Kenneth, born and raised in the South, resides in Hamilton, Alabama. He enjoys sharing his unique perspectives on life through his writing.
Be Careful When "Enemies" Stalk Your Picnic
I Hate The Idea of
sharing the truth about these four things, honestly, "enemies" of our much-adored American picnics. Some may get offended at my honest, self-help advice while others may, in fact, use this advice, well, these warnings that could help to prevent most anything that would cause any peaceful picnic to head to a "train wreck."
Any picnic, if packed correctly, can be a success. Even if the parties of the picnic know ahead of time what foods that they do not like or do like, so outside of the food likes and dislikes, the only thing left that could pose any problem to the picnic, just might be the condiments--catsup, mustard, onions, things that go perfectly with hamburgers and hot dogs. Now if the picnic has a portable radio and the music is a favorite by the picnic attendees, then you are set. Load the SUV, relax, put the windows down and just let the entire Picnic Happening start to unfold.
You, the cool dude behind the wheel, are chillin' to such a degree, that your date, this very pretty blonde, accuses you (while giggling), that you have fallen asleep, so you laugh (in a manly-way) and drive the 132-miles in order to reach your "perfect" piicnic location so you assure the pretty blonde that you know what you are doing--so kick back and relax. Ya'll gon' be awwllrite.
But Uh, Oh! You Notice
a small splotch of honey, so small that it was just by accident that you stumbled upon it, remember dropping the honey several mornings when you were eating breakfast (alone) and you smile. If this very small smear of honey is the ONLY set-back on this picnic, then you and the pretty blonde are in fine shape.
But remember the headline on this hub . . ."The Four Enemies Of The Picnic?" You may be facing them in a short while, but not right now.
First off, you decide to share a glass of fine wine with your hot blonde date and she giggles in agreement, but not before she has to brush her hair--not above the food, but away from the picnic fixings. She is one smart cookie, you think. I may have found a winner, you also think. So please stop over-thinking every little thing and just have a great time.
After you two drink your wine, you decide to chat for a moment. You are laying on your left side looking into the blue eyes of your hot blonde and her eyes are locked into your gaze, then it hits! Your first thought was a rattlesnake who paid an unplanned visit, but you only laugh when you discover that all the bite turned out to be was a few ANTS. That's is (Number Four "OfThe Enemies of The Picnic" The blonde laughs so hard at the ants thing and as you reach wine for you and the blonde, you notice that your back and backside have been attacked. There is no other way to say it. Your skin feels a lot like fire trailing up and down your body. You shriek for how much it hurts, but you stop yourself--you do not want the pretty blonde to think that you are not manly.
The Ants Stop Stinging You
and your tears have subsided. Then you notice that there are thousands of itchy pustule that can last several days to weeks. You now learn a deeper definition of "itching" as the result of the ant stings. But your pretty blonde is very supportive and you push on to make the picnic work.
You and the blonde sip another glass of wine and your ant stings are not itching so much that you will have to cancel the picnic, but with the electric personality of the hot blonde, you can feel good and have a great time despite the "ant attack."
An hour and a half later, you are having to much fun with your blonde date that you are ignorant enough to even think that NOTHING could possibly go wrong. How stupid can one man be? Are you ready for the "Second Enemy of The Picnic?"You will be in a few minutes, when the beautiful blonde says so softly, "honey, will you start the fire so I can cook the chicken?" What else are you (or any man) going to say, "No! I am going to lay here on my butt and make you work for your food," but you are a refined man of class and style, so you jump-up and now you will take on building the fire in your BBQ grill.
right here, I need to reveal a very important secret that happened totally by accident, so what happens next is NOT your fault, but the hot blonde who is now sitting quietly on the cloth where the picnic foods are waiting to be coo
But . . .you did not look closely on the Directions on the BBQ Lighter Fluid. You also did not notice that the hot blonde was at one time in the back of your SUV unpacking the picnic supplies and her nails were still WET (this is key) and she brushed against the Directions on the bottle of BBQ Lighter Fluid and that one little brush has now changed the Entire BBQ Lighting Process because the Directions should have read . . ."Do NOT use but three to four squirts of this BBQ Fluid because TOO much fluid could lead to a terrible explosion or fire, maybe both, so be careful.
