Post Redux - Liberal refugees, the ghost of Temple Houston, and explosive devices in the pastures...TGIF!

Today's post from posts-past is an overview of a typical day here at The Compound wherein chaos reigns supreme.  This was posted in early February 2017 and was the start of a series of posts focused on The Compound which I'll likely run throughout next week. Enjoy!

Happy Friday morning everyone! Okay, ready? Time for the weekend song! One, two, three…eh, screw it. Frankly, I’m just not up for it today.

It’s been a weird couple of days here at The Compound. I know I say that a lot, but this time it really has been weird.

I’m not sure where to start. I guess I’ll start with The Daughter. As you know, she is a recent and proud grad of the George Mason School of Truck Driving (no football team, but the pit crews recently won the National Oil Change Championship). The school’s motto, translated from the Latin is “Give us all your cash, we’ll ensure you are paying off student loans ‘til the day you die!”

But, I digress…

The Daughter stopped by The Compound on her way to Utah where she drives a semi loaded with cans of string beans once a week. This week though, the trailer was only partially loaded with cans of string beans. The void was filled with refugees seeking asylum.

No, not those refugees.

These were rabid liberals seeking sanctuary from what they fear will be an oppressive smashing under The Trump’s rusty iron fist. After the truck pulled onto the grounds of The Compound, The Daughter jumped out and opened up the back. An entire horde of people peered out from inside. All were straining their eyes against the sunlight.

I heard a meek voice inside ask, “Is this it? Is this sanctuary?”

The Daughter looked at me, rolled her eyes and said, “No, no…this is my Dad’s compound. Get out, stretch your legs. We still have a long way to go. But we’ll be stopping for the night. Bring out your gear and camp on the lawn. By the way, no wandering off into the cow pastures. This is a fortified compound, there are explosive devices out in the pastures.”

At that, there were murmurs about gun nuts and that there should be a law.
Once they were all out, we could see several empty cans of string beans scattered around the inside of the trailer.

“Hey!” The Daughter yelled. “Who the hell has been eating the string beans? I told you not to touch them! Someone will have to pay for those string beans! They’re expecting a full load in Utah!”

A man stepped forward and peeled several dollar bills off of a roll of cash he was carrying that could choke an elephant.

It turns out that The Daughter is supposed to drop these people somewhere deep in the Rockies of Colorado. There, they will gather in a commune, smoke legal weed, dip bean curd with their fingers from pans passed around a campfire and plot their political return in 2020.

That evening’s campfire discussion was whether or not the Star Trek series represented the Utopian ideal or merely a welfare society. The consensus was (of course) that it represented the Utopian ideal.

So, we had that to deal with here at The Compound. They were actually a well-behaved bunch. But, still I wasn’t expecting it. The Daughter said she took them on because this week’s order from Utah for string beans was only half a load. She loathed the idea of running half a load up there. The offer to truck liberal refugees to sanctuary for cash was too good to pass up.

But, that’s not the only weirdness we’re dealing with here at The Compound. Since Cousin Fred put up the Cabinet Saloon replication, aka, the Cab. We’ve had a steady stream of traffic coming by on the road to view it. After two days of that, people started parking their vehicles out on the road and getting out. They stay out there on the road, just watching.

I see most of them eating from those foil pouches of tuna that you can buy in stores now. And, staring. They’re always staring. It was driving Cousin Fred crazy so he finally went out to the road to see what was going on.

Turns out these people are from some spirit society that calls itself The Council. According to Cousin Fred, they all have tattoos of Casper the Friendly Ghost on their butts.

The guy told Cousin Fred that they are convinced that the ghost of Temple Houston will appear at the replicated Cabinet Saloon and there may be a shooting. Apparently, Mr. Temple is mad because Cousin Fred doesn’t stock his favorite brand of whiskey.

The spirit society wants to document the event as it unfolds. Suddenly, I think I want to seek sanctuary in Colorado.

Idiot Cousin Fred invited them onto the grounds of The Compound to await Mr. Temple’s coming.

Great.

Now, I have a pack of bean curd smacking, tofu sucking (can’t really chew tofu, can you?) liberal refugees camped on one side of The Compound. On the other, a bunch of lunatic spiritualists armed with EMF meters to detect a ghostly presence and digital recorders to capture EVPs.

The spiritualists keep chanting, “Come, Temple, make your presence known. We’ll give you whiskey and ammo!” All night long that goes on.

I noticed The Wife was back in her bedroom packing a bag. I asked where she’s going. She looked at me and muttered, with her filterless Pall Mall cig hanging from lips, “As far from the lunacy you seem to attract as I can get!”

Guess that means a fabulous vacation in Shattuck.

Saturday alert…look for yet another special Saturday Edition of CCB tomorrow…Saturday…see how that works?

That is all!

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