The Scout Chronicles: Shit Got REAL on Christmas Morning

Scout LOVES Christmas.  I need to get that right out there in the open.  Fires, trees to piss on, decorations to chew up, drunk humans dropping food out of their fat fucking mouths all day long, Grandma gets me bomb-ass toys, just a time of year when everything starts coming up Scout.  This year was no different.  I got a dog that I have since kicked the ever living shit–er stuffing–out of.  Grandma also got me this bitchin’ toy that has the body of a…..I haven’t a fucking clue.  Turtle, chupacabra, whatever.  Most importantly it has Santa Claus’s head.  That is all Scout needs, give that fat bastard a run for his money.  2 Christmases ago I was feeling a bit froggy and tried to steal aunt Cora’s (seen above, left) new toy skunk.  Achy-Breaky, Big-Mistaky.  Narrowly avoided being caught in a vicious jaw chomp and only Scoutmesiter’s fleet paws saved him from the bull charge.  That and my Uncle MEG stepping in on my behalf.  Dude is like the Falconer or some shit.  Animals just respect him.  Even the ones he kills while hunting.  But back to this year.  After the usual opening of the gifts (and to be honest, though Scoutster’s math skills aren’t exactly Stephen Hawking like, I’m pretty sure I take it in the ass on the quantity of gifts) and the eating of the food and the walking around aimlessly picking up all the loose paper that I would be more than happy to chew the shit out of, the family decided to go hiking.  Me, Aunt Cora, Uncle MEG, this woman who has been spending an inordinate amount of time with Uncle MEG the past couple of years, Grandma, Grandpa, and my other Grandpa.  Oh, and of course Mom, Dad and my little Sister.  But fuck them, they didn’t even bring any toys for the Ol’ Scouter on Christmas morning.  Some liberal hippy shit about giving me my presents at home early.  That isn’t how it works, assholes.  I get presents early, I get presents on Christmas day.  What, has dad been losing at the track or something?  So off we go to a state park.  Lovely affair.  Nice little water fall, Scoutmeister got his paws wet, rolled in buku deer shit, ran back and forth from person to person with no real destination.  It was a soul-quenching day to be honest.  Blue bird sky and a very long walk.  Eventually my dad, me and my little sister got way out ahead of the pack because sissy started squawking, as she is prone to do, and we needed to get to the car.  Dad’s got her in some stupid assed carrying case which flattens her up against his chest.  I hope she likes smelling chest hair.  For the life of me I don’t understand why they don’t just throw a collar around her neck and hook a leash to it.  Works for the Scoutmeister.  Hell, I can pick them up one after-market for 50% off when we get home if they want.  Which brings me to the crux of the story: Scout was cruising around out in the woods, totally off-leash.  That is fuckin-A right, easy breezy, no goddamn leashy.  We’re nearing the very end of the hike when we encounter three humans walking two dogs, both of whom were on-leash, as the law demands.  Don’t care for the law in our clan.  We are the fuckin’ law.  So dad approaches with my sister, as does Scout.  To be honest, my first instinct was to start kicking some ass.  But given it was Christmas, I decided to do the polite thing and sniff some anus.  Dad is telling the humans that there is nothing to worry about, Scout is a nice dog and we didn’t expect to encounter anyone on Christmas, yadda yadda yadda.  Then he says the stupidest shit I’ve heard in yonks, “There is another, much larger dog, a short distance behind.  But don’t be alarmed, she is even nicer than Scout”.  BAHAHAHAHA!  You were there two Christmases ago when she nearly fucking ended Scout you dumb shit.  Are you stupid or are you knowingly lying?  And then it happens.  Aunt Cora crested the ridge above our position, sun behind her.  Dad and I looked at each other, and just by the way Cora was standing, we knew shit was fucked.  She comes marching down the like Nazi army into Paris.  She sniffed the first dog’s ass on a drive-by, starts sniffing the other’s.  What happened next I can only speculate, it may have been the second dog whispered into Cora’s ear that she eats cat shit or that her asshole smelled clean.  Whatever it was, Cora bull-charged that son-of-a-bitch straight into the bushes.  Spit flying, chomp-barking, snarling, humans screaming, you name it.  And once Cora locks in, you are hating life.  Dad runs over yelling at Cora, acting like he is going to step in.  Yeah right!  You are just going to step in between a bull mastiff in full-blown berzerker mode and her victim, with an infant strapped to your torso.  High comedy.  Scout was bounding around, just waiting for that other dog to start some shit so the Scoutmeister could put him in the hurt locker.  Now my sister tells it that I was standing directly behind dad’s legs, quivering and whimpering like a little bitch.  Whatever, don’t believe a goddamn thing that chick tells you–she isn’t even house-broken.  Some how, some way, the only person in the world Cora defers to ultimately is my grandma, who was screaming bloody murder and got Cora off the other dog.  Dad is all apologetic, like “Oh, so sorry I told you the mastiff was polite.  She is actually a stone-cold fucking killer and you are lucky your half-assed old collie mix is still breathing.  Merry fucking Christmas ya schmucks.”  Or something to that effect.  I don’t even know where I was headed with this whole thing, but the bottom line is, you fuck with the bull (pun intended, Scout has a rapist’s wit), you get the horns.  Hope everyone had a happy holiday.  Scout out.     

