Adventures with Jenny

Wintertime is a long way off here in la belle Provincee. Like other provinces in the world, our winters are still a few long weeks off, and so, with all the joy and forsight that comes with bad decisions, we decided to... uhhh... I really don't know what I'm talking about. The following is a mathematical formula that will introduce this post.

Car + gas + driving = getting somewhere to steal from the bounty of Nova Scotia's agricultural breadbasket.

WHat am I talking about? Well! Sit down and shut up, because it's story time!

After a long, frustrating drive, listening to poorly-recorded mix-tapes interspersed with snippets of boring interviews with the Halifax Regional Police Watch Commander ("we haven't had anything interesting happen, actually. We're glad you called."), we finally drove into Wolfville, home of Acadia University, the only mandatory-laptop university in the galaxy (right?) and the place where so many different types of food are grown that you need a second colon just to digest them all (if you were to eat them all at once, anyway).
But the joy of our journey truly began as we toured the beautiful, tree-lined streets of one of the oldest settled areas in Canada, looking along the roadside for abandoned furniture and appliances we might intersect with the front of our vehicle at highway speeds.There were many candidates, but as the cover of a barbecue flew over the grill of the car, bouncing once on the roof, and rolling to a stop in the ditch, I slammed on the brakes. As the biblical Adam, I turned my heart to pure evil when I saw a tree completely full of forbidden fruit. Nay, this was not the fruit of knowledge, inasmuch as it would turn us smart when we mushed it up in our burger-holes, but rather a forest of privately-owned apple trees, poorly guarded, and deliciously delicious. Out from the car we rolled, screaming our glee reservedly to avoid drawing too much attention to our upcoming evil. As my shirtbottom filled with apples, I ran back to the vehicle, and we looked at our score. Apples. Duh. We already knew it was apples. But one taste, and we realized-- evil tastes best straight off the tree. Man-o-man, can you ever taste the evil in stolen tree apples. Jenny tried to tell me it was the freshness of the apples, but I preferred to believe it was the evil that made them sweeter.

With joy, we drove unneccessarily fast away from the tree place, and up the street. As full garbage bags hit our car and covered our windshield with filth and shredded porn, Jenny's sharp eye caught sight of more bounty: pears! And pears, unlike apples, taste much better when they're on top of a steep-mud covered hills. So, in sandals, I slinked (slunk?) up the hill, like some kind of fat fox with sandals on, rubbing my hands foxily at the fox, fox foxy metaphor that was already boring me.

Jenny said "pears."

The we took them. I fell down the hill, dropping pears all over the place. Then my sandal fell off, and I stepped on some kind of porcupine or needle factory. Once back in the car, we realized that the car was getting muddy. We drove off onto a dirt track that went far out into this cornfield. Lots of old, over-ripe corn. Bad for eating, great for throwing. Arms loaded, we returned to the car, which then smelled like rotten corn (and still does), planning our throw-tactics. That night, we had popcorn for supper. But this is a non-sequitor, since we threw all the stolen corn at stopsigns and othersuch townsfolk. But I did throw an apple at a man selling pumpkins (no I didn't).

Speaking of pumpkins, they were also up for the stealing. In a field well-muddied by the feet and pants of tractors and men, we found the remnants of what must have been a pretty good patch-o-pump. Little gourds, big pumpkins, part of a german shepherd; it all went into the grocery bag. But in a shameful misstep, my foot sank into two feet of shit-coloured mud, and I completely lost my right sandal.
"Let it go!" yelled Jenny from our car, desperately trying to roll up her broken window. "That guy in a truck is coming to get us!"
With fear in my loins, I tripped onto all fours in the mud, sullying my already filthlike clothing with filth. Pumpkins once clean and free were now dirty and free.
The truck approached. Fear grew. Managing to stand, I was far too late to escape the horrors that would befal a theiving city-dweller caught in the act. His window rolled down slowly. His arm raised from its armrest.
"Hi! Need a hand with those pumpkins?" said the brute, waving his open palm at me threateningly. "You look right stuck."
"Not so much, my good man," I said in my city language, lifting one foot far enough to fall over. "I'm quite at home here in my native town of ... this pumpkin patch."
Looking confused, he managed to grin and drove away. Without shoes, I walked back to the car, threw the pumpkins in, and ate an apple. Then I also drove.

Well, there isn't much more to tell, I guess. We took some zucchini from an abandoned greenhouse, took more apples from a house that had an RCMP car in front of it, and then realized, "hey. Nobody gives a shit about what we're doing."
Apparently, the seasons were all over for all the stuff, and, as for the apples, it costs 18 cents a pound to grow them, and they sell for 13 cents, so the farmers would rather fuck a dog than care about apples, anyway.

So, I suppose the moral of the story is, the next day, I ate four apples, and got SEVERE diahareareah. LIke, we went to the beach, and I had to run off into the bush and make applesauce, because the bathroom was too far away. Needless to say, wiping with reciepts from the grocery store is about as effective as you think it would be. So, the real moral: stealing is fun, but throwing is funnier. Eating leads to pooping. But that's also usually the case. Hmmm...