Guys.
You know how they are. Sometimes, the lines of
appropriateness become blurred for them. Like when they need to blow
their nose, but don't have a tissue. Stacking hay, for instance. Or
taking a three-point stance on the forty yard line of a high school
football field with 2:48 left in the first half. Standing in a bass
boat, perhaps, casting a Strike King buzzbait. No problem for a guy.
Just bend slightly at the waist, press a thumb up against the side of
one nostril, and spray the snot out of the other one.
I think you get my point.
This
afternoon, The Pony and I stopped at the row of mailboxes on the county
road. As The Pony was gathering our junk and bills, I saw movement
beside a truck parked about twenty-five feet up our gravel road. Two
guys were changing clothes.
Really? REALLY?
Sweet Gummi Mary! Do males have no shame? Right there creekside. Disrobing and re-robing.
Like they were in the middle of Filene's Basement, trying on wedding
dresses! In front of dropped-off kittens and mobile meth lab operators
and schoolkids disembarking from big yellow Bluebirds.
One
of them looked me in the eye. And continued! He had the truck bed
between him and me, with his buttocks smiling at the creek. For cars
coming the other way to see. The other dude was between his door and the
tiny extended-cab mini-door. Like he had created his own three-sided,
metallic, tiny dressing room. Like when guys stop on the road to pee.
They open both doors and stand between them, like they think nobody can
see their business, but secretly hoping that everybody can.
I
call shenanigans! These fellows were climbing into camo. Pants,
t-shirs, long-sleeved shirts, caps. The whole kit 'n' caboodle. It's bow
season here in Backroads. But if these dudes owned land up in here,
they would be changing there. I have a feeling they were up to no good.
What
kind of innocent hunter parks on somebody's private road and strips off
to don camouflage? I would have taken a picture of the truck with my
phone camera. But I didn't want to be accused of having pr0n. Besides, I
didn't have armor to repel a broadhead.
For a minute, I
thought I heard the twang of a banjo, and looked at the bridge in case
there was a misshapen-headed savant boy challenging me to a four-string
duel.
So these guys would be hunting illegally? Would they need a license or a tag or anything?
ReplyDeleteYeah, they might have wanted YOU to squeal like a pig...
ReplyDeleteGeeze, you and I have both been exposed. We were at the beach and a European couple (rail thin) stripped right there on their towels (not under their towels) and put on their swimsuits. My husband and I looked at one another in disbelief, then his head snapped back around.
ReplyDeleteDownright scary! But if they were on private property, they were trespassing. Perhaps your local law enforcement is like mine and slow to respond, then when they do, it is like a family reunion with the ones they are called to take away. I hear banjos all the time!
ReplyDeleteStephen,
ReplyDeleteA tag is required. They might have had one. But really. Guys who disrobe in plain view of traffic, 25 feet up a private road that is clearly marked? I'm not making a wager. Dudes around here hunt all the time, and if they get something good that needs to be checked in, they ask around until they find someone with a tag he didn't need because he couldn't find an animal to shoot. That's IF the animal is taken in season. Everyday poaching is only noticed when deer skins and legs show up on the front porch or roadside. That's because they butcher the kill in the woods for better odds against being caught.
The only way they'd be in trouble is if a game warden caught them red-handed. Or if they were driving down the highway with a deer strapped to the hood or roof of the truck, for all to see.
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Sioux,
That was uncalled for, Madam. Please refrain from foisting your Ned Beatty fantasies on the innocent reading public.
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Linda,
Speaking of Europeans...when I worked at an insurance salvage store in Springfield, a bunch of teenage European girls came in and stripped down in the aisle to try on formals. I suppose they were going to a foreign exchange prom or some such festive affair. The security guy couldn't take his eyes off the camera.
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Kathy,
The road is clearly marked with a giant blue sign with white lettering. "Private Property: trespassers will be prosecuted." I suppose these Bubbas know someone who knows the head Bubba, aka the county sheriff.
I'm rooting for the bucks and not the buck naked guys.
ReplyDeleteTammy,
ReplyDeleteYou know the bucks are naked too, right? That's where they got that expression: buck naked. I leaned that from the Encyclopedia of Common Knowledge. Without it, George Costanza would have needed a different pr0n name.
Guys have no shame at all. They don't think ahead about consequences like their female counterparts. Sometimes, I think that's why God paired up men and women--to keep the guys from totally shaming their entire half of the population.
ReplyDeletebettyl,
ReplyDeleteThey are malleable, and can lead successful lives if kept on a short leash.