My Happy Easter

My Happy Easter: By Cad Grublygold.

6:00Am. Woke at the crack of dawn and nursed my hangover by polishing off the last forty of Gila monster Beer.

7:00 Staggered to the park to collect hidden eggs for breakfast.

7:30 Found to my disgust that the eggs were plastic, tossed them into the creek, picked up my fishing rod and headed to the awning of the Denny’s out door patio to (catch) a school of pancakes that happened to swim by below.

9:00 Walked back to the park to watch the little kids look for all the nonexistent eggs. Immensely enjoyed all the crying.

10:00 Attended church at the Biker Church of the Wrathful God. Sat politely and watched the hundred plus biker gang church goers pray, then stood up and loudly proclaimed that Easter really was a Pagan holiday, and they were all fools to think it had anything to do with the resurrection of Christ.

10:30 Ran like hell.

11:00 Crawled out of the dumpster I was hiding in. Beat the snot out of, and robbed the Easter Bunny on his way to the mall to pass out candy.

12:00 Used the stolen money to buy copious amounts of alcohol. Hopped down Main Street in the Easter Bunny costume, reeking of whisky, chasing and hurling candy at terrified little children while yelling “ hey you fucking little shits!! Have some god dammed candy……Take it you basterds or I’ll gnaw your fucking little legs off!!!!!!!”

1:00pm. Evaded a mob of police and irate parents by hiding in a dog kennel.

1:15 Forgot to take bunny costume off and was ripped to shreds by a pack of hungry Rotwilers.

2:00 Crawled to the creek to pack mud in my many wounds, passed out from blood loss.

6:00 Woke up feeling somewhat better and returned to the Church for evening mass.

6:30. Repeated my above statements loudly, while making devil signs for emphasis.

6:35 Attempted to run like hell but hampered by my earlier run-in with dog pack, was captured and beat down like a little bitch.

9:00 Awoke in alley behind church, and limped groggily back to my bridge thankful that another Easter had come and gone.

More Random Questions For Grublygold

More Random Questions For Grublygold.

Hi Cad you look horrible, I guess you lost that last fight with a fifth of Jack.

A: That’s not a question jack ass, this segment is random QUESTIONS for Grublygold, not the bag on Grublygold hour. Re phrase that last statement.

Q: Sorry, so….Lost that last fight with a fifth of Jack huh?

A: That’s better, yeah I lost big time. I was winning though till the damn sidewalk jumped up and punched me in the nose.

Q: I heard the recent rains left you stuck in a tree top with a monkey, did you guys bond?

A: We were bonding until I kicked his ass down the gullet of a hungry grass weasel.

Q: Awh….did the poor thing suffer?

A: Yes, horribly.

Q: I understand that You’re Porcupines for the Blind foundation was closed down by the Feds last week, does this in any way affect your new start up organization Bisons for Babies?

A: Absolute not. I anticipate that Bisons for Babies will be a huge success. Never again will parents have to worry about someone kidnapping their child, because who in the world would try to take a child that is tied to the leg of a Bison. As well, parents don’t have to worry about loosing their child in a large department store. If they get separated all they have to do is follow the trail of destruction and it will lead strait to their baby, safely tied to the leg of a huge hairy Bison.

Q: So then this Federal injunction against your first company will not affect your other non profit, Mountain Lions for Mongoloids either?

A: Nope, the current case only deals with Porcupines and Blind people. And for the record, the Feds can’t prove that being paired up with a porcupine caused the suicide rate among blind people to skyrocket, its all speculation. I’m sure that in time the courts will come to see that denying a blind person the opportunity to live with a criminally abused porcupine is doing them a grave disservice.

Q: Let’s change the subject. If a thousand ton train is headed for your drunken train dodge bridge, north bound at sixty MPH. And you are staggering south bound, at two MPH smashed off your ass on Rubbing alcohol and Vodka. At what point on the bridge would you have to fall sideways into the creek to avoid being hit?

A: Hah, I know this one, I did the equation last night in fact. I would have to vomit and pitch sideways into the creek at exactly ten feet six inches and one and one half centimeters from the first bridge post.

Q: If you had to get stung by one of those huge black waspy things that live down by the creek, would you rather get stung on the genitals? Or way up inside your ass some ware?

A: Ugh, I’m not answering that you fucking masochist. I think this interview is over………..oh fine……in the genitals, it’s kinda hard to rub anti sting cream up your ass…..now leave my bridge please.

