Canon Fodder - Sports Comedy Blog

By Craig Dumas

Continuing from Part I and Part II…

In addition to the trucks we drive to fully and undeniably suit our need to reinforce our masculinity, we have our trailers to complete the picture. It can be said, when entering our camp, there is quite a change from the old days when one just parked out in the woods and sought shelter in moldy canvas tents. The softness factor goes through the roof when you pull into camp and see the difference not only in the trucks we drive, but even more so in the trailers in which we cozy up for the nights. I’m sure our forefathers would likely mistake us for vacationers rather than grizzled hunters.

Today, I have the palace of deer camp. Back when I first started hunting, I was loaned my parents trailer. It was a real junker; maybe 20 square feet of room at best. It was a Skylark, or so it was marked, measuring 15 feet long and 7 feet tall. I believe it was marketed as, “You can literally put this in the garage,” so you could avoid any grief from the neighbors. And it was that small too. Try to imagine this; I could stand in the middle of this tuna can and reach all ends of the trailer acting as if I were multitasking in a circular cubicle; cooking, staying warm, and dressing all at the same time.

Don’t misunderstand me – I was gracious for the favor, but less than enthused about the trailer’s usefulness and worth. It was designed as a “summer-only” camper so the furnace (which was about the size of a percolator coffee maker) was woefully inadequate when trying to stay warm. I learned to make the bed in layers. I slept in full get-up with my feet propped on the furnace face to keep them warm. The windows were the old louvered crank style and did little to hold the cold at bay. If the frigid temps became too much, I would throw up the white flag of surrender and head over to the uncles’ trailer, pounding on the door at any hour of the night in search of warmth. During those cold nights, when temperatures drop to 10 below, that “summer-only” camper was useless. In the end, I actually had a 30-pound propane tank with a radiant-type heat unit on it to survive the worst conditions. It really did the trick except for the fact that the trailer was so drafty that a layer of cold air would sink to the floor level. As you transcended ceiling to floor, the temperature dropped radically to the point of seeing your own breath when putting on your boots. Carbon monoxide became the new problem to overcome. This was a constant worry for the uncles. The straw that broke the camel’s back was when I was leaning over the heater in my outfit and caught on fire. Not seriously mind you, but real enough for that trip to be the hand-me-down camper’s final deer camp. My decision was to find an updated camper for the next season come hell or high water.

The Hilton

All summer long I combed the papers and online ads looking for my next trailer with added amenities like plumbing, a decent furnace, warm floor, and comfort. I found a couple of snowbirds that had a 20 year old Terry they used for traveling down to Florida during the winter, but eventually graduated to a condominium. Having no need for their pristine trailer, they sold it for sixty cents on the dollar. I mean, they went through and waxed the cabinets, washed the carpeting (it had carpeting), and put new brakes and tires on every season. All for $5000! How could that deal be beaten! It was wonderful. Warm, cozy, and had running water. It was the envy of camp. Everyone wanted to be at my place just for the legroom. Once Jeffrey laid his eyes on it, he the trailer with the moniker, “The Hilton”. This lasted me a handful of years (five in all, I think) until I started running into problems with the plumbing freezing up and the furnace needing repair as it wasn’t made for really harsh winters. This prompted me to look for yet another new trailer.

Again, combing the papers and dealers, and after a trip to the local trailer and RV show, I found a deal on a 33-foot Dutchmen Classic, still on the lot, ripe for the taking. Again, it had all the amenities; heat, plumbing, full kitchen, a slide out for the extra room, and this time air conditioning for those summer trips when the heat becomes too much for the wife. (Okay, I’ll admit that I like having air too.) This is the current trailer and will be for many years to come. We christened it, “The Hilton II”.

The Hilton II

As we’ve alluded to in this space before, the uncles shared a poor excuse for a trailer that once was the pride and joy of the camp. The unholy trailer was purchased by my grandfather back in the late 60’s and was shared by the odd couple of Denny and Dave. What was once a cozy, warm retreat for us to congregate in had, over the years, dilapidated to a shell of a vehicle with a leaky roof, an interior threatening to cave inwards, worn tires and brakes that didn’t. To describe the trailer as “crappy” is to put it mildly. At the point in which I bought my Terry, and the envy it produced, Denny was forced to go out and purchase a new Coachman. Tired of dealing with the constant need for repair and David’s need for chaos, Denny traded up for the luxuries a grown man with a lifetime of work behind him should have the right to enjoy.

