Eww . . . Moose Butt
*** continued from previous post ***
Somewhere around 10-ish, I awoke. I didn't open my eyes right away, but lay there in a glorious state of semi-consciousness, drifting with my thoughts. Most of them involved being at home far, far from all things Canadesque. When I did manage to pry my eyes open the first thing I did was scream.
Scream like a 10 year-old girl at a Hannah Montana concert. For you see, I was not greeted with the pastoral splendor that was the Hidden Valley. I was not greeted with the twitter of birds and the scamper of woodland creatures. I wasn't even greeted by a run of the mill peeping Tom. (Although in Canada, I believe they are referred to as 'Peeping Liams, eh?') No, I was greeted with the full-on view of moose ass backed up against our bay window.
Fully conscious I could have handled the exhibition, but in my semi-stupor of exhaustion I thought that we were being attacked by a hairy giant with a stupid looking nose. Then a new terror struck deep in the marrow of my bones – this was probably a genetically altered Norseman. The thought sent shivers down my spine.
Mom, who as you know, is used to me waking from a dead sleep screaming, yawned and said, "What. Dreaming about rats again?" She rolled over putting her back to me. "You and your stupid rat dreams."
"No," I mumbled in a hushed tone and pointed to the window.
Mom followed with her eyes the length of my arm, down to my finger, and over to the window where she studied the situation for a moment, chewed it around, and offered the only comment one could offer under such circumstances.
"Ewwwww . . . . Moose butt."
"Yes," I said, and hoped that said butt wouldn't push through the window. For, as I'm sure you'll agree, the only thing worse than moose butt against your window is moose butt sticking into your room.
"And a fine example of moose butt it is, yet it is not the first thing to which I wish to be greeted upon awakening from a nice nap."
Having given us a 'free show', as it is referred to in these northerly climes, the moose, no doubt late for some foresty appointment, twitched her tail and ambled back into the woods. Your mom was too quick for her though, and we now have around 700 pictures of a gently receding moose ass. I don't want to spoil the surprise, but this may be the Christmas-card picture for which we had been searching. Nothing says the holidays are here like a well-framed moose heiney.
*** the journey continues ***
Somewhere around 10-ish, I awoke. I didn't open my eyes right away, but lay there in a glorious state of semi-consciousness, drifting with my thoughts. Most of them involved being at home far, far from all things Canadesque. When I did manage to pry my eyes open the first thing I did was scream.
Scream like a 10 year-old girl at a Hannah Montana concert. For you see, I was not greeted with the pastoral splendor that was the Hidden Valley. I was not greeted with the twitter of birds and the scamper of woodland creatures. I wasn't even greeted by a run of the mill peeping Tom. (Although in Canada, I believe they are referred to as 'Peeping Liams, eh?') No, I was greeted with the full-on view of moose ass backed up against our bay window.
Fully conscious I could have handled the exhibition, but in my semi-stupor of exhaustion I thought that we were being attacked by a hairy giant with a stupid looking nose. Then a new terror struck deep in the marrow of my bones – this was probably a genetically altered Norseman. The thought sent shivers down my spine.
Mom, who as you know, is used to me waking from a dead sleep screaming, yawned and said, "What. Dreaming about rats again?" She rolled over putting her back to me. "You and your stupid rat dreams."
"No," I mumbled in a hushed tone and pointed to the window.
Mom followed with her eyes the length of my arm, down to my finger, and over to the window where she studied the situation for a moment, chewed it around, and offered the only comment one could offer under such circumstances.
"Ewwwww . . . . Moose butt."
"Yes," I said, and hoped that said butt wouldn't push through the window. For, as I'm sure you'll agree, the only thing worse than moose butt against your window is moose butt sticking into your room.
"And a fine example of moose butt it is, yet it is not the first thing to which I wish to be greeted upon awakening from a nice nap."
Having given us a 'free show', as it is referred to in these northerly climes, the moose, no doubt late for some foresty appointment, twitched her tail and ambled back into the woods. Your mom was too quick for her though, and we now have around 700 pictures of a gently receding moose ass. I don't want to spoil the surprise, but this may be the Christmas-card picture for which we had been searching. Nothing says the holidays are here like a well-framed moose heiney.
*** the journey continues ***
Labels: dreams, moose, moose butt, viking clones
posted by David M at
9:07 AM
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Keep it nice or I release the Zombies.
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