This past weekend, I went up to the Adirondacks to get a brief respite from war-torn Manhattan. I took Amtrak to a small town in the foothills, then a taxi to the cottage of an old friend. I had been given the keys, so I had the whole place to myself. I had forgotten that 1) It's 20 degrees colder in the mountains this time of year, and 2) hunting season is at full throttle right about now. Well, since I neglected to bring anything red, I was not going to venture into the woods at all, so I settled down with a few good books and a full fridge.
One morning, I got up and was sitting out on the verandah, catching a few rays of sun, when a brown pickup truck drove by, then came back and stopped. A guy got out, maybe in his forties and introduced himself to me. Very weathered and huge hands. A few broken teeth in his mouth. He knew my friend and said his name was Bill. Nice blue eyes. He told me he was just starting a goat farm nearby and had lived in the area all his life. As soon as he found out I was from New York, he began to tell me how his wife didn't understand him. I, of course, took that as a cue and invited him in. Soon, I got sick of listening to the particulars of goat farming, and went for the gold. His body was nearly hairless and and built from, I dunno, pullin' a plow himself. His dick was about 10 inches and uncut and fat as a tree limb. Wotta logger! And he sure knew how to eat ass. Guess there really is gold in them... Anyway, we must've carried on for six hours. Then he got up and said he had to pick up his 19 year old son who was out hunting. I said, well feel free to send your son over too. He smiled and said we'll see.
The next day the same truck pulls up and a young guy gets out, about 19 or so and introduces himself. All I can say is, like father, like son. In every way.