Merced Veterans Park.

The day was sunny, and I strolled along unmindful of where my feet traveled. The day dream was pleasant and the warming sun calmed my nerves and soothed my hangover.

All this was shattered however by a sudden loud explosion, and harsh words shouted full volume in Vietnamese. I recoiled in horror, I had inadvertently wandered into the Homeless Veterans Park, and I was on the wrong side of the lines. This unassuming park sits at the far end of town, avoided wisely by all but the poor insane masses of war vets who every day play out a human drama of chaos and death. The lines change daily as various park features such as the drinking fountain and bathrooms are hotly contested. I ducked a hail of dirt clods and snuffed out a homemade fuse before diving into the bushes to watch the current battle. A group of Vet Cong had just ambushed an aging party of WWII Veterans on their way to the battle of the Bulge being fought by the rest of the fogies from the Great War near an abandoned soda stand. The WWII boys were old, but gave back well in the struggle against the Cong. Fists flew and homade bangers went off willy nilly until the Cong leader looked to the heavens and screamed something about napalm, causing his motley command to dive for cover. The old WWII guys picked themselves up and headed off towards the far end of the park where, by the sound of things the Battle of the Bulge was really heating up for the fifth time that day. Off to my right, a group of crazy Marines were sneaking up the Bear Creek version of the Mekong Delta, intent on ambushing a small flock of ducks. While on my left a flag was raised amidst a heavy artillery barrage on the top of Mount Iwogima. ( Aka the roof of the girl’s bathroom)

This is how it goes in this sad little park, twenty four hours a day the lost vets of the great wars, driven insane by their past combat live out their never ending nightmares in heart wrenching scenarios. Having escaped capture by the Vet Cong, I crawled towards the creek to see how the D day invasion was going. The ancient Germans, clad in torn faded uniforms were raining rocks and chicken bones down on to the confused mass of old men in soggy tattered US Army fatigues who were trying to get organized for a mass charge up the hill. Crawling down the creek I managed to avoid two Jap patrols and one Drunken North Korean, but found that my way out was blocked. Cursing my bad luck I once again took refuge in a leafy bottle brush tree, and watched yet another fight in the endless hell on earth that is the Merced Veterans Park. The lone footbridge over Bear Creek was now renamed Arhnem Bridge and, was being held at all costs by a platoon of British paratroopers. Besides holding off the Germans however, they also blocked the path of a Russian battalion desperate to join the battle of Stalingrad, being fought twenty yards away underneath the monkey bars. The British held fast, but in the end lost out to sheer numbers after a small army of Japs, intent on invading the island of Baton, joined up with the German and Russian elements who were struggling to gain the far side of the creek.
Having lost the bridge, the British forces rushed off to join with the old Marines, who having gained the Normandy coast, were now racing towards the gazebo in the center of the park to invade Berlin. With the bridge temporarily forgotten I made a break for it, but did not get two steps before the bridge was blown by a Navy Frogman, attempting to deny access to Rommel and his Panzer division which consisted of a rusty wheelbarrow and a tricycle. I may well have ended up a prisoner like so many other lost joggers who stumble by accident into this eternal battle field. But luck was with me this day, and for the low price of a pack of cigarettes a destitute member of the French underground smuggled me across the creek on a reed boat, cleverly disguised under a stack of hay.

If you haven’t already guessed, this is another place in Merced to avoid at all costs. Unless you like being locked in a flea infested bamboo hut while a former Vet Cong officer suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder urinates on your festering rat bites while screaming at you to give away the American positions.

Heavy rains turn G.st into a raging torrent. I am pictured here moments before being swept into a tree. 

Monkey drama.

Crap, I think the monkey is wining........no wait, he fell.........or more like I pushed him.......either way he's weasel chow. And I'm still up in a stupid tree.

Cad attempts to out clime a monkey.

It’s currently raining so hard in Merced, that I have been washed out from under my bridge and into the top of a tree, along with three Grass weasels and a Monkey. It’s darn lucky I opted for the water proof model when I purchased my laptop. As of this moment the monkey and I are trying to out clime each other to stay above the ever hungry weasels. I’ll keep you posted as this riveting drama unfolds.

Places to Avoid in Merced.

