BOX!

BOX!

Say it with some emphasis. Really; get into it!!

Today’s story is brought to you by Old George! Nothing smells quite like Old George. You can purchase Old George at your local Gibsons, home of the “6 for a $1.00” salted nut rolls.

Lord, how I miss Gibsons! Home of cheap ammunition, salted nut rolls, irregular Dickies and scratchy wool blankets. A kid could be hog happy with a summer’s supply of .22 shells and nut rolls. We used to hide both in some tree’s, on what was an old homestead on the farm in the valley. Shells, nut rolls and toilet paper. Because frankly, walking the mill back to the house to visit the rain room wasn’t exactly high on our list of priorities when in the midst of a rowdy game of cowboys and indians. When I think back on playing with my brothers and cousins out at the old homestead it brings to mind one of the last memories I have with my dad before his death, and instantly, my mouth waters. The roasted pig from THAT summer! Pure bliss!

Anyway, back to the topic at hand.

BOX!

Honestly, the story behind my yelling “BOX!” as an expletive is really one of those “you had to be there” kind of stories. You know, the ones that are side splitting funny, if you were there, and when trying to re-tell the tale, they just aren’t that funny and leave the room in this awkward, dull haze of silence. A definite “DOH!” moment.

So to give you the short version. While on a camping trip in the deep, dark scary woods of Montana, several friends are sitting around a campfire (so cliche-I KNOW!) telling stories, pocking fun, and imbibing in a little recreational adult therapy. BEER! I think there might have been some dirty Martini’s mixed in with that to, because it’s not really camping if you can’t smuggle a shaker, some ice, and a bottle of vodka into your cooler, along with a jar of olives. High five!!!

The topic, as they sometimes do, turns a bit personal and the subject of a fellow friends divorced wife comes up. Now, it’s all in good fun, but apparently she wasn’t the most “loyal”of wives, and several people in town were well aware of her extra-curricular talents. None of the fine upstanding gentleman in company that night, of course. I guess the stress must have been to much for T.J because out of no where he up and yells….”BOX!” “BOX!” “BOX!”

Stunned silence ensues. Literally. It’s not like you can really come back with anything after that. You just sit there, numb, wondering what in the heck he put in his beer, and if the shrimp and pasta you all ate prior to the nightly campfire ritual was really that fresh.

After about 2 minutes of silence, he whispers something about never wanting to see that B#%&*!, and W#&%@!, and a few others and couldn’t we all just shut the BOXING BOX up! And really, I’m still not sure why he didn’t just cuss, instead of saying BOXING BOX, since he’d already thrown a few choice words out prior to the BOXING BOX outburst. That’s the odd part. But okay. We’re going with it.

Now see…don’t you wish you were there…and I can feel that awkward, dull haze of silence creeping in! “DOH!”

Saying “DOH!” just makes me want to reach for a Duff Beer!

Courtesy of youaremykilikiller

  • I have been the girl smuggling in vodka and the essentials to make cocktails, so I give you a high five for that. This story is hilarious btw!

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