DISMEMBERED BAMBI ON MY FRONT PORCH... AHHH, MEMORIES

Wednesday's blog status: Encroaching on Thursday. I will not fail you! I will get this out on Wednesday! It may be boring, it may totally suck, but I will not give in! (Not that anyone is really waiting on pins and needles, right?)

Tuesday Dork Side status: First edition of the Dork Side (yesterday's post) went better than expected. Only one person threw rotten fruit (I'm not naming names, Cam) But she redeemed herself when she mentioned deer legs in the snow.

What did she mean, you may ask?

Let me tell you a little story about Cam's husband. His name's Ben and we practically grew up together. I was the little brother he never wanted. He was the bigger brother who used to engage in a grossly ritualistic and bloody rite of passage that most Utah boys ( due to a lack of oxygen from the inversion, no doubt) have instilled in them from their day of birth.

Can anyone guess to what I am referring?

Let me preface the rest by telling you something about my mother. Insects have feelings. Fleas just want to be loved. Spiders are angels trapped in an eight-legged hairy body. The 'least of these' have been did unto (does that make biblical sense) in my home.

Every little critter was given safe passage out onto our front porch. (Except for the random rat in our back yard. Those get squished by my dad's physician's desk reference. But, I digress).

Anyway, our little innocent Ashton family woke up one snowy morning to find a most disturbing sight in our front yard. Four deer legs sticking out of a mound of snow. Yes, Bambi had been slaughtered on our door step. Her body only half buried under snow, the four legs sticking straight up in the air.

After we revived my mother, we went out front to un-snow the little darling. Only guess what? The four deer legs weren't attached to anything! Bambi had been dismembered, and her legs had been stuck into the snow mound in our yard!

Curses, Ben Ballou! Curse your deer appendages! Now, if it had been anybody else, my mother never would have found the good graces to forgive. But this was Ben. Granted, he would soon find out he owed her a lifetime of servitude, but he was eventually forgiven. I never understood, until one day she told me she always wanted just two children: my sister erin and a son.

Let me just say that despite his infantile, and often juvenile influence, I kept my dignity. Ben's childishness never rubbed off on me, as I constantly refrain from stooping to his level. (Although he is very tall, passing six feet, so he has to stoop really really low to reach my level, and then I stoop even lower to show where his level really is, if it were physically possible for him to get that low).

So I leave you, Ben, with this one eloquent thought (Imagine me saying it in my best hoity-toity voice):

BYU SUCKS, AND THE QUEST FOR PERFECTION RESTS WITH ONE TEAM ONLY! THOSE BAMBI LEGS BLEED RED! TRUE UTE RED! THE ONLY WAY BYU WILL EVER WIN IS IF THEY START ALLOWING ALL THE ZOOBS TO BRING THEIR SMALL ARMS 30-OTT SIX RIFLES INTO THE STADIUM TO MASSACRE THE UTES! BECAUSE, SO FAR, SKILL HAS GOTTEN THEM NOWHERE!
Please understand that Ben brings out the three-year-old in me. So, Nyah Nyah Na-Nyah Nyah.
Thanks for the memory, Cam! I love you both!

And now that I have gotten that small little belch out of my system, I'm going to go make myself a cup of tea. Below, as promised, part two of Catch the Frak up!