- Joined
- Jul 6, 2021
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The recurring threads about how screwed up the forum software has become are giving me nightmares.
Last night I dreamt that I was tripping in the north country when, late at night, a ravenous bear attacked my tied-to-a-tree food barrel. Unzipping my Hilleberg Tarra tent, which cost more than the first car I bought, I clambered out, grabbing the bear spray and Gransfors Bruk to confront the beast, only to fall headlong into the wag bag toilet when my Bean boot caught on my innie groundcloth.
The bear, not satiated with my dehydrated Mountain House granola with milk and blueberries, charged with a roar. Fortunately Precious, my canine canoeing companion, a vicious Pomeranian Chihuahua mix, sprang to my defense, nipping savagely, a trait she had practiced on tripping companions who dared approach my beer cooler. Atta girl Precious, good girl.
Fumbling with the bear spray in the dark I tripped over a Bud Light can on the ground and managed only to squirt it on my fingers, then rub my eyes, and (don’t ask) grab my pecker in fright.
Rolling around in blinded anguish and burning member the bear was upon me before I could react, and I grabbed the thing nearest at hand, my grandpa’s cold handle fry pan. Fangs mere inches from my face I clonked the beast over the head, but that only momentarily stunned him.
Thinking fast, I rubbed the worn leather straps of my Duluth pack in my stinky armpits, and cast the pack in his path as an odoriferous distraction. That seemed only to further piss him off, as it would anyone in close proximity to my pit stank and aged sweaty leather,
Glancing about in desperation I saw the remains of my cowboy coffee and, hurling that gritty soup into the bear’s eyes, made my escape scurrying towards the shoreline.
Blinking out the Kopi Luwak irritant Mr americanus chased me down to the water’s edge. Fortunately I had installed Dynel skid plates on my Sun Dolphin kayak and - thank gawd it was a plastic boat, not some fragile wood canvas thing - after smashing him repeatedly over the head with the stem of the kayak I was at last able to grab my trusty double blade and finish him off.
In that nightmare I arose the next morning to find I had beaten a young raccoon to a pulp. But it was still a cage match to the death.
What, if anything, should I have dreamt differently?
(Tonight I hope to dream of trips in my twenties with comely girlfriends. Thanks, I don’t need any help there).
Last night I dreamt that I was tripping in the north country when, late at night, a ravenous bear attacked my tied-to-a-tree food barrel. Unzipping my Hilleberg Tarra tent, which cost more than the first car I bought, I clambered out, grabbing the bear spray and Gransfors Bruk to confront the beast, only to fall headlong into the wag bag toilet when my Bean boot caught on my innie groundcloth.
The bear, not satiated with my dehydrated Mountain House granola with milk and blueberries, charged with a roar. Fortunately Precious, my canine canoeing companion, a vicious Pomeranian Chihuahua mix, sprang to my defense, nipping savagely, a trait she had practiced on tripping companions who dared approach my beer cooler. Atta girl Precious, good girl.
Fumbling with the bear spray in the dark I tripped over a Bud Light can on the ground and managed only to squirt it on my fingers, then rub my eyes, and (don’t ask) grab my pecker in fright.
Rolling around in blinded anguish and burning member the bear was upon me before I could react, and I grabbed the thing nearest at hand, my grandpa’s cold handle fry pan. Fangs mere inches from my face I clonked the beast over the head, but that only momentarily stunned him.
Thinking fast, I rubbed the worn leather straps of my Duluth pack in my stinky armpits, and cast the pack in his path as an odoriferous distraction. That seemed only to further piss him off, as it would anyone in close proximity to my pit stank and aged sweaty leather,
Glancing about in desperation I saw the remains of my cowboy coffee and, hurling that gritty soup into the bear’s eyes, made my escape scurrying towards the shoreline.
Blinking out the Kopi Luwak irritant Mr americanus chased me down to the water’s edge. Fortunately I had installed Dynel skid plates on my Sun Dolphin kayak and - thank gawd it was a plastic boat, not some fragile wood canvas thing - after smashing him repeatedly over the head with the stem of the kayak I was at last able to grab my trusty double blade and finish him off.
In that nightmare I arose the next morning to find I had beaten a young raccoon to a pulp. But it was still a cage match to the death.
What, if anything, should I have dreamt differently?
(Tonight I hope to dream of trips in my twenties with comely girlfriends. Thanks, I don’t need any help there).
