I am turning into Bill Murray

And this week on the Funk of Skunk...

So it's Friday night. This has been a long week. No.. let me rephrase that... this has been a LONG FUCKING WEEK for many reasons. Professional, personal and all of the above. Been knee-deep in work and was only able to write one night for a good chunk and another for a handful of words.

I was looking to unwind a bit, have a few drinks and just catch my breath, but obviously the universe has decided that my life doesn't have enough drama in it already.

I was just finishing putting my kids to bed when I came downstairs and saw a look of trepidation and unease on my wife's face.

"Pepe's back."

Adrenaline kicked in and I grabbed my shotgun, a couple of shells and bolted from the house, a flashlight in the other hand.

Loading the shotgun on the run, I ran around to the back of my barn and swung the flashlight around and caught motion in front of me. At this point, my feet did one of those Bugs Bunny tire squeals.

Yes it was a skunk.

But this was no Pepe.

It was a much smaller target and colored much blacker. Offspring of the hell-spawn herself.

So I gave chase and fired off a shot. Monsieur Le Pew ran to hide beneath my raspberry bushes and I reloaded and fired again.

Effectively shredding my raspberry bushes.

He bolted like black mercury from the bushes into a row of Laurel trees and I ran around to the other side - standing in the cemetery and yelling battle cries and yelling for my wife to get me more shells as I tried to focus the flashlight and find him again.

I aimed and fired.

And buckshot ricocheted off something, hit my truck's gas tank and the entire thing burst into a fireball in my driveway.

Well, at least in my head it did.

I reconsidered where I was aiming and in that instant, I heard Monsieur Le Pew's leprechaun-like voice utter "Fuck you, Mon Capitan" and he ran around the barn again, headed toward the woods.

I ran the opposite side of the barn, intending to cut him off, and didn't realize how fast the little bastard could run.

We ran parallel in the darkness toward the woods, me screaming obscenities in a horrible French accent (I've no idea why... it seemed the right thing to do) and then the little bastard disappeared.

There is a very large Oak tree along the drive in the cemetery. It would make a good hanging tree. It's base is as wide as three of me and it's wrapped in poison ivy. And there is a hole at it's base.

The Le Pew's new residence. (Cue the Jefferson's Movin' On Up theme song here)

I kissed the tip of my middle finger and dramatically showed him that he was clearly number one tonight and slowly made my way back home.

The rest of the night was spent doing exactly what I had intended to do in the first place. Having a few drinks and unwinding.

But in the back of my head, I was plotting.

This morning, coffee in hand, I made my way to their new abode and leisurely dropped a lit quarter stick of dynamite into their hole.

It made a very gratifying bang but since I'm fairly certain their domain is in the ninth quadrant of hell, I don't think it did anything.

I came back later to check and see if anyone had pulled themselves free of the trenches.

And was promptly stung on my ankle by a yellow jacket.

Oh Miss Pepe. Oh, you bitch. Clever, clever girl.

There are several holes in the ground by their new home. And they are all filled with a particularly spicy variety of yellow jackets.

I came back home, grabbed a beer and returned.

With a can of Super 77 in hand.

Some of you may not know what Super 77 is, so I'll explain. There is a craft material called spray glue that comes in a can much like spray paint. The normal variety works very well and you can also peel up and reposition things with it after you've stuck it down.

Some genius at 3M realized that the denser glue that settles at the bottom of their vats could be marketed as a high-end industrial spray adhesive. Once this is sprayed, you'd better damn well position things correctly, cause it's not coming back up with a crowbar.

While my ankle continued to throb with venom, I spent the next 1/2 hour spraying the yellow jackets without mercy, watching them pass by like planes with King Kong, and drenching them with 3M's sticky goodness, and laughing gleefully at their writhing bodies in the dirt. I also sprayed their holes until it looked like vanilla ice cream at the entrances.

Tonight, I shall load up and return to the scene of the striped demon's lair.

The only good varmint is a dead varmint.