p.s. I asked my dad what was up with the deer feet and he said he was "drying them out". Obviously.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
As I lay here in my bed, scared of the dark, without my 8-year-old nephew Murphy to protect me, my imagination runs wild. I'm pretty sure that the raccoon I shot is conspiring with the two bass I caught yesterday, and they are all under my bed, plotting to exact their bloody revenge. Did I lock the front door? Because I'm also pretty sure that a few feetless deer, a squirrel and some crows from dad's garage fridge collection would be happy to join in. I gotta get out of here.