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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required We were armed at fourteen with BB guns and reckless abandon. So started many of our cousinly adventures. Central Utah has hot, hot summers and little else going for it. We took to the sage in shorts and t-shirts begging the tics to climb aboard. Lyme disease? For suckers by suckers. By and large our hikes were aimless. We’d shoot lizards if we could… or any glass objects that were lying around if we couldn’t. A fire was needed in the desert heat in the middle of the day because we had a string of fire crackers and a shortage of common sense. There was an abundance of combustibles and we chose the dried up cow pies… less poop for the dog to eat. We stacked a few into a pile then lit it up. They were Black Cats… or possibly Lady Fingers. In either case, they were lame one at a time. So we threw them all in at once. Did you know burning cow manure and fire crackers make babies? Flying, fiery babies of death with an insatiable appetite for combustibles. Neither did we. We stomped their nest. Tried to bury it. We weren’t dummies, (I know what you’re thinking) we had built close to water. So we tried some mud. Still the babies hatched. So violently so noisily so fire-erly that we decided it was time to run. If the world was going up in flames… we weren’t sticking around. Armed with BB guns, we were desert deserters. We didn’t get far before the hatching ended. It turns out flying, fiery babies of death have a very high mortality rate or a very short life span. We knew it all along… hell spawn can’t survive here even in the desert it’s too cold. To this very day, I thank the heavens that we were only fourteen and hadn’t had enough money for more than one string of Black Cats… or possibly Lady Fingers. 05/08/15 *true story, and I'm happy to still be around to tell it, haha.
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