On idiotic enjoyment of bad life choices

I dig digging

Mar 01, 2026

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 the section where the babies are removed.

That’s right dear reader, the campground has a C section. It’s a place hated by midwives and doulas alike.

Imagine to my surprise as I spun my way through the C section and made my turn onto the dump road en route to Skippy’s place.

Right about then, I started questioning my life choices.

The roads in the park are smooth and wide.

There are a lot of ‘bail out’ zones.

The dump road is narrow, with drainage ditches on both sides. One wrong move and I’d likely be there until April.

So, I stopped before I made the mistake of taking things ‘too far’.

It’s an odd thing, dear reader, when we decide when we’ve crossed the line.

It seems, that my common sense fuse is a lot longer than most normies.

So, at the limit of my own perceived stupidity, I stopped the truck and unloaded all the crap I wanted to carry up to my camp. I’d done good, making it further up the road than I had in months.

With the truck unloaded, I put it in reverse.

No problem eh?

I’ll just stay on a path barely as wide as my truck and roll back down to the front gate and the road.

No problem eh?

Not for this fool.

I had to Ginger Rogers my truck outta the place and I’m way more of a Fred Astaire.

I can make the moves going forward, but backwards?

Oh boy, I was in trouble.

You see, backing out is a different skill set. Driving in is point and shoot. Backing out, steering seems more sensitive.

I doubted myself, corrected once, corrected again then over corrected again and again.

Afterwards, looking at my tire tracks it looked like a drunk was trying to walk a line to pass a sobriety test.

The inevitable happened.

I ditched the straight and narrow path and buried the rear of the truck in a snowbank.

Did I mention that she’s rear wheel drive?

Did I mention that I have all terrain tires, not snow tires on her?

I know I mentioned the bed was empty.

In short, dear reader, I had all the traction of a felon’s testimony.

I was fucked.

But not entirely.

I had my Granddad’s machete.

And with it?

I could chop my truck to bits.

Actually?

My first move was to cut some spruce boughs and drive them under the tire in a vain attempt to give my tires something to bite into.

This did not work.

Next?

I went up to the cabin and found a spade.

With it I dug out and around the truck.

I dug for hours, digging clear through the space time continuum itself and landing in a pet cemetery. There, I found a dead kitten. I dug my way back out and tried using the dead kitten for traction.

Alas dear reader, you wont’ get much traction from the corpse of a dead kitten.

Sounds?

Sure, there will be some crunching and popping to go with the roar of the engine and wheels spinning, but when stuck in the snow, a dead kitten is not helpful.

Perhaps I needed more than one dead kitten.

Dear reader, if you or your family has a dead kitten, kindly mail it to RR #2, Oyster Pond, Jeddore NS in care of Jimmy the fool.

So I scooped and I dug. I picked and I shovelled, filing the back of my little red beauty with a heaping pile of snow.

All I needed was some red syrup drizzle and I’d have had a nice icy treat.

With all that effort?

I got myself unstuck.

And then?

I can’t keep things straight going backwards.

And the next snow bank?

I got myself stuck.

So there I was stuck, this time even deeper than before.

Did I call for help?