Back into the fray, atop a wobbly-kneed ruminant mammal of unusual size

A lot of folks have been asking where I’ve been the past few weeks.

No one’s really been asking.  My mom asked why I haven’t called.  I talked to her yesterday, but there’s something ingrained in a mother to start each phone conversation with “why haven’t you called?”

I can’t blame mom, though.  It’s an unconscious instinct for her to ask, like a baby dolphin knowing to rise to the ocean’s surface for air, or how white trash folk can sniff out the finest crystal meth like pigs rooting out truffles.  I’ve seen it.  Well, I haven’t seen it, but I’d like to think- one day- an enterprising young Kid Rock fan will find a bushel of delicious crystal meth with a glorious black truffle right on top, like the proverbial cherry crowning an ice cream sundae.  But with more hives and tooth loss…

Or maybe that was just a dream I had.  And since when do they sell crystal meth by the bushel?  Yes, you’ve caught me in a lie.  I have no idea of the standard weights and measures of lab-created controlled substances.  Chalk that good sense up to Nancy Reagan.

The point is:  when a moose gets drunk on a bunch of half-rotten, fermenting apples in Sweden, the interweb is telling me it’s time to get back on the horse, or the drunken moose.  There’s far-too much booze-induced brouhaha on this great planet deserving of commentary.  Innately, without thought or reservation, I’m compelled by a primal drive to weigh in.  Call it “instinct”.

So, as far as a moose cow getting cocked on cider and finding itself stuck in a tree goes:

I’m for it.

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