Life comes at you fast, and you need to think on your feet. When the manure hits the propeller, it takes a real prepper to pop out of that pile of poo smelling like a rose!
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From the Funny Farm: Rooster TalesMy rooster is a communist. I'm sure of it. How do I know? He's a Rhode Island RED.
But that isn't all... he sings like Caruso to his hens in the morning and takes them by stealth in the afternoon.
Does that make him a candidate for the Golden Grab-Me Award???
Prep Talk: True Confession Time
Back when I was a teenager I decided it was time to mount a one-person activism campaign against my parents' smoking. My dad smoked cigars; my mom smoked cigarettes, and my young lungs were suffering.
I stopped by a local party and magic tricks store and found what I figured would be the perfect weapon: cigarette loads! These were tiny (about 1/4 inch long) easy-to-conceal wood pieces designed to explode in the lit end of a cigarette. When planted and detonated properly, they would make a loud noise, put the cigarette out quickly, and scare the "tar" out of the smoker.
So began Operation Stokem-Smokem.
First target: My mom. Wait till cigarette package almost empty. Check. Place loads in remaining cigarettes. Check. Wait patiently for target subject to light up, exercising incredible self-discipline so that I keep a straight face. Check. Watch target subject reach for cigarette, click her lighter, prepare to draw that first delicious drag. Check. Look surprised when end of cigarette blows off completely. Check.
Fortunately, my mom was a pretty good sport about it. After listening to me explain how I felt about her smoking and that this was my way of getting her attention, she politely suggested that there had better NOT be any more loaded cigarettes around, 'cause if there were, I knew what I could expect.
"Sure mom," (laughing out the sides of my mouth while trying to look serious)"...uh, here, let me get you a new pack of cigarettes..."
Next target: My dad. Since the diameter of a good cigar is several times the diameter of a cigarette, my fast-thinking mathematical brain quickly calculated that it would take 4 strategically placed loads to have the same effect and ensure that the cigar would explode symetrically back into its own foot--er--cigar print.
The much-anticipated moment arrives. It's the 9th inning, the cigar is loaded and my shoelaces are tied...for a quick getaway.
All four loads explode simultaneusly with perfect precision. The operation is a success!!
(Have you ever seen those old cartoons where the bad guy lights his stogey and it blows up almost to his face, leaving him with a very funny, and very angry, look on his face? Yep. That was my dad.)
Fortunately, my mom quickly understood what had happened and ran interference for me so I could make a clean getaway, but I KNEW there would be #$%* to pay later. Oh, he looked sooo funny!!!
A short time later (after my dad had calmed down) we had an intense parent-child discussion in which we reached an agreement that all exploding tobacco products would be removed immediately from the house and in exchange I would continue to live there, but with some restrictions on my freedom for a few days. Also, both parents informed me that they had indeed gotten my anti-smoking message and that they would continue to smoke as usual.
So there you have it, folks: the true confession of a (former) real-life domestic terrorist!
Isn't aging a wonderful thing? Mellows you right out. Right out. Right out. (Now where did I put my keys?)
The buns may burn;
The Prepper-Upper is published weekly
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