So, there I was...some where in the hinterlands where people were bitterly clinging to their bibles and guns. Out past Ft. Leavenworth and the Leavenworth penitentiary where the signs helpfully advise "Do Not Pick Up Hitch Hikers!" It is unknown whether they meant potential escapees from the penitentiary or the base. It could even be referring to the locals.

Down a gravel road where city dwellers rarely go, past the outlying demesnes of lesser nobles and up on the hill to Castle Argghhh! LLC where the gun control folks and revenuers fear to tread. Signs in German point the way while one in English just past the Castle proclaims: 50 meters to the border. For Ry and me, the signs should have read:

Arbeit macht frei!

I found SWWBO and Ry's brilliant better half out in the barn putting together chicken roosts with 2X4s using the scariest, bitter, bible and gun clinging weapons known to Chicago liberals: power tools. We're talking industrial size, nail a democrat to the barn wall nail gun and turn them into chum table saw. I half expected Hillary to show up and start slammin' Ritas, demanding to know how to use that long metal club with the pretty, LSD inspired neon yellow bubbles in it.

After some perfunctory introductions and explanation of what all the two legged braces were for, the Armorer and Ry showed up. Wherein the Armorer proceeded to immediately give me a rash of ... well, a rash anyway, regarding the "Army Gone Stupid" post and succeeding commentary. I was late, as usual (and for good reason...I had to drive my mom a few places before I could run off to slave...er...visit). He said he thought I was trying to avoid him. Of course, everyone knows that denizens and denizennes have long since lost most of their sense of self-preservation. Particularly when there's a possibility to cling to guns and drink Ritas (not together; there are some safety rules at the Castle.)

Anyhoo...what part of the "women in combat MOS; then we should have MOS specific tests everyone has to pass" did not I not get out of that post's commentary? I was half tempted to reply, "Yo no se. No hablo Engles." But, one look around showed there was a lot of woods in which to dispose of bodies and, while I have lost most senses of self preservation, I hadn't lost them all. So, I just said, "I agree! I agree!"

I then sent the young padawan I had brought with me off with the guys to do "guy things". Which apparently consisted of a lot of running back and forth to the water spout shouting to the guy on the other end "is there any water yet?" about ten times. I thought they were supposed to be digging fence post holes; I'm still confused about the need for water since we had about 90 inches of rain last Thursday and the good Missouri clay seemed smushy enough to dig with a spoon, but I'm not a geography major like some folks so what do I know?

After such entertainment, it was back to building chicken roosts. Ry's brilliant better half put her higher math skills to use measuring 2x4s for braces. I took over the nail gun since it was the closest I was going to get to clinging to anything with a trigger last weekend. I told SWWBO that the extra nails in the braces were to make them more sturdy and able to withstand typical Oz tornadoes. It also made a satisfying "BANG" in the old tin barn. Except Willy the horse didn't dig it too much.

While I finished up the roosts, SWWBO and RBBH used quantum mathematics to figure out how to mix poultry pesticide. It was like trying to figure out how to make one 32 oz Rita out of ingredient directions for 12 1/2 gallon Castle Rita machine. While Ry continued to try to earn his way out of the outhouse with manual labor, the Armorer and the padawan did more guy things. The padawan received rudimentary instructions on how to use military gadgetry to spot and destroy the enemy up to five miles out with an artillery barrage, Then they took a drive on the demesne's 4x4. Which I am convinced was a good excuse for the Armorer to drive over five miles an hour over "hostile terrain". The padawan thanks the Armorer for the "roller coaster ride". Ahem.

Roosts completed and pesticide mixed to non-lethal amounts, it was time for the real fun to begin. I only wish that I had had my video camera out so that the rest of the denizens could enjoy the Lord and Lady of the manner wrangling chickens out of the dairy tank/tack room/temporary chicken coop. Don't worry, I had enough enjoyment for all of you. Still, all the fun was not reserved for the Castle nobles. They were generous enough to share the experience with us serfs. We received a quick lesson in how to hold chickens without being pecked or clawed as we transported said wrangled chickens to the larger coop for checking and spraying.

The guys went back to managing Ry's work and measuring the proper length between post holes using another must have guy tool: a wheeled clicker. Critter inspection completed, it was time for the next "dirtiest jobs" episode. It was my turn to wrangle chickens to move to the smaller pen. It was like watching Obama wrangle a position on Rev. Wright. Of course, I would have given my eye teeth to see Hillary showing her bitter mid-westerness catching a few of these fine feathered fiends.

For reasons you will have to imagine, the chicken coop has been re-christened "son of b*tch" with a few other knick names in case that one fails to stick. Yes, SWWBO and I expressed deep and abiding bitterness with the coop before the job was done. The worst was yet to come.

In medieval days, the lowest pay grade denizen was assigned to clean the garde robe or jakes. In modern times, no denizen has yet to experience the wrath of the Big Boot until they have been assigned the duty of cleaning politician excrement out of the chicken pen. It was almost like working in DC and slightly better than the barracks at Ft. Bragg. Ye of weak stomach's do not enter here. Three 144 cu ft wheelbarrows full, some chicken deodorizer and fresh pine chips later, the chicken coop was about par with on base enlisted housing and ready for new residents. I now believe that the Tyson employees should receive higher pay.

There was still joy to be had in Mudville. Ry and the padawan had the last fun of wrangling "Satchmo" the rooster. I do have video of that and Ry now owes me undying devotion to keep it off of YouTube and the Castle domain. One rooster and a bag of frozen pees for Ry's wrenched knee later, it was time grill up some rib-eyes and mike some potatoes. We dined by the light of the giant boob-tube while watching Master Blasters blow up Dorothy's house and destroy the Wicked Witch of the West. Hillary was unavailable for comment.

Fear not, dear denizens, it is not all work and no play at the Castle. The Lord and Lady of the demesne graciously shared their hot tub with the serfs while naming the various constellations and trying to catch falling stars.

It was better than being boiled in oil and kept previously unknown muscles from suffering Obama-esque like spasms.

All in all, it was a fun day at Castle Argghh!

Gollum and RBBH

[Some names and photos were changed to protect the innocent. This story is factual except where the Big Boot disagrees. Any part or whole of this story that resembles actual events is purely accidental. Due to OSHA regulations, no bayonets were allowed on the set. No animals, politicians, left leaning moonbats nor castle denizens were harmed during this production.]