One day, I had blazed a hasty path up a particularly smooth trail, leaving my ponderous grandparents behind in favor of the inherent excitement the danger of high speeds provides. It was then that I encountered a bull moose, standing stubbornly in the middle of the trail.
The common moose met upon the snowy highway is female, often escorting one or two younglings through the early, aimless years of life. However, the giant ungulate I met on that trail was unmistakably male, and unmistakeably ready to start a fight it was sure to win. After all, animals are perhaps the most strict adherents to the wisdom of Sun Tzu on Earth, and this confrontational bull was no different.
He stood tall, proud, antlers a dark menace in the perpetual twilight of a foggy winter day in the mountains. Even though I sat upon a technological wonder of which the instinctual beast could have no comprehension, I knew myself to be dwarfed and humbled by the sheer organic power of the creature before me. The moose seemed somehow aware of that fact as well; it bowed its head in challenge, ready for the contest it fully expected to come.
Frankly, the bull moose was a grade-A asshole. And the one constant of our planet is that assholes, far and above, get the most pussy. Myself being an empathetic intellectual, I was aware of this, and also painfully observant of the simple truth that I got next to none. Naturally as males of any variety desire that warm, velvety caress above all else, it created in me a raging sense of jealousy that urged me; No; Commanded me to rev the engine of my Yamaha Phazer II (heavily modified) in obvious acceptance of the beast's request to duel.
It was the showdown in the graveyard, except between two instead of three, and the musical whistling was replaced by the steady rustle of the wind through the boughs of fir and pine.
We waited; our consciousnesses: his base and lacking the capability to imagine the possibility of defeat; mine determined and stubborn, enraged by years of imagined failure, blind to futility.
We charged.
His began with a simple, dismissive snort. Mine with the roar of a mechanical brilliance I did not fully understand, but could manipulate with respectable skill.
The distance between us closed instantly, time lost amongst the torrential adrenaline of us both.
The ascetic and flimsy fiberglass of my snowmobile shattered instantly; no match for the hardened external bone of the moose's glorious rack: weapons that fought and won countless battles for genetic supremacy over incomprehensible eons. So too did my frail body, made for dexterous manipulation and cerebral thought, bounce off the beast's form like a leaf blown by the wind. Yes, I could use tools and fire guns, but the moose knew its own body was the only tool it required to conquer my foolish, soft form.
I was knocked from my sled, the wind escaping my lungs, and the tightly-packed snow of the trail was eager to embrace me in its unforgiving caress. I rolled, tumbled, and crunched my way to a painful stop: prone and defeated. Gaia, in vengeance for the crimes of my people, had struck me down.
She was not finished with my punishment, gleefully applied to a ready individual since She lacked the ability to strike at the guilty whole. "Back!" She ordered the moose, back to my fallen form! The creature towered above me, a furry colossus of retribution. And he drooled! Oh, how he drooled!
As that glistening substance left the moose's mouth, I noticed a rich brown color; It was unlike the blackness of stouts and porters; however, it retained an obvious brown hue. And it was headed straight for my mouth!
It looked heavy, and its tangy-sweet, almost hoppy scent promised a heavy and hearty flavor. But when that drool flowed over my helmet, hit my lips, and forced its viscous way into my mouth, I could not help but be disappointed.
The moose drool was almost empty of flavor, or you could say "ethereal" if you were going for a more positive spin. It had an almost imperceptible hoppy flavor, but without the bitterness.
As the drool flowed sickeningly over my tongue, I could taste nothing. It felt merely bubbly and empty.
I was forced to swallow, or else drown in moose secretion (an embarrassing fate), and I noticed the first distinct flavor of the drool: a sort of earthy, celery sort of finish. I found it to be rather unimpressive and lazy, but not necessarily repugnant.
After several desperate gulps, the moose seemed content with my humiliation (Gaia not wishing the death of any of Her children), and he deigned to wander off into the forest. Left to my own devices, I regained my composure and straddled my bashed-up Yamaha once more.
The Moose Drool I had unwillingly sampled reminded me of Pabst Blue Ribbon: Empty of flavor, but still somehow positively regarded for what some claim is its refreshingly water-like qualities. For fans of that union-made brew, I would say the Drool of a Moose, drunk under a Big Sky, would be well within your tastes. But for those who like tangible flavor, there are better ways to spend your money.
No comments:
Post a Comment