Apparently, my household ban on Auction Meat did not extend to Auction Grills. Here is Hick's latest auction acquisition.
So what if I captured a comet at the moment it landed on my back porch deck? I ain't braggin'. Never mind the Terminator 2 metal cop style doors on this bargain of a gas grill. Sixty-dollar purchasers can't be choosers, you know. They'll take their $350 value and worry about the non-functional flaws later.
Perhaps you're wondering about that attachment in the lower left, under the grill proper. No, it's not a bonus Auction Meat attachment. Nor is it a raccoon tail to flap behind the grill as you wheel it from one location to another to avoid sun, wind, and rain. Nor some tasty road kill garnered by all that wheeling. Nope. It's a cat. Not a good cat, mind you. A mailbox cat. The one that had the giant hole in her chest that warranted a vet visit. She's still basically wild, but will slink up to the breezeway edge every now and then so I'll scratch her misshapen ears while she waits to be let into the garage to consume mass quantities of dry food while turning up her nose at the occasional mouse. Cats are odd ducks.
Like Renee Zellweger as Ruby Thewes despises a floggin' rooster on Nicole Kidman's front porch in Cold Mountain, I despise a gas grill. I stop short of popping its head off and puttin' it in a pot, though. I am not a fan of gas. Though those around me might argue the point. I don't want a gas furnace, a gas fireplace, gas lanterns, a gas generator that kicks on as soon as the power goes off, and especially, I don't want gas canisters, aka bombs-waiting-to-explode, cooling their round metal heels on my breezeway, baking in solar energy from sunrise to sunset, with a two-hour break at noon.
That said...have you seen my new gas grill?