Shitter's Full!
One July I rounded up the dogs – who were long overdue for a vacation – and headed north to visit my parents (and assorted siblings, in-laws and one niece/two nephews). Since I got back, I heard approximately 58 stories from as many people on the Japanese beetle plague that was, er, plaguing Missouri. Everybody was talking about these spawned straight from hell creatures apparently leveling forest, flora, fauna and foliage all over the state and single-handedly setting back the crab-apple harvest 20 years.
While my brother Scott wildly sprayed DDT up in the trees in a desperate Arc of Destruction, my sister-in-law Ashley was convinced there’s a hive somewhere on their property. Knowing her, she had this mental picture of the Alien queen nurturing her young. Painstaking research (i.e. Wikipedia) says that the origination of these abhorrent creatures are 12-18 inches under the ground in the form of grubs, and something called “Milky Spore” will handle most of the pestilence, given a toehold over the winter. I still think the best preventative is a backyard predator called Alfie J. Kalin, but no one will believe me when I tell them that #mymuttkicksbutt when it comes to destroying all life he comes across. Specifically, he is a grub-eating fool.
That’s OK with Alfie. He had better things to do on vacation – primarily competing with his sister in an old dog snoring contest.
To be sure, it’s quite relaxing at my parents’ house in the country. Cicada songs lulled us to sleep at dusk each evening and birds heralded dawn around 5:00 am. The sun crested the cornfield a couple of minutes later, which was just about the perfect time to brew a cup of coffee and turn on Breakfast at Wimbledon. My dad has been known to stand on the front stoop, face the sunrise, puff out his chest and interject his best Tarzan yell into the tranquil dawn resplendence. That will usually set the neighbors’ dogs howling, and thus, the household is awakened.
In case no one had heard, on July 4, Americans far and wide note the anniversary of our glorious nation’s inception by blowing things up while drinking judgment-impairing beverages, which everyone knows is how George Washington and his Continental Army wrested the colonies away from the Redcoats. But it was great family time too. Scott and Ashley threw a fantastic get-together, resplendent with beef burgers, mac-and-cheese, ambrosia salad and 500 grams of Cousin Eddie.
Having never been a pre-adolescent boy, I learned that week that there’s nothing funnier than a firecracker that poops. Wyatt and Witten – and their 40-something-year-old Tante, tbh – had a good snicker over the Pooping Puppy and the Howl ‘n Dump. And then, of course, someone yelled “Shitter’s full!” and lit the Cousin Eddie.
