So yes, I do occasionally kid my hometown about being the capitol of hickville and the cornerstone of weird-shit-happening and yes, you do have to enter into the county knowing that you’re probably going to get a little blood on you but you don’t think it’s going to be your own. You come to expect things like walking outside your parent’s backdoor and seeing a strange guy in a bloody apron who has strung a big buck up by his hind legs and is digging his hands deep into the deer’s pockets (is “pockets” the word I’m looking for?) like he’s looking for his keys. (He was actually looking for his gloves.) And you really aren’t surprised when he yells at your three year old to come help him “undress Mr. Reindeer because that’ll be a hootload of fun!” And when he tells her she can swing on his skin to help him get it off you’ll already have one arm on her sleeve pulling her back because this is the sort of thing you expect. (Hint for non-natives of hickville – “This’ll be a hootload of fun” coming from a taxidermist assistant equals “this will cost thousands in therapy” to the rest of the world.) Personally I prefer to avoid any activity that ends with a stranger offering to “hose the blood off of yee afterwards, mate”. It’s just a rule I have. Also, when did my father hire a pirate to do taxidermy? Weird.
And just so you know I’m not making this stuff up, here’s a picture of it but for the love of God, skip it because no one needs to see this.
I warned you.
Anyway, I expect a lot of odd things in a town known for armadillo races, and bobcat urine collections and high school bovine fertility rituals but one thing I did not expect was to be attacked by a pack of wild dogs. And yes, perhaps technically they weren’t “wild” since they belong to my uncle, and maybe I wasn’t attacked by a pack of dogs and much as it was one jumpy dog and one bitey dog but I can honestly say that the dog that attacked me was probably infused with radioactive spider juice and had diesel-fueled vampire fangs and adamantium claws. Also, he was part bear and his whiskers were made of scorpions.* Stop laughing. You think this is funny?! Well how funny is this:
Not so funny now, huh?
And what about this?:
Kapow!
Anyway, I was going to give you a blow-by-blow of the whole horrific event but the vicodin has just kicked in and I’m feeling all sqwunchy so it’ll have to wait until later.
Please mail me any spare drugs you have. And, halter tops. I need lots of halter tops.
*Also he might have been raised by vicious cougars.