Letters from Smitty – Walking Tour

 

Greetings Fellow I-Phone Purchasers,

                I must begin this letter with an apology.  It seems that I may have offended some readers when I made the claim that “God Doesn’t Exist” in my latest Op-Ed piece for the Sheridan Press.  I wrote that article in haste and unfortunately was not able to spell check it appropriately.  What I meant to say at the time was “God Don’t Exist.”  I was attempting to reach a more youthful demographic of Sheridan, WY through using younger vernacular and “street slang.”   You know, like Boulevard, Lane, Road, etc.  Please accept my apology, you fool.

I am writing to you now, Dear Reader, in the hopes that you can give me some guidance.  As of this moment, I have become lost in the woods somewhere in Montana.  It is regrettable and embarrassing to say the least.  As a man of the forest, I thought my internal navigation skills would surely be able to get me out of this mess.  But every time I try to get out of this thick jungle brush, I become entrapped even further.  Time is of the essence my friends.  I have been without food for two days and I am dangerously close to running out of bath salts.

This all began when my roommate Smitty decided he wanted to go on a walking tour of the “The Bloody Bozeman Trail,” which, as you all know, is close to the site of the Battle of Little Big Horn.  Smitty is very enthusiastic about historical slaughters, so I thought we should go take a looksee.

We started off the day normally enough.  We woke up at 2:17 AM, had a bowl of stewed beets and practiced our sensual yodeling.  Then we hopped into Smitty’s Ford Festiva, loaded to the brim with all manner of automatic assault weapons, and headed out to the trail.

The walking was easy enough at first, although Smitty had forgotten to bring his hiking shoes.  He kept screeching, “My socks are getting dirty!  Fudge it!”  I told him that it was unacceptable to complain about that problem, given the fact that many Native Americans only had moccasins to wear on their feet when they rained terror down upon the 7th United States Cavalry just a few miles from here. 

“Crazy Horse didn’t complain,” I said.  “Any frustration he felt, he expressed it through scalping.  You could learn something.”

As soon as the words left my mouth, I realized my mistake.  A word of advice for future reference: never insinuate to Smitty that it is ok to scalp.  He took my comment quite literally and I found myself racing through the forest in order to elude my tomahawk-wielding roommate.   Where he got a tomahawk from, I’ll never know.  Oh wait.  It was on Amazon. 

I was too overcome with adrenaline to feel it at the time, but I believe Smitty did take a sizeable chunk of my scalp.  So dizzy and disoriented, I wandered into an occupied bear cave as I supposed it to be the safest place to regain my strength.  This is where I write to you from. 

So, if anyone out there has any working knowledge of the topographical layout of Battle of Little Big Horn (or a the Sioux call it “The Massacre at Greasy Grass”), would you please write me with directions on how to find my way back to the Trail?  I’ve asked the bear in the cave for his address, but he appears to be hibernating, and therefore unresponsive. 

Thank you, Dear Reader. 

Scalplessly Yours,

          Alan Gibbons