Monday, March 21, 2011

Alligators are FUN


Nothing ever turns out the way I expected. I suspect that this is either because I expect the impossible and/or I am Gods designated one man comedy show.
A short example would be spray foam insulation.
Everyone else in the world presses the top and the foam comes out.
I had a can explode in my face and almost kill me.
This is irony.
It was also hilarious.
Irony.
I just remembered something.
It is a little Irony and a lot of stupidity.
You see, I lived in the south for a few years. They have alligators there. I have since learned that to alligators, we (You, humans) are nothing more or less then food.
I knew this then, but I don’t think you ever really KNOW this until some animal has tried to eat you.
Its humbling.
A friend of mine and his father owned an alligator farm.  The theory was, to raise alligators for their skins and meat. The practice was, they couldint get the right permits to sell the hides and steaks so they were just feeding them until they did.
They asked me  ”ifn I warnted to gos and feed them gators”
Of COURSE I did. Shazam! Feeding Gators! How cool is that?
It sucked.
I had no idea that in order to feed the Gators we would first have to get the gator-chow.
It comes prepackaged with feathers.
Dead Chickens.
I drove a 1 ton dump truck to 20 different farms, Egg farms, to gather up and load all of the chickens that had died that week.
A one week dead chicken that has been steaming in Alabama July for a week is an olfactory joy. If you are a rabid mentally unstable red tick coon hound.
To all other sentinent creatures it smells.
Bad.
Then off to the gator farm to feed the livestock.
Simple process, you dump the chickens and chuck them to the gators.
Did you know that when Gators get fed a lot they get big? I mean like really big? I guess an average gator is right around 8-9 feet long, these old boys were pushing twelve. They would hiss and snap and pop those chickens the way you or I would pop a grape. It was something I should probably tell my therapist about. If I had one.
Once the frenzy was over the owner, smiling wide enough that I could see his tooth, asked me If I would do just one more thing, since I was already there?
Sure. I mean, no problem Cleetus! Or whatever his name was.
He asked me ifn (is that really a word?) I would drive round the whole 12 acres and see ifn (crap) I could spot any dead gators. You gots to gets the skins offn em pretty gol-durned quick. I guess.
So, me and the kid (thats what they all called him, I am not sure ifn his name was “Kid” or he was just the youngest? he was about 45)
drove off to seek dead gators. I really wanted to find one. I had seen live gators, now I wanted to see a dead one.
Truth be told, I really wanted to touch one. I dont know why, I was very curious in my 20s.
And lo….. WE FOUND ONE! I was so excited! The kid was too, even though he didnt even blink, or smile, or move, or even glance at the dead Gator. I KNEW he was excited. Who wouldint be?!?!?
I knew it was dead because its fore legs and head were under water and its rear legs and tail were stretched up on the bank.
I watched it for 15 minutes. It didnt move, no bubbles, not a twitch. It was dead.
So I went to touch its tail.
Perfect chance, and every boys dream, touch a dead gator tail.
Just one second, what in the HELL was wrong with me?
ok.
Like I was saying, perfect chance.
I had it all planned out, I was going to saunter on down, bend, touch its tail, have the Kid snap a picture for proof and saunter back.
easy peasy.
this is the ironic part.
That stupid chicken eating reptilian ass-dodger was faking.
Faking. as in, not dead.
I bent down to touch its tail and a very small part of my brain screamed “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING!!!!”
That part of my brain picked up a rock and threw it at the Gators head.
We, that part of my Brain and I, were watching the rock slowly drift through the swamp water to the gators head
and
Its jaws snapped one inch from my face.
That fast.
I jumped straight back and straight up and landed on the hood of the car.
The Gator threw itself into the water and began to thrash and roll in a circle.
I think it thought it had got me.
I sat, very quietly and contemplated the irony of the situation.
The Kid, laconic and stoic, and I thought;  Mute.
Laughed so Hard I think he did himself an injury.
Tis ironic.

3 comments:

Aimee said...

Yes, ifn is a word. His name was not Cleetus, it was Bubba. And gators are nothing. It's banjos you have to worry about.

Tom said...

@Aimee, Bubba helped me unload the chickens, Junior helped me throw them to the Gators and my other cousin beans best friend Bucky serenaded us on the banjo.....

Sapphire Dragonflies said...

The joys of living in the south! No kidding, in my little Arkansas town I've encountered some of the strangest names. A biker chick down the road who named her kid Just Another (last name). That guy who everyone calls Twinkie and that other guy that everyone calls Biscuit. Yeah, small town AR...population 14 people, 24 hound dogs, and 25,000 chickens...