Now you, the confident male, able to handle life's problems, take the BBQ Ligher Fluid in your hand and before squirting the fluid, you do take time to quickly-read the Directions which NOW reads . . ."Use three or four squirts of this BBQ Fluid, but the pretty blonde asks you a stupid question and distracts you, so you do not read the rest of the directions. You best take cover. You do NOT squirt the three to four squirts, but Six to Eight. Fact: the charcoal is now soaked like a man (in the 1950's) taking a bath in a waterfall and now comes the crucial move: throwing the lighted match into the grill.
(In slow motion) You light the match, then put a beaming smile on your face that causes the blonde to also smile and when the fire on the end of the match hits the soaked charcoal . . .
"Keeeerrrr!!! Blaaammmmm! Whoooshhhh!" The huge flame goes up into the air that looks much like a lift-off for one of our Shuttle flights and you, yes you, are standing frozen (like a mannequin) smiling, but with an inch of black soot on your face from top of your head to your neck.
The blonde runs to see about you, but you know as well as I do, you are angry at doing such a stupid thing, so you growl at the blonde and she runs back to the picnic area trying not to cry and you, somehow manage to put more charcoal back into grill that you had to retrieve from 45-yards away from the area and now you use a LITTLE BBQ Lighter Fluid to cause a nice-looking grill to let your raw chicken cook because now, you and this petite blonde are famished.
The Time is Right Because You
now and the blonde (did I say that she was very pretty?) are relaxed and now choose to place the raw chicken on the grill--just like an ad on TV told you to do. Jus think. In about fifteen-to-twenty-minutes, you and this pretty blonde will dine in comfort of a peaceful picnic area with fine food, wine, potato chips, pretzels, and fine music from your portable radio, what a time you will have! And to say nothing about the fine loving that you and this hot blonde will have after the picnic meal. In short, you have entered The "Almost-Perfect Picnic Zone," and you smile to yourself as you turn the chicken and smell the juicy aroma as it cooks. The pretty blonde is making drinks, preparing the plates for you and her and well, she feels the vibe too that she is helping you to enjoy such a perfect day.
Uh, oh! You guessed it. I will edit this part of you having to pick-up the pieces of chicken, sit it down on the picnic cloth, and sit down to look at the wonderful food that you have cooked. Are you a man or what? You are thinking that all of your male buddies would wish that they were in your place, but they are not and you are. The hot blonde prepares a place of chips, chicken, and a piece of bread on your plate and the same foods on her plate and both of you begin to eat like a pack of Timber Wolves because both of you have not eaten any breakfast this morning because you both did not want to gain any weight. (Oh, if you only knew.)
I hate to be the one who does the reminding of Bad News, but did you remember the headline that said, "Four," of the "Enemies of The Picnic?" Welcome to Number Three. And you would think, at first, that "this" foe is not that rough, but man, you do not know what is coming. I wish that I could interfere and warn you, but that is a Direct Violation of Hubber Rules and I could get end-up in trouble, so I am going to look away.
You and the hungry blonde eat and eat some more until ALL of the BBQ'd Chicken is gone. You are full. You lay down on your back, smile at the hot blonde and you begin to pick your teeth as you eye the blonde as she fixes her make-up, but you have to do what any man would do if he has devoured most of a grilled chicken, so you doze-off to sleep-off the belly full of great meat.
(Silence. You and the gorgeous blonde fall asleep. Perfect bliss.)
An hour later, you quickly-discover that something is definitely-wrong inside your stomach and colon, and it is NOT gas that you can release. Then your stomach begins to growl and roll. You are slighty-afraid, but you do not tell the blonde--afraid that she will laugh at your weakness and want you to take her home, so you choose to suffer. You are now on your stomach and the pain has increased and your insides feel like something has crawled down your throat . . .and DIED. Pure roadkill. (e.g. remember my hub about "Roadkill?").
