what do you serve a federal marshall...

...when he comes rapelling down from a helicopter with 30 of his best buds all dressed in ninja black? this is my question to you. because if i focus on that one question, then the rest of the story may get lost in the shuffle of trying to get past the day and trying - with eyes squinty squinted as tighly as possible - trying to click my heels and load a pistol. someday, if you haven't already, you will meet my next ex-husband-to-be. he does not know of the existence of this blog, because i need a safe place to go. away. sort of my verbal vomit closet. so okay. ninjas. hillbilly husband likes to hunt. (i pretend he's gone on a business trip.) there is no stopping him. he lives for huntin' season. men in the woods. totin' guns. drinkin beer 'round the fire and farting. so they have a special he-man woman-hatin-club...about 4 or 5 of them rent the rights to hunt some property that is owned by a farmer in a location even less metro than where i live. 2 years ago, they said "HEY! let's drag that old trailer up onto said land and have a warm-ish place to sleep at night, as opposed to our vehicles. and then we can stay away from the wimmin longer! yes! let us do this!" and the village was happy and much dancing and celebration ensued. so they drag this shell of an old single-wide trailer and plop it onto the land. the farmer said Ok Sure. the men have clean-up days and close-er-up-for-the-season days. whatever. well, apparently, the farmer has farmhands that have planted, ummm, Crops of a non-authorized nature in those self-same woods. and one day, as the federal agent passed by in his sikorsky (not to be confused with sworovski) he looked down through his mirrored aviator raybans and said LO! Crops Of An Unauthorized Nature! and immediately sported a stiffy. soon, many many black Explorers decended upon the He-Man Woman-Hating clubhouse, and many camo clothed men evac-ed from the helo, probably talking in code ZULU ZULU something something else two niner. and toting guns that, well, would've given the hillbillies caliber-envy. had they been there. thank god. and had they known this was ensuing. thank god. and if they had had an inkling, each and every one of them would have beat feet to the scene, and stood there going, "cool!" like the little boys that they are. now, the trailer is very near a pasture containing many bulls. in fact, you have to hot-foot it through that pasture in order to get to the clubhouse. i can only imagine the scene as i grab another scotch and zanax. now, the farmer happened to be away at an ag convention...his only time ever throughout the year that he leaves the farm. but his wife was home. of course. bewildered and pissed off. mightily and righteously. because now shehas a field full of angry bulls, and another field filled with a bunch o' feds, all hopped up on adrenaline, a single-wide trailer with no doors and windows, and a tinge of teargas or napalm in the air. and she was looking forward to a pedicure night and a glass of good wine. although i have NEVER been to the clubhouse, and although i have never met the farmer's wife, i pray for her. because although i have to live with the hillbilly, she has to clean up after the mess. so farmer's wife, i raise a glass to you. and i vow to never complain about doing laundry again. L