Merced is a small town, but it’s an important one, located on one of the two main highways into Yosemite, it sees huge numbers of tourists every year. Due to the extremely high casualty rate, I feel compelled to compose a list of places to avoid should you ever find you’re self there. ( In Merced that is, not Yosemite……pay attention )

Ahem…cough cough…PLACES TO AVOID IN MERCED!!!

The Gst. Bridge: This is where I live, and I hate visitors. Should you visit god help you. If I’m not drunk, I’m strung out on something. And if I’m not drunk or strung out then god really help you because that’s when I get mean.

The Mst. Bridge: This is where the Mimes live…..burrrr….gives me the willies it does. Matter of fact, it’s best to avoid all the bridges in Merced.

Bear Creek: Aside from being home to the feared Grass Weasel, the creek has become so polluted over the years that you could catch a virus just by looking at a photo of it. The creek is not hard to avoid, the smell attracts great flocks of buzzards that circle above as though it was a rotting moose carcass. The smell once got so bad during the summer months, that a pack of hyenas migrated all the way from Africa to get in on the action.

The Evil Place: Located off of Olive Ave on the eastern edge of town, this place is so scary, that you can only approach it while wearing a welding mask to block out the sight and prevent insanity. Over the years I have been building up my immunity to the place, and can now get to within a block of it with a bandana over my face.

The Wrong Side of the Tracks: Trust me you’ll know if you have crossed over. And my advice, cross back quickly. The wrong side is a fascinating look at the great melting pot that is America. See, over on the Wrong Side it goes like this. The Blacks hate the Mexicans, and the Asians hate everybody. The Mexicans hate the Asians, but not half as bad as they hate the Rednecks. The Rednecks don’t care for anybody, but would shoot a Black over a Mexican. Asians and Blacks like hunting Rednecks but only if there are no Mexicans around. Mexicans hide from the Rednecks they hate for fear of attracting the attention of the Asians who will hunt Mexicans for sport if the Rednecks are all off looking for the Blacks who are sneaking up behind the Mexicans who are hiding from the Rednecks Who are being stalked by Asians. ( are you with me so far?......good )

Asians don’t obey traffic signals as they are too short to see over the tops of their steering wheels. Blacks obey them and will shoot at anybody who does not. Rednecks want to obey them but are too drunk to do so and therefore tend to get shot at a lot. The Blacks though don’t stand a chance of hitting anything because the shitty old cars that the Mexicans drive produce so much smoke that seeing is not an option. Mexicans use their smoke screens to try to ram the Asians who are trying to spot the Rednecks who are drunkenly rear ending the Blacks who have stopped at the red lights to shoot in to the smoke clouds in the hopes of killing Rednecks.

So you see, the Wrong Side of the Tracks is a great place to steer clear of.

Really come to think of it, just stay the hell away from the whole bloody town. With the highest unemployment rate in the country, and a Bum to working man ratio of 15 to 1, the place should rank somewhere below Owl shit, and used Kleenex on your things to see list.

I'm a lying bitch.

Friends I must apologize for my deception. I have posted pictures on this blog and claimed that they were of me, but this is untrue. The man in the photos is John Bosco, a former friend from days past. The likeness between us is rather striking, but we are unrelated. I thought nothing of claiming to be him, and would still think nothing of it. But just yesterday, John showed up out of friggin knowere and demanded that I set things right. I have stricken the disputed pictures from my blog, and as of this moment claim no knowledge of their ever having been posted.

If you wish to see photos of John B on the sets of various movies, you may access his blog at johnthenobody.blogspot.com John states on his blog that I helped him post his pictures for the sake of helping and old friend. This is false!! The dick head ambushed me under my bridge and made me do it at knife point. John is an egomaniac who thinks he's so cool because he works in Hollywood.

It's the begining of the end boys.

I Cad Grublygold am not political, and I do not use this blog as a political forum, truth be told I do not favor any party, but believe firmly in the mob rule form of government. I think the party in power should be the party who can get the biggest pitchfork wielding mob together the fastest. With all that said however, once in a great wile I come across a story so extraordinarily stupid that I am forced to comment.

The other day, wile stuffing my hole riddled shoes with newspaper to guard against the recent cold snap, my gaze happened to fall upon a story so insane, so completely brainless as to shatter my thin faith in humanity.

