This blog has mentioned before that men are creatures of action.
Sure, we spend 99% of the time in our recliners. But that other 1%? When we are in the yard and armed with cutting devices? We are creatures of action.
And once we get a head of steam?
There. Is. No. Stopping. Us.
We will cut and saw and slash and burn the greenery until the cows come home. And then we will cut and saw and slash and burn the cattle. It’s what men do.
Tragically, this angers women folk — namely, the Missus and, even worse, Mother Nature.
So, we need to be somewhere and have just 15 minutes to write and post a blog.
That is the challenge.
We are not sure what the topic should be.
Possibly jihadist terrorism. Or ducks. Or Bruce Springsteen. Or the Terrible Twosome.
Yes, we will write about the Terrible Twosome, my childhood best friend Steve Madden, and our football buddy Dallas Pryor.
Steve and Dallas were stud-hoss lineman on our sixth grade Cleveland Cougars’ champeenship team.
As I recall, Dallas, appropriately, wore a crummy, old Dallas Cowboy’s helmet. The rest of us wore new white helmets, with black stripes down the middle, custom-made with electrical tape.
(WARNING: reading this blog could give you hypoglycemia)
I honestly don’t know why Mr. Uhles put up with us.
He ran the neighborhood store that was exactly 79 steps from my best friend Steve Madden’s front door on Nebraska Street.
We went there so often we wore a trail along Berry Road to Mr. Uhles’ store.
We loved his store, but we hated his old, asphalt parking lot.
It would heat up to about a billion degrees in Oklahoma summer.
Since we were always barefoot, we’d have to hot-foot it across the “lava”, trying not to get a stubbed toe or cut on glass or concussed by our buddy (because boys are always smashing each other just for fun).
Mrs. Uhles had let it be know that we had to smarten up before coming into her store.
That meant wiping the small stones and tar and glass and goatheads from our feet.
Once accomplished, we’d then storm into the store like the U.S. Marines.
At least 900 times every single summer day.
The Missus was going to name her boy ducks Donald and Daffy, until I explained that high-priced Disney lawyers would cover her with so many writs she’d never be able to feed her ducks again.
Hence she named them Dicky and Dashing Duck.
Dicky’s wife’s is Dancy.
This is because the Blog’s Missus likes alliteration, and this lady duck likes to wiggle her bootie a LOT. (“Like they do in Grease”, the Missus says).
Dashing Duck does not have a Missus, but, without wanting to start rumors, he appears to be crushing on Dancy. In fact, he played an active role in the, uhm, “loud and quacky courtship” of Dicky and Dancy, if you get our drift, which prompted Dashing’s Duck’s then girlfriend to fly the coop.
My Great Grandma Ashley wasn’t big as a minute.
So when she threatened to whip me, I wasn’t scared, even at age three or four.
Besides, when she threatened to swat me, she was smiling that sweet old lady smile.
And brandishing her embroidered hankie — that’s what she was going to whip me with.