Who the fuck are yooou… Mr. Burning Huggies
We had been living in our stunning new home for several weeks when I first met the acquaintance of Mr. Burning Huggies.
The house is a partial fixer-upper. It has stunning “bones” which you would be hard pressed to find comparable examples of unless you know a very expensive, custom builder who still maintained a labor force of tradesmen familiar with most of the (superior) techniques & materials utilized by Early-Mid 20th Century stone masons, bricklayers, framers, plasterers, carpenters, etc.
The house also had unkempt growth on the 50+ years of old landscaping surrounding the house. My In-Laws have a large variety of power equipment they are kind enough to allow us to use on a regular basis as needed. My brother-in-law was kind enough to drop off my favorite of these implements in the form of a John Deere 755 with a front bucket loader and backhoe attachment. I have spent many hundreds of hours occupying the controls of this marvelous piece of engineering prowess over the years.
I was busily cutting down trees and shrubs when one of the three “elders” I previously mentioned on the day we looked at the house appeared to materialize once again while I was working in the yard. He seems friendly enough and has the look of a very decent family patriarch. However, looks are deceptive and I’ve learned that demons hide in plain sight disguised as decent family patriarchs. He says something to the effect:
You are welcome to use the community mulch pile over at the pool. We all dump our yard waste there and the (Pool Boss) mulches it up every year. You are free to use it anytime.
I chose to take him up on the seemingly kind offer. The Pool is close by and I could drive the tractor to the dump point very quickly and easily.
Up to this point, I had been using my pickup truck & landscaping trailer to haul the yard waste over to an “industrial mulching operation” located a few miles away. I was paying them a continuously variable amount of money for every load, depending on who was working at the time. It varied over the several days I was doing this. They were charging me between $10/load to $25/load depending on the whims of the same lowlife who greeted me when I’d show up. My pickup truck bed and trailer never changed size and were always loaded the same. There also turns out to be a connection with this “industrial mulching operation” and another family in the neighborhood.
Enter Mr. Burning Huggies:
Around 11:00 AM, I had begun taking a couple of loads to the Pool Dump. Once I finished my second load, I backed out onto the roadway and straightened up to go home when standing in the middle of the road blocking my path was a man in his daily getup, little red (riding) hoodie.
I cut the engine and sat atop my beloved 755 and said Hi. He began by saying that I shouldn’t be there unless I was a “pool member”. I begged his pardon. I remained friendly and cordial and explained that I just moved into the house around the corner several weeks ago and that I was invited by (patriarch) to add the last remains of my azaleas and rhododendrons to the “community pile”.
He appeared outwardly intoxicated and slurred while relaying the following:
MBH: Who the fuck are yooou? You can’t use that pile! It’s only for us poool members!
Me: Are you drunk?
MBH: Yeah…
It’s important to note that Mr. and Mrs. Burning Huggies are among a few nearby inhabitants (including Yoga Pants) who choose not to participate in trash removal services and instead dispose of their garbage, trash, recycling, etc. by incineration and/or other methods. They don’t place weekly cans/bins out for collection. This quasi-rural township is located in the middle of a very prosperous, increasingly dense, urban/suburban sprawl region where it’s customarily frowned upon, disrespectful, unhealthy, and illegal to incinerate waste for obvious reasons. However, since we live in Meat Grinder, PA the locals have been known to openly state that they “do what they want anyway” since nothing happens. And, because ‘Merica. Notably, for the period of time that both (Junior Burning Huggies) spent in diapers, an imposingly odoriferous blanket would form throughout the entire region whenever mom & dad would fire up their shitty-diaper-laden burn pit, often several times per week.
My woman started me on this spree
I can’t find her and she can’t find me
She left this morning, said she wouldn’t stay
She’s been out all night and it’s the break of day
One scotch, one bourbon, and one beer
One scotch, one bourbon, and one beer
Please mister bartender, listen here
I ain’t here for trouble, so have no fear
One scotch, one bourbon, and one beer
Amos Milburn
Jason C. Arthur
