by Anglo-American Farmer Bodwyn Wook
There was a nasty bit in one of the English web logs, a videogramme of some adolescent Australian subadult male twits, playing “golf” with flashlights and cane toads; I couldn’t resist insulting the little dweebs, just a little, in my comment….
‘If the YOB stupid bastards knew they could get high off of the parotid gland secretions they wouldn’t bash the toads…ah, to Hell with it, this kind of scum is impenetrable! Needless to say I have my own definiton of “vermin.” Not to mention “—holes.” Moving right along though, when my dad had my mother lodged in a house on stilts somewhere in Queensland while he was riding up hill and down dale, training for the territorial police in New Guinea in 1948, she couldn’t abide the cane toads oozing in the unmown grass or the iguanodon lizards sunning in the morning on the porch. She said it was like Mississippi, “our worst state” (and repeated it when our sister got married and actually went to live there!), and when an old black lady who did the washing said about the brown snakes likely under the house, that did it. Mom flew back to the States in a Constellation with me in her tum and Pop came after, repentant like. He settled down as a respectable CPA accountant for the State of Minnesota, but his heart wasn’t in it. One of his nicknames for me as a baby was — you guessed it! — “Toad,” which — you guessed it! — pissed off my mother no end.
[Bodwyn Wook all rights reserved 17 May 2009]