Tumbleweeds are the devil. And so am I.

I have had to get used to a lot of major changes since moving from Ohio to Kansas. I visited my family here as a kid, but I don’t have a lot of memories about the climate, culture or community. I invested more in raising hell with the combined efforts of my brother and cousins. And at that…I succeeded. I’m a havoc-wreaking monster motherfucker. So look out, buttholes. Hide your breakables and don’t ever give me candy. I’m like a stray cat; if you feed me, I’ll be back. And if you don’t give me candy when I come back, I’ll meow your ass off and tear your curtains apart. Trust me, it would be a cat-astrophe.



Haha. Cat Humor.


Driving is a lot different out here in the middle of nowhere. I can now go 50 mph down city streets and totally get away with it. I can pull a U-Turn in the middle of Main Street and nobody would think twice about it. Hell, I could stand in the middle of Main Street, butt naked, holding a sign that says “Ask me about my wicked diarrhea” at 8pm on a Friday night and not a soul would see me. And frankly yes, I have been tempted to do so. Because that shit would be hilarious, and also because I’m really fucking weird.


Now, when you’re driving in Ohio, you mostly only have to worry about animals jumping out in front of your car. Deer, groundhogs, raccoons and opossums are among the most popular road kill victims. In Kansas, it’s rare to come across an animal in the road – instead, you have to dodge tumbleweeds. Those bastards are everywhere! And I know what you’re thinking: “It’s just a weed. What could it possibly do to you?” …That’s what I thought the first time I got one stuck under my car. I reached under to pull it out, and it damn near CUT MY FUCKING FINGER OFF. Those shits are deceptively sharp, and viciously evil. I’m telling ya man, tumbleweeds can’t be trusted.


And size is of no concern to them. The ones you see blowing across the sand in western movies are cute and small – but don’t let them fool you. Those are only the baby tumbleweeds. And when Papa tumbleweed comes a rollin’ along, look the fuck out. He will bowl your ass over and rip your jeans, and possibly sexually assault you. Papa tumbleweed is an unstoppable badass. I know from experience – I ran into one at Walmart the other day. Rather, it ran into me. And I wrangled that douchebag into a cart rack and took its picture, as proof for everyone who doubts its existence. Get ready to have your minds blown to hell, my friends:

I had to look like a raging moron trying to muscle that thing in there.

*shrugs*

Good thing I don’t mind looking like a weirdo. It’s pretty much a full time job for me. The shocked and disgusted looks I get are only fuel in the fire, baby. I pride myself on being a one-of-a-kind freak. The kind of freak that makes people so uncomfortable they tell their kids not to stare. Where people just assume I’m mentally challenged and pretend I’m not there while avoiding eye contact. Where I can get away with farting really loud in public, as long as I follow it by screaming: “WHOOP WHOOP!! HOOOOOONK!! I’M A FIRETRUCK!” and spitting on people to put out their fires.


It’s time like those I wish I had a penis, because a wang would sure make an awesome fire hose. Also, I really want to know what it’s like to pee outside without having to squat. Squatting outside is the worst, and I always manage to somehow pee in my shoes. And let me tell you, shoes full of urine aren’t nearly as fun as they sound.