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©Copyright 2009-2010 Out Of The Blue.
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By MICHELLE McALLISTER   
Published: June 15, 2010
Buzz Off! Living in the country can be dangerous to your vehicle
As I was driving home the other night, my husband reached over and grabbed my arm and said “Start
blowing your horn!”  I was one step ahead of him; I had already seen my nemesis up ahead and was
planning accordingly. I blew the horn to appease the old man, but I had already slowed way down,
making sure I would not get intimate with the smelly creature that was eating a dead squirrel on the
side of the road.

You see, last year, I had an unfortunate encounter with a buzzard.  I was minding my own business,
driving home from dropping a child off at a friend’s house, when a buzzard met his untimely demise
with my big ass grill.  I had noticed the flock of them picking apart the dead deer on the side of the road,
but figured they would all depart before I got to that point in the road.  I was wrong.

Just as I realized said buzzard was not a get away artist, and got his upper body lodged into my grill,
the most foulest smell encroached the inside of my SUV.  I imagine it’s the same smell you would
encounter if you just stuck your head down into the dead deer’s bloated, rotten guts.  I looked behind
me and two of my children were holding their hands over their mouths and gagging.  I yelled “Don’t you
puke on my leather!” while trying to hold back my own urge to vomit over the nicely appointed interior of
the front seats.  

Luckily, for my husband, he was out of town at some redneck fest they call a Nascar race.  I called him
and calmly told him I had hit a buzzard and of course, he didn’t believe me.  But knowing how big these
particular birds are, he told me I should pull over and make sure there weren’t fluids leaking from the
underneath of my SUV.  And being the good wife, I followed these instructions.  Still on the phone with
him, I pulled over and started to exit the truck.  As soon as I got to the front end, I saw a big ass wing
flapping all crazy like.  I screamed.  And then told my husband the buzzard was stuck in the grill, alive.  
He wished me the best of luck and told me he had a Nascar race to attend.

I drove down the road a bit, big ass bird stuck in the grill, flapping its wings like the end was near.  I
couldn’t stand it anymore and stopped in the next town’s gas station.  That’s when these two guys in a
pimped out Maxima stopped dead in their tracks on Route 50, backed up and pulled into the parking lot
of the closed gas station in which I was parked.  “There’s a bird stuck in yo grill,” he said, through his
partially cracked, tinted window.  “Yes, I noticed that,” I said.  

“Do you want to try to use that broom to get it out?” he asked, pointing to the broom resting against the
building.

“No, I do not want to try that.  But you if feel like trying that, please be my guest,” I replied.

Without missing a beat, the guy in the pimped out Maxima said, “Hey, do you know how to get to
Lucasville from here?”

Now, in my neck of the woods, Lucasville is synonymous with prison.  Hard core, you’ve done some
bad shit and never leaving kind of prison.  Realizing that he is not helping me get the big ass, not dead,
flapping its wings like there’s tomorrow buzzard out of my grill, I solemnly looked at him and pointed
due west.  “Keep going that way.  You’ll run right into it.”

Thing is, Lucasville was due south of where we were at the time.  But, my feeling was they deserved
wrong directions after not helping a damsel in distress.  And I don’t feel a bit bad about the whole thing.  
I mean I had a live buzzard stuck in my grill, and he was only interested in going to visit his
murderous/rapist/armed robber buddy in the clink.  

I think we’re even.
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