Snack Attack: Chips & Dips Opens a Literal Hole in the Wall in Andingmen

Snack attack?!?! Well let me tell ya bruvvers, ya ain't lived till ya gobbled down a frypan full'o leeches and snapping turtle eggs.

Let me explain.

So mum slams in me backpack a pack uh Oscar Meier wieners, two cans of orangy soda, camping frypan and says supper is at 5, I'll whistle. So I sets out to the Big Crick, not the Near Crick, there to meet Micky and Geza.

Now, Micky and Geza were normally locked inside their corn crib of a Saturday morning, there to grind cow corn inta chicken feed, but they had found an escape hatch, and were in desperate need to meet with Mary Hairy Anne Rayce, who had sworn to meet us all and dance.

So I'm sittin at edge of the Big Crick, had a fire goin, and roastin a wiener. Waitin.

Suddenly, there is a burbling in the crick, and up from the slime and muck arisises none but Crazy Timmy.

`Timmy!, ya gots a new place to live! I cry exponentially.

`Indeed no' he rejoinds, `Im uh justa countin these snappin turtle eggs down in the muck here'.

He proffers overtly a handful of round golfballish leathery spheres.

Well, man, git yerself up here, we'll fry a coupla up.

He clambers agilely and cumbersomely up Crick bank, turtle eggs like ping pong balls, halo like, caressing, garlanding his noble curls. Heaves his leech covered carcass aside fire I had a burnin, mutterin, `I jus wish I could get these goldarnit bloodsuckers offa me'.

So I extracts from backpack shaker of salt. `Hold still' I says. Thus, sprinklin each leech, which I each beseeched forgiveness and indemnification, the bloodsuckers did fall from his body like early November leaves in a windstorm.

Scooped 'em all up, cracked a few snappin turtle eggs and fried 'em all up, bank of the Big Crick.

Now bellies filled, and the height of the noon sun causing slumber, - so rested we by the jubjub tree, and into a doze we fell.

Where were Geza, Micky, Fair Mary Hairy Anne-Rayce, Mike, Pastor Laffagut? Had they not gotten our text message? We slumbered on.

Soon, though, came wafting via the heat refracted, July sky sound bouncing stillness, unmistakingly the deep baritone of Mike Serpento, singing Volga Boatman. ( A mulit-ethnic tune be noted) He was slowly, surely, poling his Venitian skiff down the Big Crick, there us to meet, oblivous to the thinness of the water, which required frequent jumping out and pushing. They were a daring lot.

Timmy, finally roused by the approaching Mike, began tapping his throat to sound like bagpipes and comparing his frequency with that of Mike, necessarily finding meaningful consonances and dissonances.

Being towed behind Mike's Venetian skiff was the whole gawdang corn crib, Micky an Geza within ensconced. Still grindin up corn.

Fair Mary Hairy-Anne Rayce was starkers, covered in mud and performing artwork on her belly.

Gino, of all folk seemed absent, until into waterlogged skiff I looked and there with plastic straws nostrily applied, yet underwater and seemingly content. `Just let him rest, ' suddenly spoke Father Laffagut, whom unbeknownst had been there all the while, hiding behing the jubjub tree. ` I have seen everything, and I know everything' he smiled demurely, `Now, let the mud-wrestling begin!!' Fair Mary Hairy Anne Rayce went an rassles with us all in the mud.

Suddenly a shrill whistle pierces the sky.

`Yikes, dinner time' I startingly exudes, `gotta go, Mom's a whistlin'.