Yeah, it’s a little dusty in here. A little smoky too. I blame the chainsaw: that thing burns oil when it runs hot, and it always runs hot when I’m using it to cut up caribou.
Stupid caribou.
Really, I should have known better. Shouldn’t have let ’em in here in the first place. You invite one, and you get the whole herd. They get to drinking, and the next thing you know, it’s all caribou-singing and caribou-dancing (horrible line dances that sear the eyes and wreck the carpet), and if you ask them nicely to please keep it down (the cops have already been here twice tonight, and if they show up again they’re taking me with them when they leave) well, then you get the Caribou Stare.
Cold. Threatening. Full of antlers.
It’s true what they say: Never get between a caribou and his whiskey.
It wasn’t murder. It was poaching. Hunting out of season without a permit. But look at this website. Just look at it! No jury would convict me. No judge would sentence me. No D.A. would even issue a warrant for my arrest given the state of the site. Caribou waste everywhere. Whiskey stains. Cigar burns.
It’s a wonder my internet provider hasn’t pulled to plug on the place as a health code violation.
There’s nothing to be done for it but to roll up my sleeves, fire up the old chainsaw, and get to work. I’ll try to keep the site operational while doing this bit of necessary spring cleaning, but make no promises. I might unplug it. I might spill something on it. The list is endless, but I’ll try to be careful.
And when I’m done, the comments should be working properly.
Freaking caribou, man! I know what you mean. I had to call the cops on a herd them last weekend. They were in my garage, getting hoof-marks all over my car and drinking all my garage beers.
Were the cops able to do anything? Last time I called ’em on, they said it wasn’t their department, and I should call Animal Control. AC said it was a public disturbance, not their problem, and the two of them had a shouting match on my front lawn while the caribou looked on.
The cops told them to move along, but the caribou just stared at them and pretended they didn’t speak English.
Oh, but when my wife started talking about making caribou pie… THEN they understood.
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