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Boils and ghouls, gather in, because I will be intermittently narrating this roadtrip when I am not driving, napping or reading (expect very little from me, kiddies).
Matty and I planned to leave at 5 a.m. (absolutely medieval). Here we are, an hour later, departing this earth on this journey an hour late. Ah, well. A Hilton’s life for me.
Watch for updates, my festering follower(s)! (Namely, Catty Patty.)

Update, 6:12 a.m.
Yes, we have already listened to (and sang our hearts out to) “Total Eclipse of the Heart (Fart).”
That was, like, first thing.

Update, 9:37 a.m.
I had a very, very brief nap. Thirty minutes or so. It sucked.
I can’t find a Chick-fil-a so I can get a friggin chicken biscuit and we’re in Dexter, Mo. So yeah, I’m feeling stabby.

Update, 12:45 p.m.
Driving. Hate Kentucky. Ordered an egg and cheese biscuit at Hardee’s this morning. Got an egg and no cheese biscuit.
Non-stop rain.
Stopped at Flying J in Fort Campbell. Dreadful.
Have noticed husband will do anything to not study.
Saw a soggy, nasty cardboard box blowing along the road, getting repeatedly run over. Reminded me of Patty.
It’s going to rain for the full 14 hours, isn’t it?

Update, 4:27 p.m.
I just finished my second painfully short nap of the day. I woke up in time to endure…wait for it…Chattanooga.
On the bright side, the rain stopped, and I can see all the lovely colors in the trees – orange for jack-o-lanterns, yellow for bile, green for a sinus infection and burnt red for that time I ran over a chupacabra.

Update, 9:19 p.m.
This will be my last transmission, as I will either fail to survive this trip or destroy Google Maps out of sheer desperation.
Coming up on Dexter, Ga. The world wants us to feel all stabby.
Dear reader (Patty), I hope you’re not too terribly pleased that I’m going to be late for my haunted tour tonight. I will remedy my misery by consuming a lot of discount Halloween candy tomorrow.
Until Sunday,
I remain(s),
Yours,
Long-trip Leona

Publicly forswear caffeine.
Quickly realize you are dying of tiredness and imbibe the “soft option” — tea, that leaf-flavored water gravy we dumped into the ocean back in the day to make a point.
Select English Breakfast as your tea because you just read “Life After Life” and man they drink a lot of tea in it.
Add two packets of Splenda.
Read the tea packet and pour in a splash or skoosh of milk, as suggested.
Try to drink it immediately and burn your tongue.
Ponder how “biscuit” became “cookie” on its voyage over the Atlantic.
Become an old lady and buy a tin of Danish butter cookies solely for dipping in your tea.
Insist everyone call them biscuits.
Consider learning how to make petit fours.
Create your own tea time twice a day at work because you are so tired your eyes feel like they’re actually bulging from your head.
Dunk a biscuit for too long and yelp in surprise and dismay when it breaks off and sinks to the bottom of the cuppa.
Do it again, because you brought just two biscuits and you need to screw this up twice.
Make another cuppa in yet another State Farm Insurance mug (how many of these does the newspaper own?) but lament having no more biscuits.
Cheerio, it’s a new day. Try again, old sport. Fussily steep the tea bag for just so long and bring milk in a small separate cooler for adding a skoosh and dip the biscuit for the perfect amount of time and rejoice. Brilliant.
Consider robbing a bank.
Text husband about idea to rob bank.
Sip tea.
Pip pip.

Text conversation

Me: I know where we can get a Hummer

Matt: And where might that be?

Me: I can tell you the exact address in a few minutes.

Matt: I just remembered that they have real Hummers at the armory, here in Springfield. They may be a little hard to access though.

Me: [Address of Hummer]

Me: Homeland Security is totally reading this.

Matt: Sure, sure. But not if we wrap our phones in aluminum foil.

Me: Oooh good idea.

Context

I’ve been playing Grand Theft Auto 3 quite a bit on my iPad, and I’ve come to the conclusion that we need access to a big, sturdy vehicle for when the zombie apocalypse occurs.

You’re probably wondering how I came to such a conclusion about the zombie apocalypse while playing a car-stealing game. I could explain it to you, but you should know that all things lead back to zombies, in the end.

I told Matt that we needed to do our research ahead of time and find a Hummer before the dead rise again, but that we will have to wait to take it until after hell has literally broken loose.