State of the art… in 1969!

Don’t get me wrong – the old trailer held many memories and stood the test of time. But in the end, it was dwindling to a mere rust bucket. Now it was David’s trailer entirely and his alone to wallow within. It was drafty, leaky, and creaky but of the most importance to him, it was home for those two special weeks each November. Raw lumber propped up cabinets inside due to rotting wall mounts. The little plumbing system it had had did not work and was converted to storage for beer and booze. As an added bonus, the liquor was always pretty cold since it was not well insulated. Burlap curtains were made long ago to not only contain the warmth, but to keep out the light. They gave the little trailer that barely could the feeling of a coffin. Yet it was pre-battery dated which meant it was self-contained and needed no other source of power other than propane tanks. Propane supplied the furnace, lights, and fridge. That’s the one selling point David held over our heads as our new trailers needed batteries to power all the electrical luxuries. (Powering our trailers became a huge obstacle to overcome. We quickly discovered the need for a generator to power up our units and supply power while the batteries were charging.)

Over the next few years Denny and I tried to convince Dave to buy a newer trailer. He had been reluctant not because he’s a skinflint (he is), but because it was the last remnants of his parents’ memory and a significant icon from his childhood. Eventually Dave gave up the ghost and was finally convinced to move on. I had found a newer trailer and towed it up for him. Now he loves the new digs and has embraced the updated amenities like us. However, ol’ Dave still holds on to a few things from the old one to decorate and to make us shake our heads at. Unfortunately some of his bad habits came with him to the new trailer like the haphazard wiring and all the miscellaneous junk he has sticking out of every nook and cranny. Dave has two TV’s with the appropriate wiring outside for the antenna, cable running back and forth for battery back-up to the truck, and various thermometers, lights, radio and propane lines littering the floor and ground outside. We make fun of him saying even though he has an updated trailer, it still looks like it’s on life support.

Our last character in camp is a good friend and grew up with David and Dennis. Matt, who only occasionally attends camp anymore, does have his own unit that is reminiscent of the old tuna can trailers. There’s a slight difference with his though. Although it is quite old, everything within is in excellent working condition. Matt brags that he does nothing to maintain its working parts. He even needs to prop the windows open to dissipate some of the heat that builds. When entering the dwelling, your first impression is how he maneuvers with the overpowering odor of years of tobacco wafting through the air. You get a nicotine high just visiting for an hour. (I imagine that after years of use, his bedding is like a giant nicotine patch.) Matt is an electronics freak and needs constant entertainment so he brings his electronic toys like a satellite dish for TV and movies. Needless to say, we frequent his place for mindless fun if you can tolerate the stench. How many 30-year-old trailers have a satellite dish? The concept is unheard of. Yet there he is, in the middle of nowhere with more electronics than the local Radio Shack.

Yup, there’s a dish up there.

These are our homes-on-wheels for those two glorious weeks during hunting season. It’s taken some time, but we’ve graduated to bigger and better things from rather humble beginnings. It’s all about convenience and efficiency making set-up nearly painless. I quickly learn from my elders so as to avoid the same mistakes they did, all the while bettering our experiences. And even if these luxurious behemoths have made us a bit soft in our old age, at least we’re warm.

If you are enjoying The Grizzly Woodsman, please check in regularly with Canon Fodder and sample some of our other writers. And remember to pass our humble website on to friends, family and coworkers.

By Joe Moskwa

I’ve written some things on this site – I’d say maybe ten articles. (Uh, more like almost twenty.) However, I don’t think I’ve mentioned where I’m from. Most of you probably know me personally and, like me, live in and around Detroit. I’ve never revealed this because sometimes I can’t handle the cracks about the “D”. Outsiders I’ve never met will say things like, “Have you ever been shot?” or “Do you live by a crackhouse?” Gimme a break. While I typically roll my eyes at these comments, the REAL conversations I prefer to avoid are those that associate me with the Detroit Lions and Detroit Tigers. I’m born-and-raised in the D, but I’ll just lay it out there now. If you wanna hit me where it hurts, disrespect the Red Wings or Pistons. But if you wanna talk about a waste of space near Greektown or the Elwood, then I’ll get right in there and tell you ALLLL about how the two monuments of disappointment we call Ford Field and Comerica Park stand side-by-side and would be better off if they were sold to other cities. But that’s a conversation for another time.

