I've been having a harder and harder time over the years getting my stories on the 'Best Answers' page over there, because they specialize in naughty British juvenile humor, and I'm neither naughty, nor British, nor a juvenile. My stories are engineering-oriented, middle-aged American humor: basically, insanely dull by their standards. Plus, this is a repost (or a pearoast, as they say in their impish, dyslexic UK way). I improved the exposition this time, and besides, it was more on-topic this week. It was enough to put me over the threshold!
These events occurred in 1982, on Thurber Ranch, southeast of Tucson, Arizona, on the beautiful eastern flank of the Santa Rita Mountains. This week's question, and my answer, are below:
Down on the Farm
Have you ever been chased from a field by a shotgun-wielding maniac? Ever removed city arseholes from your field whilst innocently carrying a shotgun? Tell us your farm stories.Pearoast For a Peabrain
I was once assigned to tend some air quality monitoring equipment located on a ranch in southern Arizona, so I'd make periodic visits to the ranch. Unbeknownst to me, the equipment was also claimed by an arrogant and territorial local pheasant.
As I approached the equipment, the pheasant would endeavor to approach me from behind. Every time I turned my back, the pheasant would peck at my legs. Incensed, I whirled around and kicked the pheasant, but I was never able to land a solid punch on the lightweight bird. Every time I kicked, the demented bird would merely jump upon my shoe and ride it angrily up and down like a seesaw. Kicking the bird just made it angrier, which just made me angrier in return. What the bird lacked in strength, it gained through obsessive determination that I just couldn't match over hours of pitched battle. Years later, I plot revenge, but quail at the thought of a rematch.
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