You try standing-up, but you are so sick that you fall to the ground and walk in the fashion of a baby, but you are NOT giggling, kitchie-kooing and gigging. You are feeling deathly-sick. Such as you felt two New Year's Eve's ago at this huge, wild party when you drank (by yourself) an entire fiith of 12-year-old Scotch, to go with the eight beers and several shots of whiskey. Needless to say, you were the life of the party. Or any party for that matter.
The pretty blonde is laying perfectly-still. Upon seeing her, you scream, "Do not die! Please!" she only looks at you and winks. Now what? You think. But as you try to move, whatever the "beast" is in your stomach and colon, now your intestines, is causing you to beg for death, is not getting better, but a lot worse. You are scared beyond comprehension. You cry for the hot sickness to leave you, but you swear that you heard it laugh and then growl at your misery.
" . . .uhhh, sweetie? Was your chicken done?" asks the pretty blonde who is now sitting up and fixing her make-up.
"Uhhh, (Gulp! Swallow! Gulp!) you manage to say and the pretty blonde takes compassion on you and gives you a cup of wine because she read in the Bible that "take a little wine for the stomach's sake," and she is now grateful that her dad was a Preacher, so this verse has to work.
But before you can drink the wine, you have to crawl away (from the caring blonde) and let Nature do Her fine work and I do not need to elaborat
For the next hour and a half, you are out like a light. All you know is that you are breathing. The only sound that you can hear is that of the pretty blonde giggling and singing "Brick House" by the Commodores. Oh, she is a professional dancer at some place named, "Barry's Big House--Girls! Dancing! And Live Music." The smooth blonde has worked at this place for almost five-years.
An hour and a half goes by and you slowly recover. But your vision is very blurry. You stagger back to where the hot blonde is dancing and singing. Upon seeing you, she grins, winks, and invites you to dance, but you have to run behind some bushes and respect Nature once more.
Now. You feel better. Not completely-well, but well enough to pack the SUV and head for home. This is THE wisest thing that you have ever thought while upon this outing. The pretty blonde walks up to you and you ask her . . .
"what was the reason that you didn't get sick like I did?"
"(Giggle) honey, I put MY chicken directly on the flames and (Giggle) I noticed that you didn't, but I thought that you liked Rare Chicken, so I didn't open my mouth," she says so humble.
At This Development
you sit down and weep like a whipped child. The hot blonde professional dancer laughs, but not at you, but what she views in the west sky. Something that she grew-up loving and what she sees is NOT a beautiful bald eagle, but a black, turbulent-looking thunderstorm that only arrive in the summer. She dances again and giggles at the sight of this thunderstorm. You do not dance or giggle, but loudly-proclaim . . .
"Say! Little dancer! Help me get this stuff in the SUV so we can beat that storm! Watch it! See that lightning?!"
The hot, confident blonde laughs at you and demands that you let her dance some more because she was born in August and people in this month are not ones who can ever get lightning struck, but you are at the end of your patience . . .you have had it!
as you and the hot, quiet blonde are all packed and headed for home, you notice that the blonde has forgotten to get her purse and you want to do the gentlemanly-thing and get it for her before the thunderstorm hits. This was probably THE dumbest thing you could do, considering the moment.
You bring the SUV to a grinding stop, throw the door open and begin to run back to where the hot blonde's purse is sitting. You think. In just a few moments, this entire fiasco will be over.
As you reach the purse, you hear a big clap of thunder and you have heard that if you count "One, Mississippi . . .Two, Mississippi over and over it will dictate how many miles it is before lightning strikes . . .LESS than ONE MILE . ..
The sharp lightning bolt hits you in your back just as sure as the pitching of Sandy Koufax and that is SURE. You wake-up in the hospital in your hometown. The caring hot blonde is sitting next to your bed to make sure that you are fine.
Then she says it. THE one question that could possibly make you angry: "Have you eat?"
That was the last that you seen the inquisitive blonde again.
July 1, 2019________________________________________________________
© 2019 Kenneth Avery