Norwegian Log: Day Nine (not)
Roaming Bone-Casters sans Divinations
My next Whale Time Article Previewed here first

To the person that left the chicken bone* in my front yard:

Please refrain from dumping the skeletal remains of your 'travelling' meal in my grass .

I assume the following from this discovery of mine:

You are a person in possession of a highly discerning and selective palette...you pamper and cater to your highly-tuned gustatory senses as evidenced by your choice of Fried Chicken as your 'food on the go.'

Why?

Why would you wantonly discard the remains of what was surely a feast of such grandeur that it left you breathless and pining for more when you finished with the last morsel of flesh? A repast of this nature is surely more deserving of a proper 'burial' in recognition to the taste explosion and maginficant nutriousness it imparted upon you whence the masticating ended...do you not think?**

No.

The appearance of this chicken bone in my yard speaks volumes about--not only your your distinguished taste-- but also your shallow and self-absorbed nature. You have no regard for the poultry you stuff your stuttering and gaping maw with; just that your grumbling gullet is sated into a silent and greasy silence.

'To hell with its bones!'

'It's all about the Meat!'

'I'm the cock of the walk!'

You fling your scraps willy-nilly; a form of braggadocio:

'This former drumstick tossed into your yard is my declaration to the world that I am above the animal kingdom--even my fellow Man-- and care naught for the late beast from which my nourishment was gleaned!'

This bravura of your's will not go unpunished.

I will find out who you are and retribution shall be visited upon you and yours.

How?

Fish Sticks.

Stinking half-eaten Fish Sticks left on your property and in your mail box. Hidden within your wife's clothes and secreted into the trunk of your vehicle. Fed-Exed to your your place of employment and soaked in the baptismal fonts of your house of worship. I'll cork your bats with them and laden your lacrosse racket with these breaded food travesties. Your blood work will come back Fish Stick Positive. You'll have the things seeping forth from your every orifice. In your morning coffee and in your thermos of soup. Leading your children into a life of crime, prostitution and snuff films. Keeping your neighbors up all night with their parties and calling 1-800-Fish-Fuck with your credit card. Stashed away in your sock drawer and under your mattress.

You'll be the God Damn 'Prince and the Fish Stick!'***

Choke on this Unending Modified-Fish Smorgasbord!

Ya see...I am NOT a man of distinguished taste.

I'm just one angry old**** sonuvabitch with a lot of free-time and a thirst for vengeance...of the Gorton's Fisherman-kind.

Ahem.

(breathe)

The reason I bring this up is that my bulldog, Roger, discovered this 'treat' last night and almost choked it down.*****

I cannot stomach (HA!) a person potentially harming my dog.

So...er...be a lil' more careful next time your out for a stroll and a nosh, eh?

T

*Specifically a Drumstick Remnant
**However, I am flattered that you considered my yard to be a fitting eternal resting place for your ex-Colonel Sanders selection. Seeing that the lawn has not been mowed since the third week of July, perhaps you thought it would remain hidden there until the Spring Thaw? Regardless, an ill choice for the bone in question.
***If you catch my Fairy Tale reference, ya well-fed roving illiterate.
****Older then you, ya whipper-snapper! Now get the Hell off my lawn, Porpy!!!
*****Mmm....Marrow!!!