Letter from the Yukon

Hey diddle di doo folks,

Greetings from the land of two-dollar beer vouchers and barking dogs…I have a funny story to relate to you but as I’m sure you know a story can be difficult to tell even under the best of circumstances so I hope the quality levels don’t drop off too dramatically whilst I type but I’ll have you know this one had me slapping my knee for a couple of days and a little chuckle still. Me and Leo fucking Martin of all people went out cutting wood the other day. As we’re sitting around in the box of the truck, filing the chainsaw, having a soda and smoke we get to talking about how much wood I’m going to take for helping out. Being pretty flush up in the woodpile for the moment or at least more than Leo so I said I didn’t want much just a couple of lengths of the bigger logs and a pecker pole; a pecker pole being an eight foot length from the higher part of the tree, it’s a slender and good for splitting up into fire go quick. Leo gets this odd sort of Leo Martin with a goatee look to him and asks if I could repeat myself so I do and he says after a second or two of shuffling his feet that he didn’t think he was into that deal. No problem I say but I’m stunned thinking what the hell’s this. We load up this guy’s truck with a load of wood not a lot mind you it is after all a fairly stunted box with the shitty little cap he’s got on there but still you would think this friggin tight- ass could toss me a few sticks, I mean, he’s been to my place and seen my rapidly diminishing woodpile what with the cold and all, not to mention the pillaging savages who roam around the north end of town. My buddy a block away has had people walking into his house when he wasn’t around and taking the light bulbs right from out of the sockets. In light of this I kind of think I’M getting off easy when they pinch the odd piece of wood from my pile. It does get to one after awhile though. I tried to appeal to their sensibilities once by leaving a note on top of my woodpile addressed to the person taking my wood. It reads something to the effect of that I was hoping this wood would last a lot longer than it was but if they needed some badly enough just ask, and I’m sure we could work something out after I beat him with a stick. No one ever asked but a lot of wood mysteriously appeared at my doorstep about a week later. I asked around but no one knew about it so I figure the pirate either performed the one decent act in their lives or more likely stole the wood from somewhere else they just needed someone with the means of cutting it up. The wood still disappears but it’s a little easier to take. So after a few more minutes of pissing around with the saw, finishing up our drinks and butting out our smokes Leo looks over to me and asks just exactly what was a pecker-pole anyways. I replied with the explanation I just gave you and he says with some relief, oh, pecker-pole, I thought you said pecker pull. After a few more moments of veiny penis boy’s humour we began to chuckle and continued to do so all the way to the pub; where he bought me lunch and beer satisfied in the knowledge that I wasn’t a fag but not that he had anything against them just as long as they didn’t try and pick him up.

Diverge

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