Capped Off

The final mow of the year.  For a while at least, no more ducking branches, no more pine needle stab wounds, no more worrying about inadvertently chopping up toads and snakes.   The thistle eating finches have flown south.  Soon the grass will be gray and dormant.

I pulled into the garage, wondering if the area over the septic tank may need just one more trim before putting the snow shovel on the tractor.  I dismounted, brushed the pine needles from my butt and noticed the gaping hole where the gas cap ought to be.

Uh oh.

The cap has come off before, presumably the vibrations of the tractor unscrew it.  It has always remained with the tractor though, hanging from a black plastic tether.   This time:  no gas cap, no tether.

Let's see, how to find the missing gas cap.  Retrace the cutting path...but what if the cap, when free of its tether, was flung into a non cut area?  Chances of finding it then, seem awfully bleak.

For three days I looked for the gas cap.  No luck.  Though resigned to having to purchase a new one, I determined to look for it just one more day, then another.  My persistence was rewarded, for the gas cap appeared smack in the middle of a mowed area.  How I could have missed it, I'll never know.

 

 

I suspect my nemesis, the fisher, placed it there for reasons nefarious.

Pop Culture Frenzy, Round 52

Welcome once again to Pop Culture Frenzy.  Thanksgiving is next week.  Now, I don't want to hear Cyndi talk about small pox blankets and how Native Americans got screwed.   Let's talk about the meal.

What is the ultimate side dish at Thanksgiving dinner?
Bryan?

 

A shapely little Irish Terrier.  Oh. And stuffing.

 

 

Hostmaster:  hm, a redhead.  I always figured you preferred blonds.
 

 

 

 

That was before I teamed up with a blond.

 

Hostmaster:  ha!  I feel your pain, pal.

 

 

 

What?  Wait.

Hey!!

 

 

 

She's not a real blond.

 

 

 

I am too!

**** you, *****.

 

 

See, she has always felt she was a blond

trapped under a mousey brown head.

Peroxide did the rest.

 

Hostmaster:  inside and out? 
 

 

 

That's bull****. 

 There are much safer lighteners. 

 And I'm not a bulimic, ****** it!

 

 

Hostmaster:  the holidays can be so stressful for some folk.  Oh well.  Back at it.

What's the ultimate Thanksgiving side dish?

Molly?

 

 

 

 

I've only had hearts and gizzards. 

 Can you believe no one else wants them?

 

 

 

Hostmaster:  eating gizzards is something of which no bird can conceive.
 

 

 

 

You eat turkey, don't you?

 

 

Hostmaster:  of course.  Birds have no problem with cannibalism.  And eating the heart of an enemy is a given.  Eating the gizzard, however, is another matter.

Anyway. Ultimate side dish.

Cyndi?

 

 

 

Marshmellow Sweet Potatoes

 

 

 

I'm confused.
  Aren't sweet potatoes sweet enough?

 

 

 

 

 

Personally, I think marshmellows
 are pointless.

 

 

 

 

Bryan, have you never been camping? 

Marshmellows are pointless EXCEPT to make Somemores.

One thing's for sure, marshmellows are very sweet
 and do not belong on vegetables.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cranberries are sweet.

 

 

 

Cranberries are fruit.  You are on to something

though.  Cranberries are only sweet because

 sugar is added.  Hey!  I know! 

 Let's add marshmellows to cranberries!

 

 

 

Hostmaster:  please pass the glazed carrots.

 

 

 

 

 Thanksgiving dinner is just another

example of women being exploited.

They prepare all the food and after the

meal they do the dishes while the men

watch violent football.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fewer guys are watching football thanks to

all that dissing the flag stuff.

Maybe they could watch those guys who kick and

punch each other instead!

 

 

 

 

 

 

You want violence?  Ever

see the damage canine teeth
 can do to a lib?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Whoa.  She's on your team....

 

 

 

 

 

 

Teachable moment.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If Bryan wasn't a mean dog,

he'd be an alt right wing zealot.

 

 

 

 

 

Hostmaster:  sure glad I didn't ask about saying Grace.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What I am, is alt indifferent.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Let's end this round.  I'm hungry

for a heart.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bless us O Lord and these

thy gifts which we are

about to receive from thy bounty

through Christ our Lord.

Amen.

 

 

 

 

 

Round 52

Fluffy/Molly  21

Bryan/Cyndi   20

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



Don't Spook the Deer

The line to vote began at the door and coiled over and over many times before entering the roped section.  Serpentine.  It reminded me of an enjoyable figure skating drill.  Gliding across the ice, crossing one foot over the other, opposite edges of the blade back and forth.  This voting serpentine was slower without ice, needless to add.

It was strangely pleasant packed in that way in this small town, small building.  Strangers and neighbors calmly sardined in line to fulfill a civic duty. 

When the election results came in, Trump won.  "That's not fair!  He didn't win the popular vote!"   Must we review the electoral system for whiny disappointed voters every time they lose?

Now it's time to be sure the PRIVATE PROPERTY, NO HUNTING,  KEEP OUT signs are in place.  Deer hunters are making ready.  When Mabel was alive I used to worry that some over enthusiastic hunter would mistake her for a deer.

I have no delusions that I can protect the deer around here but I sure don't want some lout tromping around my back yard- that includes the neighbors with whom we share a tree line.

One particularly unpleasant tree line neighbor believes that if you fire a gun close to the start of deer season, it will spook the deer.  Yeah.  Sure.  The deer who live around here hear gunfire everyday.  Of course they will be spooked by gunfire in November. 

Never argue with a crazy person.  Our guns are silent.