Side note

In the grocery store, I had the epiphany — NUTS! They’re easy to carry, will keep for a long time and have a lot of protein. They are the perfect apocalypse food. So we’ll be looting lots of nuts when the military and government have ceased to exist and we can go shopping for free.

(Well, we’ll have paid with the blood of our comrades, I told Matt, because of course I was saying all of this out loud as we shopped.)

Which reminds me

Of the ending to last night’s “The Walking Dead.” Oh, how I cried. I hate you, “The Walking Dead,” and yet I love you, too.

I began this story about two years ago but never finished it, so I figured, “I haven’t posted anything since January. What the hey.” Here ya go.

We weren’t exactly born with the knowledge of our destiny inside us. No, we weren’t like the hero of some tale who is convinced of the fire inside him and, while he may not know the specifics, he knows his general purpose.
Not until we came together did we see it. We were going to save the world.

Matt had a crossbow, but he kept it in the storage closet in his loft, behind the large trash can he still had from his old place but had never gotten rid of. He had some extra chairs in there, too, so I never knew about it until after we got married and we moved in together.
I found it in a box in the garage while I was looking for one of my Buddha heads.
I wandered back into the house with it.
“Maaaaaatt…” I called.
He appeared around the corner from the stairwell, busy putting together his extra-long twin bed in one of the spare bedrooms, the bed of his former life as a single man.
“What is this?” I asked while holding up the crossbow. I already knew what it was, but I wondered why he had it.
“Oh,” he said, smiling. “It’s one of my thrift store finds.”
He had several of those, including a puke-green corduroy couch that sagged like an old crone in the middle and weighed as much as my Honda Civic.
“And why did you think you would ever need this?”
“Thrift store treasures are not always about need,” he answered (rather cryptically, I might add).

The trinkets I had once collected came to Matt’s attention when my dad dropped off a box he had found in the garage.
“I thought you might want these,” Dad said, handing over a box labeled “Antiques” while we stood in the parking lot behind my office building.
When I got home, I asked Matt to bring it in, as it was somewhat heavy.
“What’s in here?” he wanted to know.
I opened it and showed him the items I had collected for several years during what I referred to as my death metal phase.
I had scoured eBay for some rare finds and had often forked over a considerable sum for an object of my desire. I accumulated silver knives, bronze throwing stars, horned “brass” knuckles that were actually silver, daggers dulled by misuse, ancient-looking shears and a lot more.
These items were certainly antiques in that I was not their first owner and each had a story to tell. More than a certificate of authenticity, I appreciated the story behind a piece.
For instance, I had an ornately etched silver knife in a leather sheath that had reportedly been used in a fatal fight between two gypsies.
The eBay description of the horned silver knuckles read: “We found these in my grandmother’s things after she passed. Nobody in our family knows why she had them. Perhaps they, like my grandmother, have a mysterious past.”
I was delighted to acquire a part of a mystery.

We barely escaped our first brush with our intertwined destiny, Matt and I.
After a particularly long and mind-numbing Tuesday, I fell into bed in a stupor. Matt hadn’t been too far behind me, as he was asleep next to me when the cat went galloping across my head and woke me up a little after 9 p.m. I hissed at the cat to knock it off when I noticed a shadow over the window.
That’s odd, I thought. There’s not even a tree there.
It could have been a bird, I guessed, but it was rather large. Maybe one of the street lights had gone out.
I tried to go back to sleep, but I couldn’t get the image of that shadow out of my mind. It had looked like it had a head and shoulders, like a person. But that was just my overwrought brain, I thought.
I opened my eyes again and peered at it. The shadow was utterly still. It was certainly not a bird. Well, I’m already awake, I thought, so I got out of bed to look out the window. As soon as I began to move, the shadow moved, too. I stopped in my tracks.
“Matt,” I said in a loud whisper. No response. I slowly sat back on the bed, never taking my eyes off the shadow.
“Matt!” I said more loudly.
“Is everything OK?” he asked sleepily.
“There’s something at the window!” I said.
He started to get up.
“Don’t move!” I said. “It knows we’re here!”
“It?” he asked.
That’s when the glass shattered. I scrambled backward to Matt’s side of the bed while he stood. Whatever had been behind the window seemed to be moving into the room. Grabbing whatever I could get my hands on, I began throwing pillows at the dark shape, but it was large and moving in our direction. Was I crazy or could I hear ragged breathing? Someone was breaking into our home.
I didn’t want to die at the hands of this intruder.
Apparently, neither did Matt, because he threw an item he was able to find in the dark — the silver dagger. He told me later that he had been examining it and brought it upstairs to put away in the closet but, after seeing I was asleep, didn’t want to disturb me and left it in its sheath on his nightstand. He remembered it was there, groped for it in the dark and unsheathed it. Then he threw it at the figure.
What I believed was a person released a terrifying groan, haggard and deep. I continued to back away from it, eventually falling on the floor next to the bed. The intruder flailed and made horrible noises.
A light went on in the bedroom — Matt had run to the light switch — but my mind remained dark. I couldn’t make sense of what I was seeing.
The intruder could have been mistaken for homeless. He was dressed in tattered, dirty rags, and clumps of dirt clung to him. Sunk squarely in his chest was the silver dagger.
I clapped my hands over my mouth and moaned. Did we just kill a homeless person?
He had sunk to his knees on the carpet, and finally my eyes registered something else that seemed terribly off. He leered at me with dark yellow eyes and his mouth sagged open with what looked like dried blood trailing the corners along his lips.
He made a sudden lunge at me. I screamed and Matt pulled me back towards him. The intruder fell face-first on the floor and was still.