Okay, I’m sure I’ve upset some Lions fan who still holds onto hope; probably the same guy who sat next to me and drafted Verlander, Sheffield, and Bonderman at my fantasy baseball draft. (How are those picks workin’ out for you, dude?) But the point of today’s article isn’t to annoy Lions and Tigers fans, but to broach another subject that I’m hearing on my favorite local radio shows these days.

I keep hearing about how The Joe isn’t filled to the rafters for playoff games like it used to be. Folks blame the economy. I disagree. I say its because the Red Wings have just torn up the regular season for so long, but have consistently fallen short of a championship in years when the team was an overwhelming favorite. If the Wings make the finals again in ‘08, expect the house to be packed. (I’ve already have my seats lined up.) I recently had the pleasure of spending an afternoon with a player who’s a year or two away from being called up to the Wings. He told me that no one can stop any of those Europeans and Detroiters will be drinking from Lord Stanley’s cup this summer.

As for the Detroit Pistons…

While you can get under my skin by knocking the winged wheel, you can dig a whole lot deeper by downing the red, white, and blue. I’ll be heartbroken (again) if the five-man machine falls to another one- or two-man show, but I’ll stick by ‘em. And if Sid the Kid clips the Wings? Fine. I won’t desert them either. Why? Because we Detroiters are blessed to have two organizations that are well-run. Two outta four ain’t bad. (Ironically, one of the “good” teams and one of the “bad” teams share the same owner. It’s comical to think one organization is considered the Cadillac of their sport, while the other is a bit of a laughingstock.)

Is there a point to today’s ramblings? Well, they are two-fold. Now you know how to get me riled by criticizing our hockey and hoops teams. Secondly, carving up the Lions and Tigers will roll right off my back. What are some of the other teams on my most-hated list? The New York Yankees, New England Patriots, New Jersey Nets, Indianapolis Pacers, Colorado Avalanche, Miami Heat… and most hated of all, Michigan Wolverines football. That’s right, I just put Michigan football on the evil side of the ledger. Eat it Ann Arbor wannabes!

Go Wings. Go Pistons. Happy 50th Birthday mom! (And happy b-day Steve Yzerman too!)

And can the local radio guys please stop talking about the Tigers’ woes. It’s already old and it’s only the second week of May.

Please continue taking the time to stop by Canon Fodder each week for more sports commentary and humor from our staff of writers. If you like what you’ve read, link it to friends and coworkers.

By Craig Dumas

Continuing with my truck discussion…

Dennis and David, my two oft-mentioned uncles, also own trucks. Because of the diminutive size of their vehicles, I tend to say they’re either not done cooking or call them “baby trucks”. Dennis drives the Chevy 2500 extended cab 4×4 with the full bed. He hasn’t changed much other than a new one every three years and constantly turning in a spotless truck without a scratch for a brand new one. It’s as if Denny is picking up a new lease just so he can enjoy the new car smell. He doesn’t have family; just a wife and the dog, so it’s quite adequate for his needs and hauling his trailer.

David, on the other hand, has only recently delved into the world of trucks, mostly because of necessity and the fact he can no longer depend on Dennis to cart him around. You see, as brothers, they shared a trailer up until a few years ago. Since they have completely opposing living styles – Dave’s a slob, and Denny’s anal retentive with a borderline case of OCD – Dennis kicked David out, forcing David to buy a trailer and truck to continue his deer camp participation. Denny always had the truck so Denny always did the towing. David now drives a Chevy half-ton with the extended cab, 4×4 and a short bed. A cute little baby truck. It’s not done growing I say, but somewhat satisfying to him nonetheless. He’s grown to appreciate the dependability of a truck considering David has been driving cars up to camp all his life. There have been many stories that include him walking back to camp after having stuck the car on a hill, literallyl teetering back and forth on the precipice of a hill. Better yet, hot-dogging down a trail in a late model Camaro and losing his oil pan on a stump! The ridiculousness of seeing his poor car with the hood pointing a few degrees toward the sky because the trailer (and completely overburdened trunk!!!) weighed the rear bumper to mere inches above the ground. And Dave ventured on I-75 with this debacle in motion.

