At the Debating Table at the Bakery the other day Rick, the Mountie wannabee, was on a rant. Nothing unusual about that, but the topic was. Seems Rick’s sweetie decided to clean out the freezer.
“There was so much stuff in there we had no room to store those prime chickens we raised,” grumbled Rick as he fished a stray spoon out of his coat pocket and glared over at Ziggy
“Store them?” I inquired, “I thought you raised them to sell.”
“Well yes we did,” sputtered Rick, “But when we figured out how much per pound it cost to raise them. . . about 10 bucks, we figured nobody would pay half that much, so we’d have to eat them ourselves.”
“Anyways, Sweetie was cleaning out the freezer which among other things contained a dead peacock that bit the dust when its plumage was in its prime,” he added as he fished another spoon out of his pocket, while still glaring at Ziggy.
“You eat dead peacocks?” wondered Pickle as he poured a round of refills.
“No!” snorted Rick, “Sweetie was going to have it mounted. It was a beautiful specimen. She put it up on the shelf while she cleaned the rest of the mysteries out of the freezer.”
What other dead things did you have in the freezer?” interrupted Pickle, “Any big racks worthy of mounting? Thought maybe one of your wolf pack dragged a trophy home.”
The table wandered into an extended discussion on trophy buck preparation for a full 15 minutes before refocusing on Rick’s tragic tale. Sheila left in disgust.
Rick once again gained the audience stating, “Anyways! When she went in the house with some stuff, one of the dogs sneaked the peacock out to the bush and chowed down on it.”
“When Sweetie got back outside, it was too late. All that was left were a couple of those beautiful tail feathers sticking out of his craw,” finished Rick as he tried to pry himself out of his chair.
Ziggy dropped another spoon in Rick’s pocket.
“How about the dog? Is it dead?” asked the Runt hopefully.
Rick’s pack of dogs had savaged the Runt’s wife a while back as she was biking past his estate.
“No the dog is fine. . . but she spoke to it harshly. . . And my dogs would never hurt anyone,” opined Rick indignantly. Not a soul at the table believed him.
When Rick finally staggered his way up to the cashier, he emptied his pockets of another spoon, a ketchup container and a pair of salt and pepper shakers. . . Ziggy brayed!
“You can’t be too careful of what is stored in the freezer. Had a cold last month… couldn’t smell a thing, and my wife made up some venison stew from that big old buck I shot last year.
“That meat was so full of testosterone and other hormones that after a bowl of it, I was bouncing off the walls, stated Maury with a giggle. “I so was wound up my wife had to lock the bedroom door,” he explained, “. . . After she had me trapped in there with her.”
What’s in your freezer?