Though our first instincts had been to call 911, the intruder’s body had disintegrated into thin air. A crackling sound like static electricity building up preceded it. Then, as we watched, dark flakes floated from his skin into the air, slowly at first, but then more quickly. Finally, all that was left were the clothes.
“What is he? A frickin’ vampire or something?” I screamed hysterically.

Hours later, we were both sitting in the kitchen, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Though I hadn’t even believed my own word for the creature at first, I couldn’t understand what I’d seen otherwise.
Matt and I had debated about whether to call 911.
“And tell them what? That a man broke in, you threw a dagger at him and then he disintegrated?!?” I asked.
“We have to call somebody!” he had said.
We didn’t know what to do, but we spent many long hours considering it.

To be continued … ? To be continued? Yes. To be continued.

A man of a certain stride, a man of a certain haircut, a man of a certain uniform — he is recognized in this town by most everyone.
This certain man with the certain hair and the certain tinted glasses carries with him a ticket pad and a long stick with a piece of chalk attached to the end. He does only this, other than occasionally answering the phone at the police station in a gruff and obtuse manner.
“Hi, this is Sarah with the Bolivar Herald-Free Press,” I once announced when he answered.
“Who with the what?” he asked rudely.
“Sarah with THE ONLY NEWSPAPER IN TOWN, MORON.”
I only thought the latter to myself.
Other than these details, I know little about the man. Anything else about him could only be supposed. So, suppose I shall:

I suppose this man could have been born in another small town not too far away. I suppose he could have had a mother, a father, three older brothers and a younger sister.
I suppose he could have been sickly in his childhood, constantly falling victim to rickets, black lung or other maladies.
He likely fashioned friends out of the thinnest of air, offering them tea in grandmother’s dusty, cobwebbed attic. These were probably his only friends — not books or frogs or baseball buddies, like his brothers, or dolls or violin instructors, like his sister.
His father was a dentist, had put himself through dental school while working in the mills. His mother ran away from her aristocratic family to wed his father, who proved himself to his in-laws, in the end.
Determined to inspire his sons to greater heights, the father read Dickens and Chekhov and Aristotle to them in the evenings.
The oldest became a doctor, the next a lawyer, the middle son an accountant. Even this man’s younger sister pursued a lofty career as an anthropologist nestled in the trees of Indonesia, studying the nomadic Korowai Tribe.
This man, however, when he finally became a man, chose the only career that had ever interested him — issuing parking tickets.

Can you imagine the opprobrium of the man’s father when he made known his choice? He could not believe his youngest son would choose such a life.
“I did not raise you to be a lowly servant, distributing tickets like a carnival man,” his father said. “Could not you have chosen something more suitable to our line?”
His brothers railed at him, too.
“You bring dishonor to the family name, little brother,” the eldest told him.
“You will never be able to support a family working a mere 40-hour week,” the second told him.
“You owe me $40,” said the third.
In a letter from his sister, dated two months before its arrival, she wrote, in her terse form: You are a most curious subject.
His mother wept in silence.

Nonethless, the man pressed on. He was determined to make his family proud, despite their conflicting opinions of his profession.

