Again:

I know, I know this is an old post. But I though I'd re-post it in honor of Bracie's new blog.

You, gentle readers, probably already know that my sister and I possess the lowly and slightly unfortunate vocation of Alpaca Pasture Maintenance. If you didn't know, now you know. So, since as of now, you all know and now I know that you know, I will proceed to describe an incident that happened a couple of weeks ago. I call it, "Death by Alpaca Poop." Keep in mind that this really happened and I only just barely embellished it.

It happens that my dear sister is a bit of a klutz. Don't look at me like that! She would be the one to tell you. And now, explorers of the world wide web, I will now venture to reveal to you a deep dark secret. You may have suspected this; Bracie is not her real name! Her real name is Grace. (Get it? Gracie, and Bracie? IT RHYMES! Bwahahaha! I think I'll kill myself laughing!) She has always deemed the name "Grace" an unfortunate choice for her on the part of her parents because she thinks it is so unsuited to her nature.

Anyway, it all began one rainy afternoon when Bracie and I were raking away at the seeming mountains of Alpaca poop. Every time we filled the big yellow wheelbarrow we would cart it back to the dump pile, taking turns rolling the unwieldy barrow along. At the particular moment in which this story took place, Bracie grasped the handlebars, and began to push the wheelbarrow up the wet, muddy slope. She shoved, but it was stuck! Then, she gave one great, mighty heave,

and slipped in the mud.

Bracie's feet wildly flailed and thrashed. You those cartoons, where a character runs off a cliff without knowing it, looks at the screen while his feet pound away at thin air, says, "Uh oh," and then falls? This was something like that. Anyway, she knelt in the mud, certain that the giant load of alpaca poop which now loomed over her head would fall and smother her at any second. The wheelbarrow slowly tipped back, creaking, groaning, about to crash 100 pounds of Alpaca poop on top of her! Bracie looked up helplessly at the wheelbarrow, towards her imminent death. I could see her eyes growing rounder, and rounder, wider and wider.

Just milliseconds before the load came tumbling down on her in all it's glory, Bracie displayed a superhuman feat of strength. With all that was within her, she whipped her head and torso up above the dastardly doodoo, narrowly missing being smothered by alpaca poop. If you can believe it, the monstrous load barely brushed her chin, neck and nose. She survived! You should of been there. That amazingly executed escape would have had you gazing in admiration at my dirty sister. She was so close to death. I could just see myself having to explain to friends and family, "Yes, poor Bracie came to a horrible end in the form of drowning... ina pile of poop."

You should have seen Bracie wipe the muck off her face with a soiled glove and exclaim, slightly hysterically, "Haha! Near death by alpaca poop! Typical me!"

Looking back on this incident makes me realize just how important family really is. Seeing Bracie dance with death puts life into perspective, and makes me realize that all the business and commotion that we put value on just doesn't matter. In that terrible moment when I saw Bracie kneeling helplessly under the wheelbarrow, I found out how much I love her.

Yeah right. Actually, I was dying laughing while it happened. I just thought that maybe I could squeeze a nice, cheesy inspirational paragraph in here somewhere to make up for the fact that I actually typed the words, "Alpaca Poop."

Note: About the photo: the wheelbarrow in the picture is only half as big as the one in real life.

Polls and Life Aspirations

Here are the results to my previous poll.
Pork Rinds =D 6 (9%)
Potato chips 13 (21%)
Tortilla chips 1 (1%)
Cheese curls 6 (9%)
Carrot Sticks 4 (6%)
Grass 5 (8%)
Apples 26 (42%)
I was feeling on top of the world, but 61 votes seems a little outrageous, so I suspect someone had the assistance of some library computers. Perhaps I merely am of a suspicious nature, and thus cut out to begin a sparkling career as a detective. Hmmmm...
I think not. I am going to be a fish monger and toss fish through the air if PETA doesn't get there first. Apparently throwing fish is a "Glorification of Marine Animal Cruelty." I guess I never thought that it would bother a dead fish to be tossed through the air.

NEWSFLASH: Bracie and I are victims of this current depression! Our small Alpaca Pasture maintaining job is now terminated, ended because our employers sold all of their Alpacas. *Sniff* Back to babysitting.

Mr. Leif B. Gonn

Bracie and my job of Alpaca Pasture Maintenance has its ups and downs. As she and I performed our task today, we were painfully reminded of one of the job's disadvantages; that of the leaf blowin' man. Next door and across the street from the pastures lives a man with a passion for ordered lawns and a strong affection for his leaf blower. For now we will call him Leif B. Gonn.
Anyway, it seems as if every time Bracie and I drive in to do our job, he maliciously gets out that noisy contraption, meticulously blowing his leaves into everybody else's yard. If not that, then the mower or rake or what-have-you.
(Note: the following paragraph is fiction.)
Leif's beloved leaf blower kicked the bucket, and being unable to sustain the thought of life without it, Mr.Gonn keeled over and died with the machine. Because I have a heart for the community, to help him out I have written him an original epitaph.
As follows:
Here lies a leaf-blowin man
In life the motor started,
Our ears his blower bombarded,
Now dearly departed,
Champion of mowers,
Greenest grass grower,
best of all leaf Blowers,
Mr. Leif B. Gonn