Two years ago a twenty something peace activist from the U.S was over in Palestine protesting the Israeli occupation, in the course of her vigorous protests she sat down in front of a moving bulldozer. Now any sane person could tell you that this was not the smartest course of action, but she apparently was not aware that bulldozers are built mainly for the purpose of squishing stuff, and that pitted against a human they will almost always win. ( I say almost always, because just last week I stumbled drunkenly into the path of an oncoming bulldozer, and seconds from death my shirt was sucked into the intake manifold , causing the unfortunate machine to spontaneously combust.) But this is the exception not the rule and in the case of the girl, win it did. The driver, unaware that a small stupid object was in its path, lowered the blade and spread her moronic carcass across the ground like butter on toast. End of story right? Live and learn you stupid feeb? NO!!! OF COURSE NOT!!!! BECAUSE IN TODAYS FUCKED UP BACKWARDS SOCIETY, IT’S NEVER THE IDIOTS FAULT, ALWAYS SOMONE ELSES. The family of the girl is now suing the Israeli government, (as if they had anything to do with their daughter’s lack of brain power)
And if that was not stupid enough. Get this; the family is suing the Caterpillar tractor company for millions claiming that they sold the bulldozer to the Israelis for the sole purpose of squishing retarded American girls. The parents ranted in the article that their daughter was murdered, killed in cold blood, the thought that maybe their daughter had no right going to a forin country to protest the creation of an Israeli wall to stop the slaughter of its people never even entered their thick sculls. The fact that the only way a bulldozer can really stop is to hit something, and that lying in front of a moving one is mentally akin to kicking a pissed off lion in the genitals wile wearing an antelope costume seams to have escaped their attention.

Upon finishing the article I could only stand open mouthed. As the implications of what this lawsuit could do to society as a whole started to sink in I collapsed trembling on the ground. I may well have committed a messy suicide right then and there, but luckily the Barbiturates and Spanish Fly that I pounded down for breakfast kicked in, and I lapsed into a coma that I only just came out of. This world is doomed boys and girls. Make no mistake about that, we are witnessing the beginning of the end. And I say fuck it, let it end, I’m going back under my bridge with my blowup girlfriend and my amphetamines to wait for it.

Ten Reasons Why Bowties Are Better Than Bats.

Recently the Chief of police in Merced got married; I of course was over looked when they sent out invitations. In fact the Chief has a restraining order against me. But despite this little inconvenience I was determined to pay my respects and attend. By cashing in assorted recyclables, and selling some supposed gold that I had supposedly mined from Bear Creek to some kids who were to dumb to know better, I managed to scrape together enough to rent a tux for the event. There was just one problem, my cash ran out before I could get a bowtie. Now a tux with out a bowtie is a huge fashion fux pas, so instead of a bowtie I used a bat. A sleeping bat looks an awful lot like a bowtie, but this proved to be a bad idea.

Ten Reasons Why Bowties Are Better Than Bats For Formal Occasions.

1: Bowties stay in one place. Bats are rather fidgety. A bow tie will not crabby crawl across the front of your shirt while you are talking to the Mayors wife.

2: Other bats are not attracted to bowties. Bad news having a love sick bat swooping around your head trying to have its way with your bowtie during the ceremony.

3: Bowties are silent. Bats tend to squeak at just the wrong moments…….

…….Do you Mary….( screeek) ………take Chief …..( Sreeeeeee!!!!!!!) To be your lawfully wedded……( skrrrrrrrik?) ……….(heads turn to look at you)

4: Bowties do not mistake black olives for June bugs and snap them up off other people’s plates.

5: Bowties are not known to carry rabies.

6: Bowties are not opposed to bright lights, a bowtie will not make a sudden dive for the comforting darkness of Mrs. Blum’s ample cleavage.

7: Cologne will not cause a bowtie to break out into violent sneezing fits. You may not think that a bat could sneeze very loudly, but trust me during that moment of dead silence following the “If there is any reason why these two should not be wed” line, a bat sneeze is deafening.

8: White doves, and bats are mortal enemies, I never knew this until a flock of doves were released as the bride and groom kissed. My bowtie bat launched it’s self from my shirt front, and into the dove flock like a black missile. The resulting carnage left three dead doves, and the shocked bride blood spattered.

9: You do not have to pay a huge fine for wearing a bowtie with out a permit.

10: Wearing a bowtie to a wedding does not usually result in you being sent to prison by a furious Police Chief.

Lost Lambs of God.

