Whatever

Might be a grandpa by this time tomorrow . Daughter checked into the hospital @5 this evening and being induced into labor tomorrow

 

We have only had like 4 days over a 100 this summer so far.. we avg like 20 I think

 

I can't do sharp cheddar. Not really of a fan of cheddar. Much rather have Monterey Jack or Colby Jack. Tillamook is good though. I like their ice cream.

 

I’m in bed. Plotting evil plans to take over the world. Or something.

 

In a hurry I got off the interstate and on the offramp a Robin hit the windshield. A leg got caught on a wiper and had it stuck. It didn't die and was gasping for air so I turned on the wipers and it flew off. Well I wasn't aware there was a highway patrol behind me. Damn bird hit him and he puts on his lights and pulls me over. Up to my window and says Mr I'm taking you to jail for flipping me the Bird.

 

twah stee

 

So I start the morning the usual way: banana, questionable energy drink, and me whispering sweet nothings to the 4Runner in the driveway like “You ready to do war crimes in the forest?” The mirrors fogged over slightly, which I took as consent.

I drove out solo. Or so I thought. About 15 minutes into the trail, I saw something move behind me in the rearview mirror. Not a tree. Not a squirrel. It looked like an unlicensed taxidermy project with huge feet and a Patagonia vest.

I stop. Step out. Leaves rustle. Out walks Bigfoot, dragging a rusty Hi-Lift jack and holding what I think was a Capri Sun. He points at my tires and goes, “Too much pressure. That’s why your soul feels heavy.”
I don’t know how he knew, but I immediately aired down to 14 PSI.

Now I’m feeling good. Real good. I’m crawling over boulders like a goat with a grudge, the 4Runner humming like a sentient fridge. Everything’s perfect until I round a bend and come face to face with a Yeti—not the cooler, the beast. White fur, glowing eyes, standing on a rock like he's in a shampoo commercial. He screams, I scream, the 4Runner throws itself into reverse unprompted and we both vanish in opposite directions.

Somewhere in the confusion, my GPS turns off and the infotainment screen starts playing static and old episodes of Knight Rider. I swear the nav lady whispered “You’ve entered the forbidden zone” but in a Scottish accent.

Then it gets weirder.

I hit a clearing. In the middle? A single raised platform made of tree bark and boulders. On it? A unicorn. Not like some prissy rainbow-horse cartoon. This one had scars, glowing hooves, and off-road recovery straps wrapped around its torso like a bandolier. It made eye contact and the 4Runner stalled immediately, like it was paying respect.

The unicorn trots up, snorts dust from my air intake, and taps its horn on my hood. Suddenly, my check engine light turned off. I haven’t seen it since. It healed my rig. Or cursed it. Jury’s still out.

Then a loud roar echoes from behind. The Yeti is back, riding a dirt bike made of bones and PVC pipe. Bigfoot shows up again with a snorkel in one hand and a trail map in the other. The unicorn rears back and screams, “CHOOSE YOUR LINE, MORTAL.” I floor it.

Everything after that was a blur of mud, screaming trees, high-speed crawling, and me swerving around mythological creatures trying to hand me fliers for trail yoga. At one point I swear the 4Runner grew antlers. At another point I drove through a creek that felt like it was whispering compliments to my undercarriage.

Finally, I burst out onto pavement again. Covered in dirt, antenna missing, gas light on, grill stuffed with moss. I look in the mirror—Bigfoot’s gone. The unicorn? Vanished. Yeti? Left behind a single cooler full of iced kombucha and cold pizza.

I pull into a gas station. The attendant takes one look at my rig and just says, “You went north of marker 7, didn’t you?”

I don’t respond. Just buy a Gatorade, nod like I’ve seen things, and drive home.

The 4Runner idled smoother than ever. Suspension? Feels like riding a cloud made of tires and vengeance. MPG is up. My dog refuses to get back in the vehicle. My wife says my eyes glow at night. I haven’t slept since.

Anyway, has anyone else had their rig blessed by a woodland unicorn and/or spiritually tested by a bipedal ape in hiking gear? Also, how do I clean Yeti drool off my tailgate? It’s like antifreeze and broken dreams.

 

Good luck! ❤️

 

❤️

 

LoL

 

that was awesome!

 

So I’m cruising down this pitch-black backroad, fog so thick it feels like driving through a cloud of expired ghost farts. I’m thinking, “Man, I really need upgraded fog lights because these stock ones are about as useful as a screen door on a submarine.”

Then out of nowhere, bam—there’s a shape right in the middle of the road. My brain screams “DEER!” because, you know, it’s deer season and I’m already clutching the wheel like it owes me money.

I slam the brakes, tires squeal, and as I get closer, the shape shifts and… wait… what?

It’s not a deer.

It’s three Amish kids jammed inside a horse costume, trotting awkwardly like they’re trying to audition for a low-budget Halloween special. They’re yelling something that sounds like “Giddyup!” or maybe “Shut up, Dave!”—hard to tell in the fog.

I nearly lost my mind. I mean, who even thinks to dress up like a horse on a foggy backroad at night? And why am I the only one seeing this circus?

I laugh, but my relief is short-lived because as I’m shaking my head and trying to process what just happened, I flick my headlights a bit more—and there, just past the horse-kids, standing in the fog, is something else.

Something... not right.

A figure. Tall, lanky, with eyes glowing faintly like it’s had one too many cans of energy drink itself. The cryptid of local legend—the “Fogfoot”—staring right at me like it’s deciding if I’m dinner or just a confused tourist.

My heart jumps, and I slam the fog lights on full blast. Spoiler alert: My stock fog lights? About as effective as a candle in a hurricane.


Suddenly it steps forward with a slow, predatory gait. I swear I heard it mutter, “Fresh meat?” in a voice that sounded like a swamp monster gargling gravel.

My heart rockets. I slam the fog lights to full power, but my stock ones barely cut through the fog. The cryptid starts closing in—feet silent, eyes locked, and honestly, I thought this was it.

Then, panic mode kicks in.

I yank the gear into low, slam the gas, and my 4Runner roars like it knows this is do-or-die. The tires bite hard—thank God I had aired down earlier—and I power through the mud and gravel like a man possessed.

The cryptid lunges but can’t keep up on the loose dirt. I’m hauling ass, swerving past the horse-costumed Amish kids, who are now cheering (I think) or yelling something about “Crazy city folk!”

The fog thickens, the engine screams, but my adrenaline-fueled brain and the truck’s grit get me the hell out of there.

I didn’t stop until the cryptid’s green glowing eyes were a distant memory, and my hands finally stopped shaking enough to drop the third (and last) White Monster from my cup holder.

 

Color she wants

https://youtube.com/shorts/jAWmYPBuvqQ?si=VJt1C297PPnGrqnQ

 

HI FEEESHING MAN

 

You need to find a place that serves hucklebery icecream