Ain’t nothing like a good ol’ fashion skunk hunt to bring the good folks of a community together. Ian has had a few formal complaints filed against him at work due to the skunk scent about his person. Last year he went on a house coat and rubber boot wearing shooting spree and successfully eliminated the former skunk family that had moved into the house with him and the cats. The 2006 family edition of skunks that currently occupies the house have proven to be a little more crafty and subsequently harder to eliminate despite Ian’s midnight underwear ambushes. So Ian put out the word that there was to transpire a good ol’ fashion official skunk hunt. Now I’ve been huntin’ rat for a while so I figured my skills would be easily transferred to a skunk operation. I’d also had my own encounters with skunks lately that ended in a fair amount of successful gunfire, but I’d never been on an official skunk hunt and I thought it sounded kind of exciting.
Ian set the time for 8:00pm. I got dressed up in my rat hunting outfit, grabbed my favourite settin’ pail (not to be confused with the shit bucket) and set out expecting a long cold night of sitting in the dark waiting for a clean shot. But when I pulled into the yard there appeared to be somewhat of a hoe-down taking place in Ian’s garage; however, most of the party go-ers were stumbling around with guns. Oh, everyone certainly had skunk hunting on the mind - there was a lot of talk about shooting, blasting and assasination - the problem was the little innocent sippy cups of “skunk huntin’ juice” that everyone was runnin’. I was immediately encouraged by Grover to partake of the juice; he then zigzagged over to the work bench that had been converted into a bar, and stirred me up a mighty powerful concoction of Jack Daniel's, Jim Beam, Jamaican rum and some of Chrissy’s sword fighting swill. And judging by Grover’s zigging, zagging, degeneration of language skills, and attire I’d figured he’d been on this particular skunk hunt for quite some time already. If he was in the movie Apocolypse Now, he would be considered “far from the river”.
Luckily, Richard showed up in the plow truck and joined in to help us. He also had some good advice saying that it was okay to be drinking the juice because we might all freeze to death otherwise.
Just about then, some of us closer to the door thought we heard the skunk coming, so Ian fired off a couple shots towards the noise for good measure. It turned out that it wasn’t the skunk at all, but rather a couple of queer cowboys from Boakback Mountain. I’m thinking the one wearing the bigger hat was from Fudgepack mountain though, because he had that kind of queerer than thou look in his baby-blue eyes.
Them little cups sure did sneak up on you and it didn’t take long before I thought it might be pretty hard to hunt skunk properly or safely with a rifle. I guess the rest of the posse was feeling the same way because we all started coming up with big ideas on how to either gas, blow, smoke, blast, poison, dig, electrocute, chase, or bomb the skunks out of their hole. I must admit-despite their handicap-them gay fellers come up with a good idea on how to make a grenade affair out of tinfoil, flour and some diesel fuel.
But in the end it was decided that the safest thing would be for Mark or Grover to go fetch one of their little dogs and we’d send it down into the crawl space to ferret out them bastardly skunks. I’m not sure what happened next, but all hell broke lose. I know that I was feeling cold and kept yelling to have my sippy cup filled; Chrissy was snapping way too many pictures of them gay fellas and that seemed to rile them; Ian was running some kind of lawnmower and yelling a lot; and Grover and Mark were setting up a contest to see which of their dogs was going to be sent after the skunks. Then the cowboys was affected by the drink too, I guess, and went from being the more innocent lispy-talking, 'Will and Grace' type girly gays to your more aggressive ass-grabbing, table dancing variety. They were also showing nude pictures of themselves to everyone. I’d had enough at that point because guns were starting to go off, so I went to sleep in my truck. Also I’m not into that gay cowboy shit even though them people in Hollywood are saying that gay cowboys are cool and okay nowadays and let them win all kinds of academy awards.
A while later I woke up to some kind of altercation and was a little concerned when I saw the gay cowboys stuff a limp Grover into the back of their car and drive off giggling. I didn’t take action because I know them fellers can be pretty tough. Grover hasn’t been heard from since the gay abduction, however I did receive a picture of him through email, in which he resembled an Iraqi kidnap victim.
After all that hunting, the skunks are still at large; Ian, his house, and cats still stink.
Plan B, I guess, will have to be devised.
