Vanilla Freezees

As the Hammer and I were about to leave the woods a mountain bike boy spun around the corner. He was wearing enough protective gear to ride around the more stridently Koran-happy neighbourhoods of Beirut asking the motherfuckers with the biggest beards, "Wanna bumfuck buddy?"

The boy skidded to a stop and ran his dirty hand over the Hammer's head. He said, "Cool dog. I ain't ever seen you two around before."

I told him, "I've been coming here since I was a stubby little shit."

The boy looked at me as you might look at a thousand year old cypress in a forest and said, "Sweet."

There are signs posted at the entrance to the trail warning people not to do this or that. The signs never used to be there. The Hockey family picnicked there and hopefully cast worms into the shallow depths of the trailside stream for trout that never bit. And since whoever put them there makes no effort to enforce the rules I have not had to explain that they ought to post a sign on the gate that says DON'T THROW YOUR USED RUBBERS OUT YOUR CAR WINDOW DISGUSTING MOTHERFUCKERS!! Because that is what people do now there are signs posted warning people not to do everything but throw scumbags onto the path for my dog to chew on like a vanilla Freezee.

The Hammer is sleeping in the cool backyard grass now dreaming about the cool stuff people toss on the ground for her benefit, of the scent of wildlife urine and the pleasure of cool water on hot paws.

I have had my beer ration, my left shin and right knee which brushed against the green evil of stinging nettles are throbbing like a country boy's cock after a good backseat summer fuck as he rolls down the window and splats his glory on the spoiled beauty of the greatest hockey playing country on Earth.