Road to Badger Boy: Part 4

FREEDOM!: After da’ exploding terd tank incident I gots ma’ sorry beaver bittin’ butt tossed onta’ a chain gang. Its not whatya’ think either. I knows the image of da’ southern chain gangs; in da’ sweaty Mississippi heat two rows o’ dust covered men swinging pick-axes on da’ side o’ back wood gravel road whilt beltin’ out blues harmonies thata’ make John Lee Hooker down a’ bottle o’ sleepin’ pills. Whelp, ma’ chain gang was jus’ a tad different; in da’ runny nose Niagara cold a row o’ parka clad men scrape dead things off a frozen highway whilts gently singin’ show tunes and Rush songs.

Ins da’ middle o’ pryin’ a fairly squished an’ frozen woodchuck frum the road I seen my opportunity fer escape, a garbage grazin’ moose. Wit the speed of meth freak after a leprechaun I leapt onda’ moose an’ we was gone.

An hour later da’ moose was able ta’ buck me loose (carnies have great gripin’ abilities) an’ left me wit a departin’ goring. Once I got da’ bleedin’ ta stop, I surveyed ma’ reclaimed freedom an’ quickly discovered I was in da’ middle o’ nowhere, again. Lost ta’ da wilderness but thank God and lozenges tha’ this time I had Latigo Flint's Field Guide to Edible Spoors.

After a fast snack o’ stuff I found under a rock, I hit da’ trail an’ not five feet later I was in a’ bear trap. I seems ta’ be a magnet for sharp spring loaded thins’ that like ta’ imbed themselves inta’ ma’ flesh. Ma’ high pitch girlish screams brought a couple o’ heavily armed hunters ta’ ma’ rescue. Though after a lengthy an’ confusin’ interrogation o’ my governmental and religious affiliations they pulled me frum the trap an’ dragged me back ta’ their huntin’ camp. Kinda large fer a huntin’ camp though. Cabins, large fence covered in barbed wire, buncha’ mean lookin’ dogs, lotsa’ grumpy ugly white guys wit big guns… hummm.