The #1 son is here for a few hours. He brought five friends home from college. And I didn't even have to tie a pork chop or a Monster energy drink around his neck.
The plan was to ride the 4-wheelers and the Gator and the Scout around the acreage, culminating in a cookout down by the creek in Farmer H's shantytown. Or tiny town, as one of my old Lower Basementia colleagues called it. Of course they are in the Mansion, playing pool, showing no signs of embarking on their big adventure.
I told #1 that I thought I heard his father riding one of the off-road-vehicles over to the Mansion from the BARn. "Oh, he is. He has paraded by on two different ones, trying to make us come out."
Farmer H finally gave up and came in to give advice on playing pool. Like, "The 8-ball should be the LAST one to go in." I feel for him. Really. While I would like nothing better than for #1 and his cronies to do their own thing and leave me out of it, Farmer H wants to be included. It kind of tugs at my cold, cold heartstrings. Farmer H is a social butterfly. He loves showing off his outbuildings and mechanical equipment. I'm surprised he didn't put his turkey on a leash and lead it over for petting. Maybe he's clairvoyant. He might be going after that turkey, because I just heard him go out the front door.
I think the guys will go outside soon enough. Unless they wait so long that it starts raining again. Alas, there are six of them. That does not leave a seat on an off-road-vehicle for Farmer H. I guess he could trail them on the lawnmower. Or meet them at the fire pit so they don't burn down Tiny Shantytown. Wait! Here he comes again, plodding down the stairs.
SHOCKER! Farmer H is going to the auction! While his boy is home from college! But before you assume that Farmer H has put his Auction Meat ahead of his beloved offspring, let the record show that it's DRAWING NIGHT! The night the auction draws a ticket for a $100 winner. You must be there to win. So Farmer H is foregoing ninety minutes with his pride-and-joy for a chance to win a C-note. It's all about the Benjamin.
So far, the higher-education locusts have invaded but not devoured. That's because they came by way of a local eatery. They have, however, placed themselves behind the 8-ball, overheated the tabletop slot machine, tickled the ivories, whirled a plastic thingamajig that sings at different octaves, played with something that sounds like dropping a crated piano out a 5th floor window, and found some kind of treat with a crinkly cellophane wrapper.
At this moment, I am cowering in my dark basement lair. It's a horror story come to life. Or a fairy tale for Farmer H.