27 September 2006
Provincialism - OR - I like Tenn more than Texas
Ever since Kees was a small Keesie like the one clinging to its Mama's back above, I have had good ears.
Listening about campfires, I heard stories that were not meant for my delicate little mind.
We are blogging about the King of the Cats and his influence on the mind of primitive man, us. (ED - You)
Extreme provincialism was the order of the day.
So whenever I mention "Bolander" insert the name of a (Province)(State)(Country)(Region) who's inhabitants show bad markmanship, poor hunting skills, or the liking of good wine over beer or hard tack, have more money than you, have bad taste - insert something like "Virginian" or "Frenchie" for instance.
So the story goes...
These two Bolanders with their 'airs' and 'sophistication' booked a hunting holiday.
It is day two and they have shot nothing for the pot. (66 misses out of 66 shots, I saw it with my own eyes)(ED - He did)
To get someting to eat... they bought some canned meatballs at a local shop.
They are sitting around a campfire drinking and boasting.
They have just showered under a small waterfall and are dressed in the latest sports gear. Loose pants, T-shirts (with appropriate designer logo's) and calf high "hunting" boots, in vogue with fashionably loose laces, the boots funneling about their lower legs. Their rifles are leaning against a nearby chair.
Tom the one Bolander, was sitting on his haunches next to the fire holding a longhandled frying pan in one hand and heating the meatballs over the fire.
Bolander Jan: Hey Tom, what would you do if Big Male Lion
walked right up to you now while you are heating the food?
Bolander Tom: I would look him straight in the eye - I am very strong that way you know - get up, take my gun and shoot him between the eyes! Pour us another, won't you.
Drinks are served.
The hunting trip is going well.
At that moment a big, dirty, ugly...
... lion then parts the grass and says: HUAEWHGrrrr are you!
Ashenfaced, Tom now steps backwards, still on his haunches, his death grip on the handle of the frying pan with its boiling meatballs, his fasionable calf high boots funneling about his ankles.
In his panic by the fourth step backwards, he starts tipping the boiling meatballs into his boot.
FOK! says he, I never knew my own shit could be this HOT!
Photo's by Ron Eggert
He thought he was hot shit!