Wednesday, June 10, 2015

The Legend of Hicky Monkeywrench

You may have noticed that my sweet baboo has fallen out of favor recently. It may or may not have something to do with that tractor purchase on Saturday. Like he needed to add fuel to the fire.

I swear. Hick could be a secret weapon for the government. Not some intelligence agent, mind you. But a valuable asset all the same. Someone to tromp polonium into the homes of targeted individuals. You wouldn't even have to tell Hick his assignment. Just give him some clomping boots, put up a sign that said, "Stay out of the polonium," and let him go. In no time those boots would be caked with it, and off he'd go on his mission with just an address, a GPS, and a $1000 Dodge Caravan with the passenger window held up by duct tape.

It couldn't be any harder than tromping in all that mud every evening in his boots, leaving chunks throughout the kitchen and living room unawares. Arguing, even, that HE was not the one to bespoil the abode with mud. Like The Pony and I are romping through the goat pen every evening, tossing feed to the chickens, caressing our new tractor, and admiring our not-yet-completed barbershop.

If there's anything to be messed up, Hick's your man. He's like a heat-seeking missile, like a magnet, then Velcro, where trouble is concerned. AND he always excuses himself by saying, "I was only trying to HELP you." Uh huh. To help me get off my butt and be a proper housewife, I assume, and sweep up the mud that he did not track in.

Good thing Hick doesn't like peanuts, and that our home is not a Texas Roadhouse, because I can imagine how many peanut shells I'd have to dispose of every day.

Yes, Hick has a natural knack for tossing a monkeywrench into any plan, celebration, or ceremony. He might as well be Hicky* Monkeywrench, traversing the countryside with a quiver filled with monkeywrenches slung over his shoulder, ready to throw them to unsuspecting, unrequesting citizens, with a cry of, "Here, let me help you with that."

I'm surprised Hick doesn't stroll through the house, dropping his excrement from between his buttocks like a horse, to help me learn how to be a stable-Val for the Budweiser Clydesdales.

Sorry for that image. It's for your own good. If you see Hicky** Monkeywrench in your neck of the woods, you won't make eye contact. I saved you from his good intentions.

*Heh, heh, I said HICKY!

**Oops! I did it again!


  1. That is a difficult image to shake.

  2. Perhaps Hick should live in another building? Like a building with a dirt floor?

  3. Now I need some mind bleach to get that image out of my head.

  4. Hicky's long lost cousin lives at our house. He tromps through the garden laden with grass clipping and tracks it into the house. When I make mention of it, he WONDERS where that came from.

  5. Oh, my. Poor Hick. The abused innocent husband.

    Guess you can see where I'm coming from.

  6. joeh,
    DANG! You don't have to make it worse. I sure don't want to imagine it SHAKING!

    Well, Madam, now he's going to have to build one with a dirt floor...

    Heh, heh. Thank you for introducing the newest product line that will be sold exclusively in my proposed handbasket factory.

    Oh, it's good to know he has a hobby other than turning mockingbirds into cannibals by feeding them fried eggs. And 'stealing' your fork in restaurants.

    Takes one to know one, I presume. The abused innocent husband is free to start his own blog in retaliation. HA HA HA HA! Like he could do that without my help!