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STORY: The Crushing of Mr. Crispy's House

My huge gnarled feet leave three-toed impressions through the muddy ditch the humans use to irrigate these crops.

I stomp through it and roar. I had learned their language over millennia.

And they had learned that I would emerge to eat them as the sun set each evening.

Well, they always think I mean to eat them. But I only eat a cow here or there. And only the dumb skinny sensitive ones which don’t have the hungry genetics to make them fat.

Oh look, the soft western sun is dripping like egg yoke into the sea— too bad the humans are not tall enough to see over the foothills surrounding their village- it’s beautiful.

There they go, screaming and scattering like little wooden sneakerball pins. A lot of people are in the fields today! I must be a little earlier than usual.

I accidentally trip out of the gulley and smash one of my fat feet down in their muddy field. Oops. I really smooshed things around… OH CRAP– did I just squash a human?! Oh wait, phew, no, someone just left his shirt and hat out here. Jeez, people.

Oh, here’s a brave little guy. He must be 18 or so, with his cute little rock and sling. I’ll entertain his bravery for a moment, but that kid’s gotta get home to his mama for dinner! His sweet family- oh yes, there is his mother crying on her knees, fearing that I will eat him. Oh yes and there is his father coming out to rescue him.

I lean down, bristle the huge ridge of fur that goes down my brown back, and yell in the kid’s face with all the ferocity I can muster.


Just kidding, my breath isn’t so wretched. The bacterial ecosystem within my oral passages is balanced and boring. But I knew that would make him rethink. If I had threatened to breathe fire or something (which is really only a myth about us Tribal Pacoderm Ogres), he probably would have stuck with his glorious martyrdom.

Oh good, there he goes. I bet they will have lamb soup tonight. Oh, lamb soup. yum. maybe I will take a lamb or two back to the misses tonight. I glance around. Only fat lambs on these hill sides. Dang. Oh, well, good for them.

The father receives his son and now they are running for cover.

These cute little humans.

Now I must crush a house.

Old man Crispy’s house. Oh yes. There he is in the window. He sees me coming. Does he suspect my ulterior motives? I presume he does. He is smiling. Yes, there, he has left the window. And now he is walking to the house of his brother’s family as if he knows I don’t really desire to kill him. He knows I want them to reconnect and welcome each other again. Or maybe he’s so old he just doesn’t really care. But either way, fear is a pretty effective catalyst to foster hospitality. Hmm, yes. I like that word. CataLYYYYST. CAAAATalyst. Illia will love it if I talk to her with a word like that.

Cataaalyst. CATalyst. You know? Maybe I will eat a cat tonight.

K, here goes your house Old Man Crispy! Crunch. Ouch! The timbers between my toes. Oh well, the deed is done. House is crushed. Old man Crispy the Cart Puller is being happily welcomed into his brother’s. In fact now they have no excuse to alienate their weird old stinky uncle any more. That dude does kinda smell like manure, but they’ll make it work.

It was an old dilapidated house anyways. They should be able to recycle those scraps into a cart for his earth moving business. Ooohhhhhh– I get it now. He moves manure in his cart. Thus his stench and alienation. Sorry bout your profession bro. Well, they’ll get used to it.

Alright. Well they all look to be quietly inside. Oh hum then. On my way.

I look back at the horizon again. The sun has almost disappeared. Oh but this is the most beautiful part. Its reflection in so many scattered pieces on the water.

Oh my, that I might wax philosophical at this moment: these pieces of sunshine are like my people, all in different bodies and places, but coming from one blessed whole. Oh how I long that they reunite again and all welcome each other. Hmmm. I better give them one last reminder– a catalyst one might say– before I retire for the night.


I assume they don’t get the irony in that. I’m mocking them but I really mean it as a sincere suggestion. Except the crushing part. I won’t crush them– but dang! They really can’t be forgetting their stupid little shirts and hats in the fields! That almost triggered my Turret’s Syndrome! Illia would NOT like that business coming back.

I reach into my leather satchel (which took a whole cow (a skinny one) to make), I look both ways to make sure no one is looking as I throw seed out over the fields, making sure to cover the place I smooshed. Now they will be provided for, at least for another few months.

Now, back to the misses. I wonder if the Ogreborg-Joneses will have us over for dinner tonight. They are just so kind to us; it really reminds me how hospitality and community is just SO important. And even better when it doesn’t require yelling catalytic sarcasm.

Raw Spoon. 8-12-16

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These BLOGS are usually inspired by messages I (or friends) feel we have heard from God. This is the nature of our God. Listen for how he may be speaking to you.

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