I guess he’s just tiring in his old age but still needs space to pack and bring along all of his stuff. And on the topic of packing stuff… David is notorious for loading his entire house into the trunk of his car for his two weeks in deer camp. “You never know what may be needed.” Boy scouts aren’t as prepared as my uncle. So as a result of his tendency to pack his vehicle to the gills, we try to limit him on the size of it because a larger one would just dictate more provisions. The lesser of two evils I suppose.

The man’s campsite – when fully unpacked – looks fresh off the set of Sanford and Son. (I’m still trying to get a copy of the theme song to play when he arrives.)

Then there’s Jeffrey, our loveable newbie that comes up in his haggard gas-guzzler of a Chevy Astrovan that actually grinds when driven (I think it time to put the poor girl down), or the smooth-riding pimpmobile, the LeSabre (or as he lovingly calls it, “the Buick”). We continuously reminding him that it could snow anytime, day or night, and needs to have something dependable. I think in his tenure has not seen a lick of snow in deer camp. (I’m still working diligently on him to make the purchase of a truck in any size, shape, or form.) “Why believe in something you haven’t seen” he says.

Editor’s note: I haven’t seen a single deer while armed and in my blind. With the exception of the occasional one felled by a camp mate or when we’re driving down the road, I’m not sure deer actually exist north of Saginaw. This is the key reason I don’t even bother to bring my rifle with me to camp anymore.

I, myself, have only witnessed one major snowfall (we awoke to an impressive two feet of accumulation) in my 14-year term. The elders have told stories of infamous snowfalls up north that come on with little or no warning and that “We are in a special area” that could see something you wouldn’t otherwise as close as seven miles south of us. It’s always the “Seven Miles South of Us” story. There seems to be a proverbial weather curtain at the county line that separates us from them. (Do you think the years of alcohol in deer camp might have something to do with this?)

Regardless of the weather, we have vehicles that can be depended on for almost any scenario, good and bad. We have something to carry our equipment, pull our behemoth trailers and, most importantly of all, our (too few and far between) trophies. This is all part of deer camp and how we get there.

Be sure to check back in for the next installment when I touch on our trailers and some of the stories associated with them.

If you enjoy The Grizzly Woodsman, please check in regularly with Canon Fodder and sample some of our other writers. And remember to pass Canon Fodder on to friends, family and coworkers.

By Jeffrey Petts

If Las Vegas is known for one thing, it’s gaming. Blackjack. Craps. Poker. Slots. Games, games, games. Now there’s a new game on the Strip.

Have you been to Vegas lately? It’s been different each of the three times I’ve spent time there. Some casinos have disappeared with new ones appearing in their place. Whole city blocks have been wiped out to make way for another cutting-edge gambling Mecca.

But you won’t find this new game on the crowded casino floors of these epic gambling halls. Though cards are dealt, it won’t be via busty Hooters eye candy. You can wait around for a free drink, but you’ll be competing with winos for the libation. And don’t even bother looking for the buffet because they aren’t found out on the Strip.

But there are scantily-clad dealers, free booze and buffets all up and down the Strip, you say.

True, but this game isn’t played in any casino. It’s played outside on the Strip.

Is it some sort of back alley dice/card game?

Nope. It’s safe and right out in the open, and your dealers aren’t even looking for a gratuity.

So tell us about this new game.

Say you’re a group of ten guys (sans wives and children) stomping up and down the Strip with half-empty beers (in the never-ending search for the next alcoholic beverage) and your competitive juices are flowing. (You know, because you’re a guy.) Playing at the tables is fun, but what about the valuable gambling time lost when moving from one casino to another? What can an overly competitive, drunken male do to stay sharp? And if there’s a way to work pornography into the equation, all the better. Out of this was the Call Girl game born.

If you’ve been to Vegas and walked the Strip, you’re familiar with the grubby bystanders handing out the business cards with pictures of attractive women and a phone number. If you have a major credit card and a phone, calling the number listed can deliver a woman to your hotel room within the hour.

This game involves hookers?

Sorta, but not really. You don’t actually solicit the services of these ladies of the night; you just collect their calling cards. Rather than ignore the dingy, dirty men dumping these pornographic advertisements upon the wandering public, make a game of collecting their bounty. The cards end up taking on a whole new meaning outside of that for which they were intended. And besides, collecting them is better than littering so it’s like you’re doing your part to help the environment. (At least, that’s what I keep telling the wife.)

