I bought a cactus. A week later it died. And I got depressed, because I thought, Damn. I am less nurturing than a desert. — Demetri Martin
Death, I laugh at you. Ha. I laugh again. Ha ha! I laugh so hard you scowl and stand with your hands on your hips in disgust. roflol!
Where did this brazen burst of courage from spring? Or this antiquated syntax that I just now employed? Well, let me tell you.
Out bird hunting in Eastern Oregon this last weekend—invoking my second amendment right to kill things—I was walking through the shin high, golden grass an hour or so before twilight.
As I strolled, in my hunter’s vest and leather boots, my shotgun leaned against my shoulder, my granite biceps flexed beneath the sun, the Star Spangled Banner playing in my head—as any true, manly American would be doing—I watched and listened to the waves of crickets jumping in front of me as I walked.
All of a sudden, however, I hear a torrent of the cricketing noise and became overcome with fear that I had stepped into their nest. For what could be worse than having a flock of insects leap and cling to your skin?
Oh, I know. Finding a giant rattle snake coiled, hissing, and shaking the end of its tail at you.
Fortunately, years of being a manly American trained me for this moment, and I fell back into the tighten-your-buttocks-to-refrain-from-spoiling-yourself stance as I struggled to keep from fumbling the shotgun and shooting myself in the foot.
At this point, or likely simultaneously, I released a startled shriek (similar to something a prized choir boy, who’s afraid of mice, might release if he found out Glee was cancelled), while the snake just retained its striking form with its rattle going.
A moment of silence passed, and just as I thought it would slither away, it leapt at me. With reflexes like a Florida lightning storm (if you didn’t know, Florida has the second highest lightning related injuries in the world), I dodged the venomous beast.
I parried its strike with a swing of my shotgun, catching the middle of its body with the end of my barrel, and flipped the rattlesnake up and over behind me.
Or that’s how you would have believed it to happen if I hadn’t already told the real story to the majority of people who read this blog. In reality—or as we hear at jaketeeny.com call it “that crappy thing called my life”—the snake just happily slithered away.
For sadly, the only thing worse than getting bitten by a rattlesnake is having your mother catch you in a lie. On your blog. That she pays for.