About Zach

Male homo sapien. Warrior poet. I live in Chicago with one wife, one offspring, and Scout the dog. I enjoy various stuff. Besides skinny skiing and going to bullfights on acid, I also enjoy running, reading, drinking, eating and procrastinating on many things, such as starting this blog. I have a mom, a dad, and a younger brother who recently produced a sister-in-law. I'm the only person in my family, sister-in-law included, who doesn't have a post-graduate degree. I guess that makes me special. I grew up in a small to medium sized town in the middle of Ohio. In fact the even smaller town next door has a sign which reads "The Geographic Center of Ohio". Given this is what they choose to boast you can only imagine how exciting that town is. My town is infinitely cooler. For example on weekend nights people from my town and the surrounding villages and hamlets converge on the public square to "cruise" in their souped-up mini trucks, some bearing Confederate flags, despite growing up and living rather safely north of the Mason-Dixon line. This is high-minded stuff we're talking about here. I graduated sometime during the Clinton presidency from the local high school where I played football and participated in absolutely nothing else. This strategy paid huge dividends when I applied to numerous colleges on the eastern seaboard which were highly selective. When you show up to the admissions table with "HIgh School Football and Nothing Else" on your application, you get respect. After graduating from Ohio University with a degree in Economics that I've used for absolutely nothing, I moved to Boston. Boston is a lovely city. I was doing things I'm not proud of for beer money and I left after 16 months. My next move was to Chicago and 10+ years later there I still reside. I write this blog for therapeutic reasons. Much like some people paint to relax or smoke crack to unwind after a stressful day, I record my thoughts on Al Gore's World Wide Web for 9 friends, 4 family members, 1 person who accidentally clicked through after an unsuccessful Google search for something else, and a guy named Patriot1 who lives in a silver Air Stream in the Nevada desert and broadcasts his own radio show. Is there a point to all of this? I doubt it. Years ago and in a galaxy far, far away (College Park, Maryland, then Athens, Ohio) I was toying with the idea of being a journalism major. I enjoyed writing so it seemed the obvious fit. Then I attended career day and learned that journalism majors could look forward to a salary of $EA,TSH.IT per year with the promise of a fatal heart attack at 47 years of age. I'm not falling for that trick, I told them (them being no one, and told being saying it in my own mind in the shower). Approximately 15 years later here I sit declared the big winner in that battle: I never made any money doing anything else and now I'm writing entirely for free. So suck balls, journalism career day. The views expressed in this website are mine and mine entirely. I don't wish to be an even bigger black eye to my family than I probably already am. As a result of this I will never be able to run for public office and I accept that reality. But this website is a very dignified, well-dressed skeleton full of witty retorts and honorable deeds compared to the disheveled, stenching, staggering and loud skeletons who would come marching out of the closet to White Zombie's "Thunderkiss '65" if they ever unearthed the college years. So enjoy your train ride, your hangover day at work, your AA meeting or your dump. I'm here to serve.
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