck stuck in the mud at the edge, break a rod tip, step on a crankbait, or accidentally get out - leaving your truck in reverse while backing down into the water.

Those are some things you should not, under any circumstances, do to Uncle Buster's boat.

So, after I fell in, got the trolling motor unstuck from the bunks, backed the lower unit over the submerged sprinkler system pump ($680) ran over the wheel well, and got my truck hung up in the mud - we all went to the waffle house and had a patty melt. At waffle house we compared notes and realized that while I was busy thrashing around in the boat and my Uncle Buster was busy rolling his eyes at me - my Uncle John had been quietly snatching fish out of the water left and right.

Now, I'm 27 years old. I know how to operate a veritable bevy of farm equipment, motors, trucks, boats, and firearms. Seriously - I can do it. And, if nobody is around - I can even operate it without mangling the equipment into a twisted heap of steaming metal. So, last night when I went BACK out there fishing by myself - everything was smooth and easy….until I had to load up. Ordinarily there are two of you, and one person hops out to back the trailer into the water so the other person can load up the boat. As I was alone; I had to pull the boat up alongside the bank, get out, run over to my truck, back the trailer down into the water, then get BACK in the boat, and load up.

When I got out of the boat I accidentally shoved off with my foot without realizing it. After backing the trailer down into the water I went back over to the boat to hop in. Unfortunately, by that time the boat was nearer the center of the lake than the shore. Do you know what I mean by "nearer the center of the lake than the shore?"

I could have slung a crankbait over into the boat - snagged the carpet and slowly pulling it in to shore. At least, I could have done that if all my stuff wasn't already in the boat.

Fortunately, I like to swim in dark-water lakes at night, alone, in people's backyards when they don't know I'm going swimming. It adds to my swimming enjoyment. I particularly like the thick muck at the bottom of the lake that you sink knee-deep into and wonder, abstractly, about killer mud-snakes, quicksand, and lack of life-jackets. Then, the fun starts in earnest when I get OUT of the water because I especially prefer to be wet, muddy, and cold whenever possible.

I have learned to prepare for this sort of thing by always having some paper towels and a clean change of clothes under the seat in my truck. So, when the motion-sensor lights turned on - there I was - naked on my Uncle Buster's back lawn; attempting to dry myself on my tshirt.

Nature was my leotard.