Parking violations are something you mark on your own, the man thought to himself one day. No one can go with me. I travel this path in my solitary fashion, marking time alone just as I mark the tire and asphalt in a straight line of monotony.
He thought himself rather brilliant for this realization. He wrote to his mother.
In her reply, she was not as impressed as he would have supposed her to be.
“Your brothers have only had daughters and your sister shows no sign of settling down on the same continent of any man we would consider appropriate for her,” she wrote. “Don’t you think you had better reconsider your decision to ‘mark time alone’?”
But the man knew he could never take a wife. His duty called for great sacrifice – the sacrifice of the life of a family man, one who knows creature comforts of a warm hearth, fresh-baked bread and the giggles of his own miniatures.
He thought of himself rather like a pirate or a soldier. Often, when bandying about with his chalk on a stick, he thought of it as a cutlass, and swiped at the tires and ground as if driving back the black-bearded swashbuckler who sought to o’ertake his vessel.

I am sorry to say I do not know how the man did the same, day after day, in the intervening years, until I knew him — in my limited way — and dispatched of him with my car. I only knew the glint of the noonday sun as it tickled his glasses, his certain stature born into the air with the enthusiasm he always applied to catching a car parked too long in its spot.

A male flea and a female flea met on my cat. We’ll call them Garth and Jules, respectively.
Or maybe they didn’t meet on her. Maybe they met somewhere on the ground that one day a couple months ago when Chevy ran off for several hours.
I prefer to think they each hopped onto Chevy, strangers, and met somewhere around her left ear and became fast friends.
Eventually, that friendship grew into something more between Garth and Jules. It wasn’t long at all before they were standing before a speck of dandruff (serving as officiant, witness and maid of honor), pledging their undying love to one another.
Garth had always wanted a big family. Though Jules was hesitant, she eventually agreed, and the two created nests of eggs all over their home — Chevy’s fat body.
Then began the pitter-patter of little feet, six feet at a time, in fact. Their offspring covered the land like a swarm, and Garth and Jules were proud, dreaming of their future with their crusty spawn.
Unfortunately, their dreams would be marred.
It began with the eggs. Though Garth and Jules continued to begat and begat and begat, the little eggs never opened.
Jules cried and blamed herself. Garth took to drinking more of Chevy’s blood than was really necessary.
Then, the children became sluggish and surly. Thinking it was just a teenage thing, Garth continued his drinking binge.
Jules had fallen into a deep depression and scarcely noticed.
One day, Garth found Atticus, the youngest, asleep on a cloud of white fur.
“Get up, Atticus!” an intoxicated Garth slurred. “Isn’t today a school day?”
Atticus neither responded or stirred. Garth soon made the grim discovery that Atticus was dead.
Thus, the beginning of the end.
It happened that way for the others, too. Over and over, Garth found them like that, keeled over, legs in the air. It roused Jules from her torpor and drove her to madness and desperation.
When Jules happened upon Il Bastardo, the oldest, (they rarely talked about the reason for her name) it seemed that a black cloud had descended on their family, determined to snuff them out.

To be continued…

I’ll be able to remember much of what we saw during mine and Matt’s honeymoon in New Orleans, but our tour of a nearby swamp will be my most vivid memory from the trip.

We set out late one morning for the Honey Island Swamp on the other side of Lake Pontchartrain. The sun shone on a fairly pretty day — even in the middle of winter, the livin’ is easy there — and charming music of the southern persuasion kept time during our pleasant drive.

Upon arrival at the launch site, Matt and I got our first glimpse of the vessel and its captain who would ferry us throughout the silky brown waters.

The boat, though a sound one, seemed gnarled with dents dotting the hull. The rugged captain was the very picture of a swamp tour guide — a grizzled gray beard and craggy eyes beneath a battered hat, all atop an oft-worn sweatshirt and carelessly fastened toggs and mukluks.

Those eyes would appear to pierce through whatever befell them. We had the impression that this captain missed nothing.

His quick eyes proved useful in the swamps as the motor roared to life and we eased into the river — he spotted a Great Blue Heron and could tell, just from its call, whether it traveled alone.

“The ardea herodias,” he said in his gruff, emphatic patois.

His voice rambled us over the quiet waters. We gazed past the clumps of trees, including the occasional bald cypress — the state tree — searching for wildlife. Would the American crocodile make an appearance this early in the season?

