I’m sure some of you here think I might be a bullsh$tter, but I can honestly say that the vagaries of my life surprise me more than a two dollar paperback.
For instance, last week, at the entrance to my favorite snow shoe trail, a transport truck carrying 65 head of cattle, ran into a pulp truck, carrying a double load of spruce. Although 50 of the cows died immediately, no logs were hurt.
The logging truck ambled on after the trucks were disengaged, but a dozen cows escaped and were floundering in the snow. They left the livestock truck full of dead cows right in the parking lot bedside my trail. When I arrived to go snowshoeing, the stench was enough to knock a buzzard off a crap wagon. Naturally, every wolf from 160 miles converged on the spot.
I decided to give snow shoeing a rest for a week. Tonight, I decided to start it up again.
The Moon, The Wolf, The Cow and Ripster
Full moon burns at 40 below,
Lighting up the Ripster with an ethereal glow
Get up off your arse you big fat thing
And make those snow shoes slide and sing.
Them 50 dead cows are all long gone
It’s safe in the moonlight with the Ripster along
No wolf nor coyote nor wolverine
Will stand up to the Ripsters Satiny sheen.
So off I go in the dead of the night
My knife, wool pants and trusty head light
Down the path of the cows, poor old Daisy
Impaled by some spruce trees, the world is crazy.
300 meters in and I see some tracks
Wolf thinks me, as my snowshoes back track
Says I to me-self, don’t be a chicken
That canoe tripping crowd will give you a lickin’
Spurred on by the thoughts of that brave canoe trip crowd
I hear a snap snap, it’s pretty f#ck’n loud!
I look to the left, I look to the right
My stomach churns in pre-poopy fright!
I hear a growl and look down the trail
Horrible yellow eyes make my bowels fail
I run like the devil out onto the lake
The thing runs after me sliding like a snake.
Pulling out the Ripster, I slide to a stop
F You I scream to a chorus of clops
I run for the bush as fast as I can
The thing follows faster, quicker than a man
I turn once again and show it the knife
Come any closer I’ll end your evil life
It bellows and screams and and I slash it through
And then I hear a horrible moo
I stare in horror at my terrible feat
The Ripster cuts clean, clean through the meat
Poor old Daisy lies there, bleeding in the snow
The last surviving cow, and I struck it low.
Strange things are done under the northern skies
The Ripster and I we tell no lies
It’s prime rib time at the old Haslam homestead
No point crying over another cow that is dead.
For instance, last week, at the entrance to my favorite snow shoe trail, a transport truck carrying 65 head of cattle, ran into a pulp truck, carrying a double load of spruce. Although 50 of the cows died immediately, no logs were hurt.
The logging truck ambled on after the trucks were disengaged, but a dozen cows escaped and were floundering in the snow. They left the livestock truck full of dead cows right in the parking lot bedside my trail. When I arrived to go snowshoeing, the stench was enough to knock a buzzard off a crap wagon. Naturally, every wolf from 160 miles converged on the spot.
I decided to give snow shoeing a rest for a week. Tonight, I decided to start it up again.
The Moon, The Wolf, The Cow and Ripster
Full moon burns at 40 below,
Lighting up the Ripster with an ethereal glow
Get up off your arse you big fat thing
And make those snow shoes slide and sing.
Them 50 dead cows are all long gone
It’s safe in the moonlight with the Ripster along
No wolf nor coyote nor wolverine
Will stand up to the Ripsters Satiny sheen.
So off I go in the dead of the night
My knife, wool pants and trusty head light
Down the path of the cows, poor old Daisy
Impaled by some spruce trees, the world is crazy.
300 meters in and I see some tracks
Wolf thinks me, as my snowshoes back track
Says I to me-self, don’t be a chicken
That canoe tripping crowd will give you a lickin’
Spurred on by the thoughts of that brave canoe trip crowd
I hear a snap snap, it’s pretty f#ck’n loud!
I look to the left, I look to the right
My stomach churns in pre-poopy fright!
I hear a growl and look down the trail
Horrible yellow eyes make my bowels fail
I run like the devil out onto the lake
The thing runs after me sliding like a snake.
Pulling out the Ripster, I slide to a stop
F You I scream to a chorus of clops
I run for the bush as fast as I can
The thing follows faster, quicker than a man
I turn once again and show it the knife
Come any closer I’ll end your evil life
It bellows and screams and and I slash it through
And then I hear a horrible moo
I stare in horror at my terrible feat
The Ripster cuts clean, clean through the meat
Poor old Daisy lies there, bleeding in the snow
The last surviving cow, and I struck it low.
Strange things are done under the northern skies
The Ripster and I we tell no lies
It’s prime rib time at the old Haslam homestead
No point crying over another cow that is dead.
