It was a weekend full of terrific adventure -- then again, what weekend at huntin' camp isn't?
What more could a Redford man ask for? Four dead deer and plenty of tasty venison to eat --
including a huge pot of venison chili for lunch the day of departure.
So there I was, sitting behind the wheel of my Chevy pick-up, showing off my personal kill (a fine
ten point buck), when the fierce movements began. Feeling the great disruption in harmony deep in my colon,
I put my foot to the floor of the powerful truck.
The pain I felt deep in my bowels made me forget just how powerful the '81 Chevy really is.
I was within just a few moments of reaching my destination -- the local store where I was to weigh my big buck in --
when flashing lights and a flood of sirens invaded my deep concentration. I looked into my mirror to see the
oncoming police vehicle hot in pursuit.
In just a few moments I found myself pulled over on the curb of a semi-deserted highway, being busted for
doing 80 in a 55 mph zone. As I tried explaining to the officer why I was going so fast I could feel that the
slaughter my anus was beginning to go through. The officer dismissed my excuse as absurd and non-credible, and
began making her way back to the patrol car to write out my ticket.
After about 45 seconds of sitting in agony, waiting for the officer to return and be done with me, a
mixture of paralyzing gases began escaping my tightened rectum. At this point I simply couldn't take it
anymore -- shit was really about to hit the fan. In a frenzy of
euphoric thoughts, I robotically began undoing my Cabela's mossy oak camouflage pants.
The officer was just
returning from her vehicle as I flung the rusted-out door of my 81' beast open. The officer took action
immediately, showing some impressive reflex time as she drew her 9mm Glock upon my distraught and confused body.
Amongst all of the confusion, my rectum simply didn't know what to do anymore. And with that came a heavy, chunky,
and fluent flow of digested venison chili and tenderloin.
I ripped my pants
down to the earth and began squatting in the middle of the road. The officer didn't know how to react
as I pigeonwalked to avoid soiling my Rocky boots. The juices continued to flow for what seemed like an
eternity. I could tell by the officer's stupefied expression -- a look of complete dismay -- that she could no longer
handle the situation. She holstered her weapon and made a direct run for the safety of her police vehicle.
As my pain-driven shit ceased, I could hear the sound of her
squealing Goodyear Workhorse tires to my backside. I turned around in time to witness the Suburban police
vehicle doing a U-turn and disappearing in the opposite direction.
With that I harnessed my Cabela's, buckled my NYFD
memorial belt buckle, and returned to my awaiting pick-up like nothing ever happened.
-- Rasween
