Sunday, December 16, 2012

Hunting Season 2012: Story 6, Don't Hurl

Story 1:

Story 2:

Story 3:

Story 4:

Story 5:

When out hunting with our friend The Weasel (pronounced like Grease-el) a lot of weird things happen.  Let's be honest, hunting would be boring without him.  But a lot of things that are funny when looking back on it are not funny at the time.

On the last morning of hunting, right before I shot my hog, I agreed to let The Weasel sit in my tree (my hunting spot.)  Since Dad and I didn't know where we were going, we sat in the truck while the Weasel started getting ready.

Dad has a 4 door Ford F-150, and The Weasel sits in the back right seat.  Dad and I sit up front.  The Weasel had the door open, and was standing right by the truck when he unleashed a torrent of insect spray inside the truck. 

I had just enough time to yell at Dad, "Open the door," as I swung mine out.  The air was so thick with bug spray I could taste it, as well as breathe in what I suspected was a mustard gas canister worth of spray.  I thought to myself, "Oh my God.  I am going to hurl."  But then I realized that I can't hurl.  Dad is a sympathetic hurler like Wayne and Garth of Wayne's World.

That's when Dad yelled at me, "Don't you dare hurl!"  To which I replied, "I'm trying not to!"  And remember all this time I am choking, coughing, and crying due to the obnoxious amounts of mustard gas, oops, I mean bug spray that was unleashed in the truck.

At that time we figured it was prudent to abandon the truck, and get out into some fresh air.  I continued coughing for the next 20 minutes or so.  In fact, I continued to cough right up until I shot the hog. 

But the good news is that despite barely being able to breathe I did not puke.  Oh, and I did get a hog that day.  I'll take them both as great victories.

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