While sitting under my bridge the other day, I heard the sound of someone approaching. Cautiously I peered out and beheld two nervous youths fidgeting out side my chiuawa skin door flap. I glowered at them threateningly, unhappy at being exposed to direct sunlight with a hangover. Before I could unclip the chain on the large half crazed attack raccoon which I keep for just such purposes however one of the youths shoved a pamphlet into my hand and the pair of them retreated hurriedly. The anguished howls of my raccoon adding much swiftness to their flight. Scratching my head, I pulled back into the comfortable gloom to see what they had given me. It was a religious something or other, blah blah Christ loves the lambs of the Arc who doth make bread out of fish blah de blah. I was about to thrust the pamphlet under my raccoon’s nose in the hopes of giving him the boys sent so he could track them down and gnaw them to shreds, when something caught my eye. A dinner for the lost lambs of god at the Holy Church of the Christ on a Crutch or something…. A free dinner! That I wouldn’t pass up.

I arrived that evening to find the other lost lambs milling around in the church parking lot with hungry looks in their eyes. The Mimes of M. Street were there, as was my old partner at the bank, Jeb. As well as numerous other down an outers. At 7:00 just as straws were being drawn to find out who would be sacrificed as an appetizer, the door opened and a grandly dressed priest bade us enter. I don’t know what the priest was expecting, standing in the door like that, squarely in front of a hungry hobo pack and the promise of food, but to my thinking, the foot prints on his face were well deserved out of shear stupidity. The mob surged into the church, but found only empty tables. As one we turned to stare at the now disheveled priest, and he hurried to calm the masses. “Gently my good lambs, gently” he soothed. “Before the hungry Israelites feasted upon the bread that Jesus did bestow, they first listened to him speak upon the mount.” “Yeah” said a voice in the back, “and look what he got for speaking so damn long to a hungry crowd.” Grudgingly though we took our seats and faced front. The voice of the priest dragged on like a bland muddy river in the large emptiness of the church, the priest gamely raising his voice above the noise of a hundred growling stomachs. A hundred heads nodded forward in boredom, the mood growing uglier by the minuet. (STEAK!!!!! ) screamed the priest!! One hundred heads jerked up! “Steak” the priest continued “was called fish and stale bread in the day of our lord Jesus, so be you thankful for all his little blessings. You know not how good you have it.” Well that was just plain old stupid of the priest. Up until then he might have gone unharmed, but that last remark cooked his Godly goose, yess sir. The place erupted in a riot. Better than one hundred hobos proceeded to tear about, looking for the promised feast, the priest was violently defrocked, his pleas going unnoticed by his lord, the candles by the alter were devoured by the mob. A cadge containing white doves was literally shredded and consumed wire mesh and all. Finally a large bushy hobo tore down a door and we beheld a rather sorry array of second hand food, from wilted vegetables to watery soup. Guarded by a pair of aging nuns. At this point however the rabid pack was beyond caring, the nuns upon seeing our most unholy faces fled sobbing into the night, and soon the sorry repast was inhaled down to the last mushy beet.

It is my sincerest hope. That the lessons taught at this Sunday dinner are heeded by the Church in the future to prevent similar scenes of chaos. For I hold no animosity towards those in the lords service, and no priest should be stripped naked, hung upside-down from his crucifix, and have a pack of hungry Mimes pantomime the shower scene from American History X upon his naked buttocks, while one hundred smelly hobos poke fun at his small manhood. It just isn’t genteel behavior. Live and learn Lamb of God………..

The tower is fixed.

I do believe that I finally figured out what was wrong with my internet receiving tower, as I have stated before, a beaver gnawed down my hundred foot tower thinking it was a tree. Then upon seeing his mistake attempted to fix it, but as is the case so often the attempted repair ends up causing more damage than the original mistake. It’s been driving me crazy trying to figure out what all he did, but then last night I am almost certain I found the problem!! That wacky beaver connected the transmodular wire to the jiggy bong transceiver, then he molded the fragg blasticator voomping device to the nit port. It was an honest mistake really, once I found the problem it was a simple matter to re ply the dingy blat cable to the spaggnump box, and tune the wigg dish to pick up my internet signal and relay it to my bridge.