Here’s how you play…

Whenever you are out and about on the Strip, keep an eye out for the guys handing out the cards. As you walk by, accept whatever they pass you. These guys tend to work in groups of three or four so be sure to slow your pace enough to get cards from each of them. It’s in your best interest to collect as many cards as possible so you can build your ultimate call girl deck.

Why would anyone want to play this game?

Did you miss the paragraph about guys, competitiveness and pornography? Trust me when I state that a group of ten guys will inevitably lead to five or six players. They can’t help themselves.

Fine, you collect hooker calling cards. That’s not much of a game.

Well, collecting is only the first step. There are a few objectives to this game. In the quest to build the ultimate call girl deck, you have to obey a few rules and attempt to achieve a benchmark or two.

The ultimate deck would consist of twenty-seven cards – one card for each letter of the alphabet, and a final “wild card” selection. The first letter of the girl’s name determines its place in the alphabet. “Amber” for A, “Bobbi” for B, and so on.

What are the chances of finding a prostie with a Q-, X- or Z-name?

Not likely at all. Why do you think those letters score so well in Scrabble? If you can use them, they’re worth more than common letters.

Upon returning to your hotel room at the end of each day, you’ll find your call girl prospect pile will be impressive. Divvy the divas up into their respective piles and hope you’ve found the magic letters to complete your alphabet of smut.

Collect cards. Make an alphabet soup of porn. Big deal.

There’s more. Now that you’ve got a pile of cards, choose your “best” one to represent each letter. You’ll have a dozen M’s and twenty S’s, but only one can make the cut. What makes a card better than the rest? “Holly & Hanna” is like a double H score. “Storm” boasts a price of $150. The overall “price” is just one of the factors involved in judging a winning call girl deck. When assembling a deck, one should treat it like a liberal college campus by sprinkling it with plenty of “diversity”. Twenty-seven carbon copy blondes will get old quickly. (Even Playboy throws in a few brunettes and redheads in an attempt to prove ol’ Hef isn’t fixated on surgically enhanced Amazon women.)

The final “wild card” is your choice. After leafing through a few hundred cards, one or two will probably draw your attention (and, possibly, even a late night phone call). Whatever the reason, the wild card is a sort of tiebreaker. Maybe it involves two girls performing an inappropriate act. Maybe the model looks like your high school sweetheart or your buddy’s daughter. Maybe it’s just a flavor that you have a fond taste for. It’s your special choice to round out the deck.

So what are the rules?

Easy.

After a couple of days of deck building, assemble all the players to present their respective treasure troves of smut. You will require an impartial judge. It’s best to determine this person before the game begins for the purpose of rule clarification. It’s also wise to have the prize selected. Whether it’s $20 from each participant or a free dinner on the final night of the trip, having something to play for adds a bit of spice to the game. (I mean it is LAS VEGAS after all.)

When it comes time to judge the decks, use the following scoring system:

At this point, there may be one competitor pulling away from the pack. Now come the random categories. The next phase of the game takes a little imagination and can get as inappropriate as your group deems fit.

Female Buffet – One of the best aspects of Vegas is the quality of its buffets. A properly constructed Call Girl deck should also reflect a smorgasbord of flavors. Randomly select an ethnicity or hair color. Add a point for each card with an example of your selected “flavor”.

Mystery Body Part – Randomly select a favorite portion of the female anatomy: left breast, right breast, backside, “nether” region… Add a point for each card that clearly displays the chosen part.

Fetish Fun – Does your deck have girls that like to play dress up or dominate? There’s points in them there kinks!

Is this game the best way to spend your time in Las Vegas? Not really? Will it make you a better human being? Not a chance. Is it a flimsy excuse to amass a pile of smut? Yup, pretty much.

What can you do with all the remaining cards?

There’s plenty of fun to be had with the leftovers. Try stuffing a few in Gideon’s Bible to bookmark meaningful passages for the room’s next occupant. Or take them home and drop them randomly around the office. What says “fun” more than someone spotting a call girl card on the floor by your boss’s desk? Another cruel trick is to hide them in the pockets of a buddy’s coat. It’s even more enjoyable if you can manage to be around when the wife/girlfriend discovers the hidden prize. See, what happens in Vegas doesn’t have to stay in Vegas!

I know you’ve missed a regular dose of Canon Fodder while I was on vacation. Think of it as the price you as a reader have to pay for me to come up with new and interesting material to ramble about. Be sure to continue visiting Canon Fodder as we’ll be back on a regular writing schedule this week as life returns to normal.