The captain said it was not likely, though he would do his best to help us find one. Meanwhile, he enumerated the types of animals that call the swamp their home. Even the usefulness of the swamp life did not escape his explanation, as he told of how the oldest bald cypress trees were harvested from the land

“The taxodium distichum makes for excellent timber,” he said. “What remain are the younger, smaller trees that would not have been as attractive for timber to the foresters. They range in age up to 300 and 400 years old.”

Only when the boat paused could we ask questions of our guide.

“How do you know so much about the swamp and wildlife?” asked one passenger.

“You mean where was I educated on it?” the captain asked. “I’ve had some formal education and I do a lot of reading. If I see something, I go home and look it up, read about it, find out why it is the way it is.”

“Has a hunter ever been eaten by an alligator?” I asked.

“There are no — zero — fatalities on record in the state of Louisiana for an American alligator attack,” he replied. “Though the loss of extremities is not unheard of.”

This amused and comforted us, the indulgent visitors to this tranquil and mysterious place.

After guiding us along the river for about an hour and a half, our captain announced he would take a detour from his usual route in the hopes of finding an alligator on the surface for us to see. The thought of coming face-to-face with an alligator, even from the relative safety of our aged boat, chilled me.

“Is it getting colder?” I asked Matt.

Before long, I knew it wasn’t just my thoughts — the temperature had definitely dropped and the sky was darkening. One look at the faces of the other passengers told me they had noticed it, too.

“What happens if we get caught out in a storm?” one man asked.

“Don’t worry about it,” the captain barked. “We’ll be fine.”

I could almost swear he muttered something about spoiled tourists. As rain began to drum lightly on the tin roof of our craft, the buzz of discontent began to spread amongst the passengers.

Suddenly, lightning crossed the sky as thunder seemed to crack around us. Some of the glowering passengers were alarmed enough to shriek. The captain pressed on, further and further away from the launch site. Perhaps he knew a back way?

The rain was pouring and no end seemed to be in sight in our mad sluicing through the swamp.

“What’s going on?” the woman beside me yelped.

Abruptly, the captain jerked back on the throttle. Passengers were slung to the floor or into one another. One man struck his head on a metal support pole. Echoes of the smack of skull on metal and the scuffle of people were all I could perceive in the gloomy swamp.

As heads began to clear and people righted themselves, it became apparent that the captain had positioned the boat in the center of some kind of nest.

Fearful, I turned to look at the captain. Had he parked us in an alligator nest? I know next to nothing about the creatures, save what the captain has told us. Is he trying to scare us for his own amusement?

“Where are we?” yelled one man at the same time Matt was growling, “What’s wrong with you?” at the captain.

In response, our guide stared out into nothingness, an intense look on his face. Our host, the swamp, picked up the song of the wind — and something else.

The ferns surrounding the boat at the prow were moving eerily, as if something rather large were moving through them. Assuming it was an alligator, those at the front hastily crushed into those of us at the back.

In the susurrus, I heard a chuckling. I turned back.

As I was staring at him, the captain, who was still staring into nothing, a cacophony of screams erupted amongst the other passengers. I turned to the front and my eyes found what the captain had been staring at. It wasn’t nothing.

It’s straw-colored fur made for a mute change from the background of the green nest. Fur covered the creature from its glittering diamond eyes to its wide, heavy feet. The creature leered at the passengers, mouth slightly open, drool glistening on its ragged teeth. It locked eyes with the captain and something dawned there.

Recognition?

I turned to face the captain again and, through the gloom, saw the slightest smile on his face. He was not fearful or panicky. He seemed almost … content, as if he had merely completed a task.

Was this planned? Did he bring us here intentionally to encounter this creature? Something else nagged at the back of my mind.

My observations lasted a mere second or two. I was wrenched from my suspended state by a blood-curdling scream at the prow.

With its long and terrible claws, the monster was reaching for the nearest person, a petite woman clinging to a metal support pole. The massive beast’s sudden speed was terrifying. It leaped onto the boat with agility and wrapped its fingers in the woman’s hair, dragging her into its grasp.

The passengers were in an uproar. Panicked, I reached into my purse for my pepper spray. If all else failed, I could pepper spray the captain and navigate us back to the launch site. I wasn’t unfamiliar with a boat, after all. Matt kicked his snakeskin boots against the wooden bench and his jackknife was revealed.

With that paltry weapon in hand, Matt moved forward, pressed by the surge of people pinwheeling away from the monster.

“Matt! What are you doing?!?” I screamed.

The creature already had the woman in the water. Through the flailing crowd, I caught a glimpse of its jaws locked onto her collar bone. Then blood. All blood, it seemed.

