On idiotic enjoyment of bad life choices

I dig digging

Oh, dear reader, I was living in fear.

Liquid concentrated fear.

I was afraid that I’d lost my connection with the absurd.

I was afraid that I’d used so much of my own stupidity and that I’d cashed too many cheques of my own idiocy that I had no more ridiculousness to share.

Luck for you, dear reader, when there’s a fool on this earth, his folly is never far.

I had a plan, you see.

I had a plan to bring my dearly departed Granddad’s fully refreshed machete to Skippy.

On the surface?

This was not a bad plan.

The roads of the campground were moderately cleared but still icy.

I decided to drive my truck uphill towards Skippy’s camp. I figured, I’d go as far as my rear wheel drive pickup with its empty bed would take me.

As I rolled in, I impressed myself. I made it through the A section easily.

All winter I’ve been able to get past the first lots in the park.

The B section was next and I navigated that with a lot of raucous bumping and wheel spinning.

Then?

Then I made my turn to the steep pitch of…