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Yesterday our garage floor was poured, heaters were installed in the house, kitchen cabinets arrived, and Gunnison County graded our road. Whew! I could hardly keep up with the action.
The garage is going to be an unbelievable “Man Cave”.
I’m already making plans to camp in the garage.
Recently, this Russian Tomahawk missile landed just beyond the boys bathroom at a camp located in Marble, Colorado. Fortunately the campers were all in chapel, and the warhead (made in China) didn’t detonate.
Camp staff discovered the missile while chasing a squirrel that had stolen the camp director’s secret recipe for wookalar pie. The squirrel ran up the missile and sat on the still-smoking fins.
NORAD tracking experts admitted to not detecting the missile as it flew over 90 percent of the US, narrowly missing 13 commercial jets, and a truck driver from Indiana who had tied helium balloons to a lawn chair and was floating above the small town of Wakarusa.
Authorities at the Department of Defense stated that the public was never in any danger, because the missile is actually made from an old telephone pole, and had a very imprecise flight path.
The biggest mystery is why the Russian Army didn’t detach the wheel before launching the missile. It’s supposed that the launch captain was on Twitter at the moment.
As a species, deer are thought to be some of the most graceful animals on earth. They adorn paintings, book illustrations, and murals around the world, usually holding a graceful, stately pose. I’m here to put a kibosh on all that nonsense.
I was driving into Carbondale, Colorado, the number one place in the world where deer give you that “deer in the headlights” look. It was first light of the morning. You know, the kind of light where you are rousted out of cabin #13 at camp and made to do jumping jacks under the flag pole where some happy camper stole the camp director’s swim trunks, soaked them, froze them flat in the camp freezer, and ran them up the flag pole at midnight, making them look like a stiff, faded, green flag; and knowing all the while that the camp director would be asleep while we all did windmills and pushups with the chickens.
As I slowed down for the city limit, a small herd of deer ran across the road in front of me. Did I mention that the road was pure ice? “Black Ice” as we call it here in Colorado.
At the back of the pack came the big stately buck deer. The dad. The male. The one that protects the herd, and provides the example for all the little deer to follow. I came to a dead stop, so the buck could cross in front of me.
The buck jumped the fence, headed for the road, and looked up just in time to see that he was going to hit the side of my car if he didn’t change course. Being a deer, he should be able to gracefully bound to the side, and be gone in the flash of his tail, mooning me like an angry Scotchman in a Mel Gibson movie.
Instead, he put on his brakes, and slid on all four hooves across the icy road, back peddling with a wild look in his eyes. He slid about 10 feet, fell in a heap, and slid into the car at full speed. (He should play for the Detroit Redwings, or some other lame hockey team.)
The whole scene only lasted for a few seconds, then the buck was up, spinning his wheels as he went tearing off the road to catch up with a pack of laughing female deer.
It wouldn’t have been so strange if it hadn’t happened right in front of the Division of Wildlife office and Employee Headquarters. You’d think they could control their animals a little better than that.