"Fly fishing is my passion, hunting is my weakness, and mules are a perplexing addiction."

Sunday, January 6, 2013



I am writing this month’s essay high atop Mt Kilimanjaro in Africa. The temperature is fifteen below zero up here and I’m freezing my keister.  Yes, they do have snow here in Africa, I didn’t believe it either: that’s why I’m here.  Maybe next time I’ll take Lilburn Merriwether’s word for it.  Lilburn is my neighbor, and he’s also a know-it-all.  The worst part is, apparently he really does.  He also told me the natives in this part of the country can get a bit testy at times.  That’s how I got up here so fast; they were in hot pursuit of me, their main purpose being to have me as their special guest for supper.  Damn that Lilburn, yes, he informed me there were cannibals here too.

So as I sit here, huddled behind a large rock attempting to shelter myself from the unrelenting wind, its cold enough to freeze the flame on a lantern and I’m shivering like a hound dog trying to pass a peach pit.  I also realize this will probably be my last essay.
You see, the natives are very hungry.  If I don’t freeze to death, the taunting savages below are waiting for me to come down so they might eat me for supper.  I think they have designs of feasting on Filet mig-tom this evening.  Even if I do freeze to death, they’ll dine on my frozen corpse come spring thaw.  Either way, I’m well-done for because in this medium it is rare anyone escapes here alive.  I know, cold as I am, I’ve still got it.

At any rate, none of that matters now.  Oh, how I wish I were back in Anza.  Back home in my den, sitting in my recliner, relaxing in front of the wood-burning stove with my faithful dog, Mutt, at my feet.  It’s also funny how perspective changes when you are about to die.  Right now I’m not quite so upset about being passed up yet again for a Pulitzer Prize in literature.  What do those snobs know anyway?  The Potty Poem is a classic.

Now, more than ever, I look back upon my life and wish I’d pursued my passions and fought my causes a little more fervently.  I wish I’d taken a harder stance on getting those stupid “childs” urinals removed and the big-boy ones reinstalled at so many of the public restrooms one finds these days.  I can’t even count the times I’ve splattered all over my dark jeans at McDonald’s.

I wish now that I’d have left the spray bottle of water in my truck; the one I used to take into the theater and spray a burst on those poor souls who were talking down in front of me, while I pretended to sneeze.

I regret having never starred in a porn movie.  Of course that would have required surgery and I was afraid to travel to Mexico.

I also wish I hadn’t flossed before I went to the dentist.  I should have made them work for their money.

Speaking of dentists; I’m number now than a six-shot root canal.  I think my time has come.  Let me just say these last words before I go; Bon Appetit!  (I still got it...)

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