Monday, June 18, 2012

Live Action! Now with more varmints!

I really watch too much TV.

Yesterday found me enthralled by a Gator Boys marathon followed by a few episodes of Call of The Wildman on Animal Planet.  At least the Gator Boys show has some redeeming qualities, like they don't kill the gators and either keep them or relocate them, which is cool.  The show borders on educational.  

Call of the Wildman?  No redeeming qualities whatsoever.  None.  Zippo.

Call of the Wildman is a show based on the escapades of one Ernie Brown Jr., aka Turtleman.  He travels the backwoods of Kentucky removing nuisance wildlife from peoples' homes, relocating vicious snapping turtles and reinforcing country bumpkin stereotypes.  

He's got about as much business acumen as he does teeth.  Instead of getting paid for his services, he seems to get compensated in jars of honey or in captured snakes.  No wonder he has to resort to home-made equipment, like a protective suit of towels duct taped to his arms and some leftover netting to create an anti-bee and skunk suit.

One of the more recent episodes had Turtleman getting raffled off at a fair in one of those Buy A Date With A Local Celebrity kind of gig.  I believe he went for over $700 to a trio of big haired country gals.  Big haired country gals who thought he'd take them someplace nice, like a restaurant.  Um, did you just see the part where he attempted to eat a sandwich he'd lost 4 days earlier under the seat of his truck?  Yeah, restaurant.

Turns out he took them to a mud hole to remove three snapping turtles.  Perfect!  One for each gal!

Between his scrawny chest and his bumpkin jihad scream, he managed to coerce them into the stangant pond.  This is where things got hysterical for me.

Imagine a happy-go-lucky redneck and Kentucky's equivalent of a Jersey Shores Girl submerged in muddy water up to their chins.  This is Turtleman's dialogue (the girls are mostly just squealing in horror):

Feel anything?

It's pretty good sized, huh?

You got it? Pull! Pull haaaard!  Don't let go!!!!

At this point I am shrieking in hysterics in front of the TV, scaring my dogs.  "Tugging on the turtle's tail," now has a whole new meaning in my book!

Turtleman is so caught up with his turtles that I'm not sure he truly appreciates the hilarity of his double entendres.  Or maybe he does.  

Those reality shows can be pretty staged.  For all I know, once the cameras stop rolling, he showers, puts in his teeth and struts about town speaking the Queen's English.  You know, 'cause that's what I do.

Wednesday, June 13, 2012

Ass? Meet Tea Kettle

I have a huge fear of falling.  Why? I don't know.  Maybe my mother dropped me on my head when I was a baby.  Actually, that wouldn't surprise me and would probably explain a few things.

Anyway, my aunt and I decided to tackle cleaning out my garage and making a pile of stuff to put in a yard sale.  Cool.  We're going to the beach together in a few weeks and that'd be a great way to pay for gasoline.

I'm not a hoarder, but I do have issues getting rid of stuff.  I can't possibly throw that away!  I could use it for . . . yeah, no.

After those hoarder shows started airing on cable, I realized it could happen to me if I let it.  Over lunch once, a friend said she told her husband he's "one dead cat away from being on Hoarders."  

Brilliant!  My new mantra!  Now I look at stuff differently:  do I really need this . . . used paper bag?  Broken bird feeder?  Hole riddled underpants?  Really?  Really??  

One dead caaaaat!  

The thought of me shuffling through a maze of haphazardly stacked newspapers, worn clothes and empty Crystal Light containers, with the distant sound of kittens meowing is more than enough to get me to throw crap away!

The piles in the garage got away from me before I came to this new way of thinking. Luckily, my aunt Cathy loves to clean and organize.  I don't know where she got that from and am guessing she's a mutant.  Or adopted.  But who am I to deny her the archaeological adventure that is my garage?

So we dug around, looking for junk to sell.

Apparently I had forgotten that I had pushed my lawn mower into the driveway when we first began digging.  I realized it was behind me when I backed into it with my calves while dragging a massive dog crate out of the garage.  Whoopsie!

I hate those slow motion moments almost as much as I hate the thought of falling . . . that out of control feeling of knowing what's about to happen, but being helpless to stop it.  Damn.

When I backed into the mower, I was thrown off balance and landed on my butt on top of it, which then started rolling--with me on it--down the hill!  I flailed around uselessly, sliding for what seemed like forever and distinctly remember thinking, "Ass over teakettle!" which made me laugh.

Somehow, I toppled off of the lawn mower before it rolled between our cars and into the street, but not before bruising the hell out of my both my ass and my pride.

Cathy was mortified!  I was thrilled, not because I fell, but because nothing seemed broken and she appeared to be the only witness!  As hilarious as my pinwheeling self looked in my mind's eye, I really had no desire to see the real thing on YouTube. Some visuals are better left to the imagination.

I still fear falling, but my skull is intact, we had a good laugh and now I can dance around in my garage.