You Have Dysentery (DEN)

530 plankin' in the street
530 plankin’ in the street

It’s dark.  It’s snowy.  It’s cold.  You’ve been hauling not an ounce more than 1,000 lbs. of meat through the entire state of Wyoming for the last 3 weeks.  You’ve been chased by wolves, stampeded by angry, under-sexed bison, and nagged by your loving wife, Eunice, that you’ve been pushing the oxen too hard.  You lost some ammo and clothes fording the river because you didn’t have the cash to be ferried across.  One of the kids has dysentery and the whole wagon smells like recycled Doritos.  Doritos?  Yeah, they’ve been around for awhile.  An old trail snack designed by natives to induce violent diarrhea in prospective settlers.  Anywho, we’ve gotten distracted by the origins of Frito-Lay.  Not the first time.

Like the Oregon Trail, this morning’s workout was truly survival of the fittest.  For every hill our brave, pioneering souls ran, we each made 1 snowball.  Matthew, the local Snocialist, added and subtracted snowballs to various piles as he saw fit.  After that, it was every man, woman, and child for themselves in a Hatfield versus McCoy battle royale snowball fight.  Last one to get hit has to fix the wagon axle!

Seriously, you guys were fucking gangsters of the prairie this morning.  There are certain days when rolling out of bed at 4:30 am is the last thing I want to do, but like a nasty case of the trots, you guys just keep showing up.  THAT is the coal that makes this love train roll.  The winters are rougher than going commando in a pair of wool pants.  You guys are the boxer briefs that protect us from chaffing our grundles.  This thing doesn’t work without you.  We NEED you and we want more of you!  Keep showing up and keep telling your posse how good this shit is, because they may want this just as much as you!

Official winner of this morning’s snowball fights was Bearded Married Troy, both for his war cry “WITNESS ME!!!” and for doing burpees in the middle of ice-ball crossfire.  Congratulations, Troy!  You are one crazy motherfucker, and we’re glad you’re here!


Writing About Poop Since 1984,

Major Woody

615 "Woody, are you serious?!"
615 Dog Pound



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