Vore Ridge Conspiracy
Today marks my return to the hills of Appalachia and a small cabin on Vore Ridge Road just outside of Athens, Ohio. It has been raining all day. Raindrops falling on the gently sloped eaves of corrugated metal provide me with nature's playlist in the ipod of my mind. The path down to the house always gets muddy when it rains. So do the cat's paws.
A nondenominational Christian church that more resembles a tool shed with a fresh coat of white paint than a place of worship sits next door. On Wednesday nights the faithful can be heard speaking in the hurried tongues of religious fervor that mark a heightened level of devotion to their Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. They were generous enough to lend us a ladder to do some painting.
Across the street a tall gaunt man with scraggly gray hair and thick-rimmed Coke bottle glasses lives alone. His horse is named Abraham - not like Lincoln - but Larry Abraham. Call it Conspiracy with a prologue by Gary North, Ph.D. The cluttered van in his driveway is a testament to the adage that one man's junk is truly another's treasure. According to Abraham's owner the beached whales washing up on the Pacific Ocean result from the United States Navy’s history of dumping nuclear warheads there.
The neighbor makes frequent trips to the Athens Public Library and to the Hegemony Hardware store in the newly constructed shopping center blighting the rolling hills surrounding the town. According to his research it is only a matter of time until a sleeping giant is awoke. Through the corrective powers of his Coke bottle lenses our neighbor has learned from a Google search that the Chinese will make their way across the Bering Strait to fall the great American war machine. In the mean time he collects day-old bread from the bakery in large plastic garbage bags and is always generous enough to share his bounty.
The bunker next door is the perfect abode for the gun enthusiast, anarchist, or hippie seeking solace from a world too callous to embrace their beliefs. Members of all three groups have called the bunker home in the past year. The hippies are so boring and inoffensive with their pot-fueled docility and inclusive worldview. You can’t even see what they are up to with all of the wall hangings and tapestries hanging in the windows.
Wayne, the gun enthusist, was cool. So cool that the cats often chose to hang out in the bunker with him instead of their own home. He flew a plane every day. To blow off steam in the evenings he would lick off a few rounds from a twelve-gauge shotgun into the woods to keep the local population of White Tailed Deer on their toes during the off-season. Wayne may have been the most intelligent man to ever make the unfortunate decorating choice of displaying a Confederate flag in his home. His roommate, Nes, seemed to leave the house only to buy cigarettes. He proudly displayed pictures of naked women and George W. Bush campaign flyers on his bedroom walls.
Wayne and Nes are gone now. Wayne’s National Guard unit was called into active duty and he is now licking off rounds in Iraq. The cats don’t bother to track their muddy paws into the bunker any more. The hippies are boring. They just sit at home all day listening to the rainfall on the bunker roof talking about ways to stop the war.
According to the faux-press reports from the Pentagon there is no need for the military-age residents of Vore Ridge Road to worry about being drafted. It seems Rumsfeld finally covered his bases. A backdoor draft is in place. Ask the parents or spouse of any National Guardsman who's tour has unexpectedly been extended by an ill-prepared Department of Offense about this conspiracy theory. The neighbor with the Coke-bottle glasses is tired of talking about it.
Save some hurried tongues for Wayne this Wednesday.
A nondenominational Christian church that more resembles a tool shed with a fresh coat of white paint than a place of worship sits next door. On Wednesday nights the faithful can be heard speaking in the hurried tongues of religious fervor that mark a heightened level of devotion to their Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. They were generous enough to lend us a ladder to do some painting.
Across the street a tall gaunt man with scraggly gray hair and thick-rimmed Coke bottle glasses lives alone. His horse is named Abraham - not like Lincoln - but Larry Abraham. Call it Conspiracy with a prologue by Gary North, Ph.D. The cluttered van in his driveway is a testament to the adage that one man's junk is truly another's treasure. According to Abraham's owner the beached whales washing up on the Pacific Ocean result from the United States Navy’s history of dumping nuclear warheads there.
The neighbor makes frequent trips to the Athens Public Library and to the Hegemony Hardware store in the newly constructed shopping center blighting the rolling hills surrounding the town. According to his research it is only a matter of time until a sleeping giant is awoke. Through the corrective powers of his Coke bottle lenses our neighbor has learned from a Google search that the Chinese will make their way across the Bering Strait to fall the great American war machine. In the mean time he collects day-old bread from the bakery in large plastic garbage bags and is always generous enough to share his bounty.
The bunker next door is the perfect abode for the gun enthusiast, anarchist, or hippie seeking solace from a world too callous to embrace their beliefs. Members of all three groups have called the bunker home in the past year. The hippies are so boring and inoffensive with their pot-fueled docility and inclusive worldview. You can’t even see what they are up to with all of the wall hangings and tapestries hanging in the windows.
Wayne, the gun enthusist, was cool. So cool that the cats often chose to hang out in the bunker with him instead of their own home. He flew a plane every day. To blow off steam in the evenings he would lick off a few rounds from a twelve-gauge shotgun into the woods to keep the local population of White Tailed Deer on their toes during the off-season. Wayne may have been the most intelligent man to ever make the unfortunate decorating choice of displaying a Confederate flag in his home. His roommate, Nes, seemed to leave the house only to buy cigarettes. He proudly displayed pictures of naked women and George W. Bush campaign flyers on his bedroom walls.
Wayne and Nes are gone now. Wayne’s National Guard unit was called into active duty and he is now licking off rounds in Iraq. The cats don’t bother to track their muddy paws into the bunker any more. The hippies are boring. They just sit at home all day listening to the rainfall on the bunker roof talking about ways to stop the war.
According to the faux-press reports from the Pentagon there is no need for the military-age residents of Vore Ridge Road to worry about being drafted. It seems Rumsfeld finally covered his bases. A backdoor draft is in place. Ask the parents or spouse of any National Guardsman who's tour has unexpectedly been extended by an ill-prepared Department of Offense about this conspiracy theory. The neighbor with the Coke-bottle glasses is tired of talking about it.
Save some hurried tongues for Wayne this Wednesday.
posted by Yonder Vittles at 1:36 AM
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