Ophelia, the car-jacking hoodlum

The only known picture of Ophelia in a Beanie

is one where I am attempting to look like my non-existent cousin "Asher." The only other times that I wear beanies are when it is below 30 degrees or I am working away at my job: Alpaca Pasture Maintenance. "But why?" You, gentle reader, ask, "Why has Ophelia come up with this unbreakable fashion rule of no-beanies-in-public?"
I'll explain. One morning last March, having an I-don't-care day, I slapped a beanie on my crown and jumped in the car as we were running errands on that particular day. Like usual, I wore a pair of comfy, faded blue jeans. The air had a bite to it, so I pulled on my well-broken in grey hoody. I stayed in the car most of the time, but when Mom approached the coffee shop, she told me to hop out and take Ava to the bathroom while she went through the drive-thru. I did as asked, and then I walked round to our van, which was at the last window of the drive-thru. I opened the car door to put Ava in her car seat when I heard a startled gasp.
"Ma'am! The cashier said shrilly through the window, "some person is trying to get into your car!"
Mom turned around, slowly, slowly. "That person," she stated, "is my daughter." Then, I got in the car, and we drove away, quickly, very quickly.
Since that fateful day, I have never worn a beanie at a public place.

Typical Bracie

You, gentle readers, probably already know that my sister and I possess the lowly and slightly unfortunate vocation of Alpaca Pasture Maintenance. If you didn't know, now you know. So, since as of now, you all know and now I know that you know, I will proceed to describe an incident that happened a couple of weeks ago. I call it, "Death by Alpaca Poop." Keep in mind that this really happened and I only just barely embellished it.

It happens that my dear sister is a bit of a klutz. Don't look at me like that! She would be the one to tell you. And now, explorers of the world wide web, I will now venture to reveal to you a deep dark secret. You may have suspected this; Bracie is not her real name! Her real name is Grace. (Get it? Gracie, and Bracie? IT RHYMES! Bwahahaha! I think I'll kill myself laughing!) She has always deemed the name "Grace" an unfortunate choice for her on the part of her parents because she thinks it is so unsuited to her nature.

Anyway, it all began one rainy afternoon when Bracie and I were raking away at the seeming mountains of Alpaca poop. Every time we filled the big yellow wheelbarrow we would cart it back to the dump pile, taking turns rolling the unwieldy barrow along. At the particular moment in which this story took place, Bracie grasped the handlebars, and began to push the wheelbarrow up the wet, muddy slope. She shoved, but it was stuck! Then, she gave one great, mighty heave,

and slipped in the mud.

Bracie's feet wildly flailed and thrashed. You those cartoons, where a character runs off a cliff without knowing it, looks at the screen while his feet pound away at thin air, says, "Uh oh," and then falls? This was something like that. Anyway, she knelt in the mud, certain that the giant load of alpaca poop which now loomed over her head would fall and smother her at any second. The wheelbarrow slowly tipped back, creaking, groaning, about to crash 100 pounds of Alpaca poop on top of her! Bracie looked up helplessly at the wheelbarrow, towards her imminent death. I could see her eyes growing rounder, and rounder, wider and wider.

Just milliseconds before the load came tumbling down on her in all it's glory, Bracie displayed a superhuman feat of strength. With all that was within her, she whipped her head and torso up above the dastardly doodoo, narrowly missing being smothered by alpaca poop. If you can believe it, the monstrous load barely brushed her chin, neck and nose. She survived! You should of been there. That amazingly executed escape would have had you gazing in admiration at my dirty sister. She was so close to death. I could just see myself having to explain to friends and family, "Yes, poor Bracie came to a horrible end in the form of drowning... ina pile of poop."

You should have seen Bracie wipe the muck off her face with a soiled glove and exclaim, slightly hysterically, "Haha! Near death by alpaca poop! Typical me!"

Looking back on this incident makes me realize just how important family really is. Seeing Bracie dance with death puts life into perspective, and makes me realize that all the business and commotion that we put value on just doesn't matter. In that terrible moment when I saw Bracie kneeling helplessly under the wheelbarrow, I found out how much I love her.

Yeah right. Actually, I was dying laughing while it happened. I just thought that maybe I could squeeze a nice, cheesy inspirational paragraph in here somewhere to make up for the fact that I actually typed the words, "Alpaca Poop."

Note: About the photo: the wheelbarrow in the picture is only half as big as the one in real life.

Dadism #1

This is the first of the new and absolutely entrancing series called, "Quotes from my dad. " Yes, I know that these expressions and phrases are not exclusive to my beloved parent, but for most part, I've only heard them from him.

Today's featured phrase is (drum roll please...)

"Don't quit your day job."

This remark is usually said after a performance of some kind. The most common performance around our insane asylum, excuse me, I meant house involves funky dance moves, and/or wacky and off-key karaoke. Dad says, "Nice, kids, but don't quit your day job."

I find myself using our featured expression about this blog, because I'm not making $40,000 a month like whatever that lady's name is. If I was, I'd certainly quit my day job, which happens to be the dull and monotonous vocatiaon of Alpaca Pasture maintanence. If you are not quite sure what this means, let me un-elaborate. I means I scoop poop. Alpacas are fuzzy little animals sort of like minature lamas. See Amy's Blog. I say "Alpaca Pasture Maintainer" when people ask what I do because it sounds a bunch better than, "Poop Scooper" Oh well. I wish I could quit my day job.