Now though with my tower up and running, I no longer need to detonate the massive bomb that I found while gold mining in Bear Creek. So I am left with the question of what to do with it. At the moment it is sitting beside my bridge with a sign hung on it that reads, “This is not a huge bomb”. That way no one will get suspicious. But truth be told I would rather not live next to it. As well as being a pain to live around, the bomb has also become a security risk, word somehow leaked out that I had a giant bomb, and now it keeps getting stolen by the different warring hobo factions that live along Bear Creek. As much as I don’t like living with it, I still sleep better knowing I have it rather than someone else, like the homeless Mimes of M Street for instance. They stole it one night, and pantomimed blowing it up in a crowed shopping mall, it was a horrible sight to see, but as soon as they all were mimicking being blown to bits, I managed to steal my bomb back and return it to my bridge at G Street. Another night a crack addict speed freak got hold of it, and attempted to rob a Seven Eleven with it. Using a large dolly, he dragged it into the store and threatened to whack it with a hammer if the clerk did not hand over all the money. So you can see what a problem the stupid thing is, I suppose I could just rebury it, but I’m still thinking I may find a use for it. For now I guess I’ll just prop it up against my bridge and paint beady eyes and a frown on it to scare potential thieves away.

I thought it would be funny if I turned a detour arrow around to point off my bridge, seeing if anyone would fall for it......ooop.....my bad. 

Cad has a bad day 

An unwary newt is snagged by a bridge dweller. 

Cad freshens up with a toothbrush newt. 

Cad's Map Of Merced 

Yet another week in review

Yet another week in review.

Good day all, my internet is still giving me problems, ever since that giant beaver gnawed down my receiving tower. I am however working on plans to send my own satellite into space which would provide for all my bloging needs, as well as serve as a dooms day weapon should I ever feel the need to use it. While grubbing for gold one day, I came across a large bomb. Most likely lost from the near by Castle Air Force Base. By detonating this bomb, I should be able to easily send a home made internet receiver / laser killobeam in to the stratosphere. The problem though is that it is hard to make a hundred foot blast crater look like an accident. Not to mention all that down wind fallout stuff. I have been advertising my bomb in the local terrorism newspapers though, and hopefully I can entice a hidden terror cell to use my bomb to blow something or other up, and send my receiver into space at the same time. Until then though, here is yet another week in review.

I started an organization on Monday, called the North American Modern Bridge Living Association, or NAMBLA, then posted flyers all over town, for a getting to know you sleep over for all members under my bridge. I was at the time not aware that there is another Association with that same name, The North American Man Boy Love Association………..yeah……it was bad……..Half the people who showed up that night were Man Boy Love members, the other half came armed with torches pitchforks and shotguns. The National Guard eventually got things under control, but three Man Boy Love supporters were killed, and one small Boyish looking Guardsman was anally violated in the melee. I am once again lying low, leaving my bridge only in the black of night wearing funny nose glasses to hide my identity until things settle down.

As if the NAMBLA fiasco was not enough, While making shadow puppets with my hands under a street light one night. I inadvertently insulted the local deaf biker gang. Who new that making a shadow dog urinate, spells out “Hey you deaf gay wad, last night I rode your mom like a Harley” in sign language. I escaped by hiding in a wind chime display out side the Home Depot. Lucky for me they were deaf………see……because wind chimes are all noisy an stuff………….

The Nike commercial a few years ago was spot on. Joggers really do hate it when you run behind them with a boom box blasting the song Eye of the Tiger. In the commercial however, the guy only gets pushed to the ground, then helped back up. This is not in keeping with reality. The reality is that you’ll wind up sitting in a creek wearing your boom box on your head like a sombrero.

In honor of the upcoming Star Wars movie, a blanket and a welding mask makes a passable Bobafett costume. However, he must have had some trick for seeing through his dark faceplate. Because I couldn’t see jack when I dodged into traffic on my land speeder

( mountain bike )…………I wonder if Bobafett ever caused an accident by zooming into traffic on his speeder?......... I wonder if that large irate driver who swerved to avoid me and hit the light pole could recognize me without my costume on…………..

A Booby really is a type of bird, and I really did see one in Bear Creek the other day while walking with the local bird watchers club. It was just bad luck I guess that right as I spotted one, a large breasted girl and her bulldog boyfriend stepped out from behind a tree and passed in front of it. I must have looked awfully rude staring through my binoculars, pointing and shouting HEY!!!! I SEE A BOOBY…….. HEY GUYS A BOOBY……. NO WAIT…..TWO!! I SEE TWO BOOBYS!! DAMN WHAT A PAIR OF BOOBYS THEY ARE!!! It was nice of the bird club president to step up and try to explain the matter…….. in my opinion he so didn’t deserve to have his field guide shoved up his nose.