I couldn’t reach Matt, but the grizzled captain saw his motive and moved quickly and sprightly toward Matt.

“Matt, look out!”

Matt turned just in time and met the captain…with the knife. The captain doubled over, clutching his stomach. The knife remained in Matt’s hand, covered in dark blood. The look on his face was one of horror.

“Ted…” the captain gargled while reaching for the creature.

Ted?

Ted slipped back into the swamps as stealthily as he had arrived.

Sadness filled the captain’s eyes as blood gathered around the corners of his mouth.

I took to the wheel and turned the key. The engine sputtered several times — while I held my breath — and finally caught.

“Hold on!” I yelled as I put the throttle into reverse, backing us out of the nest and into open waters. We sped back to where I thought the launch site was. The darkness made it difficult to recognize the landmarks, but we made it back.

The passengers scrambled out of the boat as soon as it was docked. Matt and I tied it down while the bloodied captain lay pale and silent, curled up on one of the wooden benches. I wanted to leave, to run and call the police, but first I needed to talk to our captain, our guide, the man who was supposed to lead us gently through still waters, but who punished and tortured us instead.

I approached the captain. Matt grasped my arm, but when he saw the look in my eyes, he knew I would not leave without finding out why this had happened to us, why that woman had to die.

The captain peered up at me as I hovered over him.

“Who was Ted?” I asked him.

He stared back at me, expressionless, for so long that I thought he would not answer. Finally, he did.

“My brother,” he said.

Sirens wailed in the distance.

“Come on,” Matt said. “We have to go.”

I still don’t understand what happened that day, or why. But I am certain I will never forget my visit to the Honey Island Swamp.

In another life, I was a real estate baron.

I knew, at that time, what a baron was, too. And I applied my title appropriately on my real estate, baroning all over it.

I would order the peasants to grow more carrots in less dirt, as I saw into the future and the day when we could grow carrots on the moon.

Maybe I was a real estate duke.

Later on, in yet another life, I was a slumlord.

I had a better handle on my responsibilities then, and they mostly involved doing nothing at all except demanding payment and waving around a violent-looking weapon. Any weapon, really.

Once, I smacked a guy in the face with a plastic spatula. This is what slumlords do when disappointed.

Sure, he paid me and everything, but it was six days late. Six days late.

That kind of behavior (late payment, standing there with his mouth hanging open, insisting “meester, meester” that I have pity) would normally warrant a thump on the knuckles with a wooden spoon, but my grandmother was upstairs making some chicken dumplings, so I had to improvise.

Also, I was a dude.

Now I’m running out of time to tell you about all of the ways I lorded over people, but I’ll be back later to explain this cryptic post.

Just…

wait…

for it.

Dear Leona,

What is your favorite color? If you could be a mermaid, vampire or werewolf, which would you choose? If you had to be killed by a mermaid, vampire or werewolf, which would you choose? What do you smell like? Is this thing on?

Also, what should I do about my stepmother’s father-in-law who will not stop stealing her uncooked spaghetti noodles?

Sincerely,

Noodle Head

Dear Noodle Head,

Gray, dark gray or charcoal. Mermaid. Vampire. Flesh. No.

You should really mind your own business. Uncooked spaghetti noodle theft is a deeply personal issue. We hope you can find help for this. We don’t know who “we” is.

Good day,

Leona

People always ask me, “Sarah, how do you make your house so inviting? And how do you make it a treat for the senses from the moment you set foot in the door?”

Deer heads, I say. On every wall.

You don’t have to get them professionally mounted by someone who was recently served a warrant for not having a license to disembowel your trophies with atavistic pleasure. You can chop their heads off yourself and affix them to your walls with a nail gun.

“Wow, I’ve never realized that striking aroma of blood and fur came from the deer carcasses and not a candle from the Rich & Tacky Candle Co.,” is usually the reply I get to this, followed by this question: “How do you get the deer?”

If you are picturing me in the woods with a muzzle loader, forget it! I would never sully my cashmere knee guards in such a predictable way.

I usually head to the drive-through animal reserve once or twice a year and take out one with my car.

Where’s the sport in that, you say? Getting away from security with your contraband should officially be named the World’s Greatest Sport.

Check back soon for the recipe for my favorite Saturday afternoon beverage while doing the laundry – Mtn. Dew. Sneak peek: The secret ingredient is the meth!