Survival of the fattest

The problem with reality shows is that I look at them and say, “I could do that.” I’ve been watching Mountain Men lately, and the one common ingredient is that these guys are old. I’ve got that covered. The other requirement is that they live in places accessible only by parachute.

I’m not likely to be jumping out of a perfectly good plane anytime soon, but I still wonder how I would fare living off the land with the grizzlies, cougars, wolves, and the occasional rabid beaver.

These guys build their own hydroelectric plants, and juggle chainsaws just for fun. I lack the basic coordination to walk the dog without injuring myself. I’m currently nursing a rope burn from the leash when my dog decided to lunge at an imaginary squirrel, and my wrist got in the way. The burn is bad enough that it had all the staff members at the doctor’s office gagging, and they see some nasty shit.

If I injure myself in the wilderness, I can’t run to the corner drugstore for industrial strength narcotics. This is a problem as I don’t want to be able to pass a sobriety test if I’m in pain. Conversely, when your life depends on bagging a 12 point buck for dinner, you want to be able to recite the alphabet while aiming your high powered rifle.

I picture myself enjoying the beauties of nature, like waist-deep snow in the winter, and mosquitos that can carry away fully ripened watermelons in the summer. As it is, I get frostbite just from opening the freezer door.

I’m not keen on the idea of taking a bath in a washtub. My showerhead might get lonely. I’ve had lots of practice stacking firewood, which is why I know that the woodpile is primo real estate for spiders. I think I’ll give that one a pass.

My imaginary wilderness adventure involves hard labor, blisters, bitter cold, and thirty channels of infomercials on TV. No internet, no libraries, and no UPS deliveries from Amazon combine for a colorless existence. I haven’t forgotten the fluffy woodland creatures that look at your cabin as an all-you-can-eat buffet.

You may think that this is a pointless flight of fancy, but don’t forget the end of the Mayan Calendar (blah, blah, blah) or the collapse of the US dollar (blah, blah, blah). Soon we may all be growing turnips in our front yard and hunting wild boar, or the neighbor’s Chihuahua for you suburbanites. Hey, it was either him or me.

11 thoughts on “Survival of the fattest

  1. I can manage my Chihuahua’s leash, but growing turnips in my yard might be a problem.

    • I could take the leash hunting with me – give that 12 point buck the rope burn of his life.

  2. Hmm, just thinking up some enticing Chihuahua recipes in my head. I’m weird like that. Chihuahua and Dumplings come to mind. Or Chihuahua and Green Chile Tacos.
    Is it lunch time yet?

    Seriously, sorry about your friction burn. Remember, narcotics are our friends.

  3. Don’t forget the snakes in the wood pile!

    Chihuahua pizza is another delicacy…

    • It’s pretty rare to find a Tex-Mex restaurant in Little Italy. And snakes are noticeably lacking in multi-faceted eyes and hairy legs. Way less creepy than spiders.

  4. There’s this one on cable here who does a show called Survivor where he spends time in the backwoods with his own camera. Something about the guy annoys me. The few snippets I’ve seen, I find myself wishing a bear would take him out. Or a mad moose. Or a rock fall.

    • That ought to be Survivor Man… that’s what I get for clicking on reply without checking!

      • I love that show, until he pulls out his harmonica. Something with the same irritation value as bagpipes or accordions.

        • I LOVE Survivorman! He could make me jump the fence on occasion if he played his survivor cards (or harmonica) right. LOL

        • Bagpipes are splendid!

          Accordions need to be cast back into the seventh circle of hell from where they came….

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