Speckled Bearswatter Leaps
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Just to look at her, you would never suspect that my RedHead can leap.
Even back when I first met her, thirty years ago, she was built for comfort,
and not for speed. Since that time she has only grown more...
..... comfortable. Vastly so.
You would be wrong. Calaveras County's best can leap no more nimbly than the RedHead arriving at an angry conclusion. And here's the odd thing: The more outlandish and far fetched her angry conclusion, the nimbler she leaps there.
I remember the first time she threw crockery at me. I ducked, the mug hit the wall, coffee splattered, I turned back astonished, and then I exclaimed "Ay, Lucy!" I can tell you this much: If you ever have the good luck to get a natural RedHead of your own, then, on the day when you inevitably arrive at the juncture where you may aptly employ that phrase... Don't Do That! True story.
Now, bear with me, because I am going to tell you another true story. The two of us spend all our vacations aboard the big beemer bagger. Last July, we were up near Dushore Pennsyltucky riding about 40mph through the woods because it was so stifling hot there was nothing else to do, when out from a hedgerow on the right shot a full grown bull of a black bear, head down, tail up, scooting for the other side like, well, the way that critters do when they are on a single minded mission, like there was either a she bear on the left side or a hunter behind him. Bookin. And we hit him. Or he us. Boom. Planted his head in the side of the bike between her knee and my calf. Into the gap where our rear shock lives. Scootched our big bike sideways. All I could do by sheer miracle to keep the beemer upright. Bear slobber splattered from the forward fairing pods to the trunk. Droplets of blood appeared on my shorts. So I know that we knocked the snot out of him and bloodied his nose. And his head was stuck in there, dragging along. Which is when, quick as leaping to a conclusion, the RedHead reached down with her big speckled comfortable Nana arm and swatted Papa Bear directly across the nose! Knocked him right out of there. In the rear view, I watched him sprawl face first, then gather his hind legs under and scramble for the underbrush. Apparently, all those years of swatting me across the snout finally bore fruit. Who'd of thunk.
True story. If you don't believe me, swing on by and she can show you the bear hairs she harvested from where they were torn off by the bike's emblem on the pannier. A pannier which would not open, by the way, until we stopped at a nearby winery and borrowed a hunk of lumber and a maul to beat the rear crash bar around from where Papa Bear had bent it back. She keeps the hairs in in her fancy rosewood crappe racque... er, I mean curio.
A feat like that bears remembrance. So, ever since, I refer to her as Bearswatter.
Bear with me here. I am coming to my point right now.
Imagine, if you will, that you lived with a speckled bearswatter who leaps to far fetched conclusions. You are trying to stay on your best behavior. Which is not much on the best of days. When one fine Saturday, out of the blue, there suddenly appears in the mailbox a package from some mysterious stranger who only identifies themselves as MVW67, containing the following profuse collection of... of all things, Monica's dildoes!
Dudes. Seriously. If it hadn't been such a hot studgy day here, and a Saturday, then my Speckled Bearswatter would have opened that mailbox, not me, then she would have spotted the dildoes, and bomb would not be the word for what went off. In vain would I have attempted to explain to her that those are not dildoes, M does not stand for Monica, VW is not for Very Wide, 67 is not 69. She would not listen. The damage would be done; the swatting begun. I know, I understand, that to you this sort of thoughtless behavior is just harmless fun. A little game you play. But I am begging you. Please. Show some sort of discretion. If not, there will be blood on your hands.
Mike. Jesus, dude. I gotta live with this woman.
..... comfortable. Vastly so.
You would be wrong. Calaveras County's best can leap no more nimbly than the RedHead arriving at an angry conclusion. And here's the odd thing: The more outlandish and far fetched her angry conclusion, the nimbler she leaps there.
I remember the first time she threw crockery at me. I ducked, the mug hit the wall, coffee splattered, I turned back astonished, and then I exclaimed "Ay, Lucy!" I can tell you this much: If you ever have the good luck to get a natural RedHead of your own, then, on the day when you inevitably arrive at the juncture where you may aptly employ that phrase... Don't Do That! True story.
Now, bear with me, because I am going to tell you another true story. The two of us spend all our vacations aboard the big beemer bagger. Last July, we were up near Dushore Pennsyltucky riding about 40mph through the woods because it was so stifling hot there was nothing else to do, when out from a hedgerow on the right shot a full grown bull of a black bear, head down, tail up, scooting for the other side like, well, the way that critters do when they are on a single minded mission, like there was either a she bear on the left side or a hunter behind him. Bookin. And we hit him. Or he us. Boom. Planted his head in the side of the bike between her knee and my calf. Into the gap where our rear shock lives. Scootched our big bike sideways. All I could do by sheer miracle to keep the beemer upright. Bear slobber splattered from the forward fairing pods to the trunk. Droplets of blood appeared on my shorts. So I know that we knocked the snot out of him and bloodied his nose. And his head was stuck in there, dragging along. Which is when, quick as leaping to a conclusion, the RedHead reached down with her big speckled comfortable Nana arm and swatted Papa Bear directly across the nose! Knocked him right out of there. In the rear view, I watched him sprawl face first, then gather his hind legs under and scramble for the underbrush. Apparently, all those years of swatting me across the snout finally bore fruit. Who'd of thunk.
True story. If you don't believe me, swing on by and she can show you the bear hairs she harvested from where they were torn off by the bike's emblem on the pannier. A pannier which would not open, by the way, until we stopped at a nearby winery and borrowed a hunk of lumber and a maul to beat the rear crash bar around from where Papa Bear had bent it back. She keeps the hairs in in her fancy rosewood crappe racque... er, I mean curio.
A feat like that bears remembrance. So, ever since, I refer to her as Bearswatter.
Bear with me here. I am coming to my point right now.
Imagine, if you will, that you lived with a speckled bearswatter who leaps to far fetched conclusions. You are trying to stay on your best behavior. Which is not much on the best of days. When one fine Saturday, out of the blue, there suddenly appears in the mailbox a package from some mysterious stranger who only identifies themselves as MVW67, containing the following profuse collection of... of all things, Monica's dildoes!
Dudes. Seriously. If it hadn't been such a hot studgy day here, and a Saturday, then my Speckled Bearswatter would have opened that mailbox, not me, then she would have spotted the dildoes, and bomb would not be the word for what went off. In vain would I have attempted to explain to her that those are not dildoes, M does not stand for Monica, VW is not for Very Wide, 67 is not 69. She would not listen. The damage would be done; the swatting begun. I know, I understand, that to you this sort of thoughtless behavior is just harmless fun. A little game you play. But I am begging you. Please. Show some sort of discretion. If not, there will be blood on your hands.
Mike. Jesus, dude. I gotta live with this woman.
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