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February 22, 2009
Booger Cobbler
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Tonight we're sitting around eating some homemade blueberry cobbler that's as addicting as crack and Evan asks what it is and we say "Blueberry Cobbler" and he says "Booger Cobbler?" It probably has about 11,000 calories per gram, but it's seriously good and Janelle's homemade pumpkin bread is delicious as well and I'm working through these desserts like I'm getting ready to hibernate and I don't know why I do this to myself. I can hear myself getting fatter.
Tonight finds me on the back side of Shadow Mountain and before dinner, I'm driving the four wheeler around with a couple of kids. They're wearing helmets, of course, and we're off trail, but it's just snow. It's not like we're hurting anything. We're not driving over fields of Daisies or anything. Just driving the ATV across the snow, but don't you know some tree-hugger busy-body has to come running up, breathless and fat, to inform us that we aren't supposed to be having fun, according to some esoteric government regulation, of which we are in clear violation.
This is the type of person that sits at home endlessly fondling themselves, wondering why everyone else seems to be having so much fun. These fundies go to great lengths to stop those around them from having fun by adopting the most arcane and contrived doctrines.
"Excuse me. Are you new here? Can I talk to you for a minute?" she screeches, but I just shake my head and flee. There's no point in talking to these dolts. Until every gasoline engine has a stake through it, they won't be happy. Even then, they'll dream up some new crusade. Some perceived infraction. Surely it's only a matter of time before people in gyms are castigated for exhaling too much carbon dioxide. There must be some cause for this idiot to rally to. This much is certain.
She actually walks around the neighborhood until she finds my ATV and comes up to the house and starts berating everyone who will listen about how illegal it is to ride an ATV and how dangerously I was operating it and she was only concerned about the safety of the Children or the May Flies or Sasquatch or the Paraguayan Snail Darter.
We all knew, of course, that she was really just jealous. She was fat and ugly; old and bitter. All of the pleasure had seeped from her life when her husband killed himself that winter long ago, when her nagging had piled upon him, layer upon layer, until it crushed him one day - as the spring snows crush the fading mountain barns.
These tree-huggers are like grown up hall monitors. They impute meaning into their own hollow lives by castigating strangers.They can't be reasoned with.
And when she finally tracked down my four wheeler and waddled up to the house, I just closed the door and refused to speak to her.
Posted by Rob Kiser on February 22, 2009 at 10:21 PM
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