The Great Turkey Debacle of 2019: The Thunder Rolls and the Idiot Count Grows Pt. 1

22-05-2019 15:05

I feel like that’s a really long title. I had several different variations of it in my head but I couldn’t land on just one so I decided to pick them all. Once Chief Flamingo Legs…I mean, Brad and I recovered from our mild heat strokes or time travel or whatever happened we began plotting our next adventure.

While in Gatlinburg we had the opportunity to visit a few scenic areas and see the local wildlife…which mostly consisted of a few deer and lots and lots and lots of wild turkeys. By the way, I’m still trying to figure out which part of them contains the bourbon…if anyone knows and can help me with that, please let a brother know. Seeing all these turkeys convinced us that our next adventure should be a turkey camp toward the end of the season. Were we experienced turkey hunters? Absolutely not! But why let something as trivial as the fact that neither one of us has hunted since we were children stop us from pursuing our dream of shooting a large gobbling bird at close range with high velocity turkey shot?

Once we arrived back in to the modern day from our days of operating the Last Chance Salvation Snake Handlers Reservoir of the Only God Tabernacle Holiness Sanctuary of Cade’s Cove we began planning this turkey camp. Knowing that we knew nothing about killing turkeys outside of buying some calls at the local outdoors supply store and aiming a shotgun in said bird’s general direction whilst squeezing the trigger we decided that we’d need some “experts”. Since we didn’t know any, we settled for our buddies at church. Yes, THAT church. And no, I’ve not yet usurped the Pastor. Turns out he’s a decent dude and the term usurper only sounds cool on Game of Thrones not in real life as a means to describe myself.

The recruiting began fast and furious. We started asking our band of idiot buddies if they wanted to go kill large birds with us. Most of them excitedly signed up for this undertaking. As the days turned to weeks and weeks to months, our group whittled down 6. To which we began to refer to ourselves as “Them Idiots From That Church”.

In this post, you shall be introduced to the posse of goons that form the merry band of idiots. I’ll skip myself and Brad. You already know us…sort of. You need to meet the other four fellers that joined and expanded our two man power trip in to a full blown tactical unit of idiocy.

Let’s start with the youngest of the bunch…Hampton…or as we know him Hammy…actually we all know him as Brittany’s husband. Ham (I don’t feel like continuing to type Hampton or Hammy or Brittany’s husband over and over…he’s now Ham…like Noah’s crappy son, except our Ham isn’t a turd…I feel like that rambled a good bit), is a part of our church’s worship team where he plays some form of stringed instrument alongside his singing wife, Yukon Cornelius on the keyboard, an un-bearded weirdo that plays a shoebox and a singing squirrel…to name a few other members of the group that expands seemingly monthly. What makes Ham stand out is not the fact that he’s roughly 8 feet tall but rather that his beard is about 5 feet long.

Found this picture in Ham’s wallet…pretty sure this is his role model for follicle style

Ham is the youngest member of this bunch and he knows the beginning, middle or end of a number of random songs the likes of which I’ve never heard of. He made mention of some Lamb band (which I imagine is just a bunch of sheep standing around bahh bahhing in to a mic) and some Sliding Knots group. Needless to say, but I’ll say it anyway, I actually don’t like rock music that was made after Bad Company’s self titled album…rock went down hill from there. We’re actually still trying to determine if Ham is just a 12 year old wearing glued on facial hair while being perpetually balanced on stilts.

Then there’s our buddy Josh. You’ll meet Josh again in flashback posts on down the road but Josh is the aforementioned Josh in the last post where I mentioned our original vacation plans were to go to D.C. with Josh and his wife, Ashley. Josh is a veteran of the U.S. Navy…while he says he wasn’t a seaman, that will always be his rank to me…Seaman Josh. Josh is a tremendous dude if not for his wide array of tattoos that I’m sure he got from the website “Terrible Tattoo Ideas”.

The actual book that Josh got most if not all of his tattoos from

He has a tattoo that I think was supposed to be Marilyn Monroe but as he’s gotten chubby now resembles Anna Nicole Smith. He has random stars all over himself…not sure the meaning of them but they look dumb. And a whole host of other terrible body art that one day will embarrass his children when he shows up to a cookout/pool party in his mid 40’s and he gets shirtless in front of their teenage friends. Josh is also the king of witty comebacks that in reality aren’t that witty most times. His only redeeming quality, besides loving the Lord is that he’s a gunsmith…and what gun loving gaggle of morons wouldn’t allow a gunsmith to be in their ranks? So Josh is essentially in by default because we don’t know any other gunsmiths that want to join our group.

On to the elder member of the group…Devon…properly pronounced Dee-Von. Thankfully Devon allowed me to use his actual name in stories that involve him, had I been required to change his name he was just going to be Cee-Van. Actually…Cee-Van sounds like a drug to treat to IBS and/or mood swings. Devon is also part of our ever growing worship team that as of this writing has added 4 new members. Devon is the keyboardist earlier described as Yukon Cornelius. For those that have no idea who or what a Yukon Cornelius is…feast your eyes upon this

Devon??? Is that you???

Never in my life have I seen one person resemble so closely the subject of a “Hey, you know who you look like?” statement/question like Devon to ol’ Yukon. Devon is also a veteran. He says Iraq but his old man tendencies say Vietnam…so that’s what we’re going with. Devon was actually part of the mission to Save Private Ryan (totally different war and a movie…I know). The movie Tropic Thunder is actually based on Devon’s war experience. He’s not sure what caliber his pistol is, he only knows the sound it makes when it takes a man’s life. Devon also delivers mail in oddly short mail man shorts (may or may not have been previously mail woman shorts) when he’s not lumberjacking through the artic tundra with a yeti and red nosed reindeer.

Finally, there’s the crux of this whole operation…well, the one man responsible for keeping us all alive anyway. Meet Robb. Pronounced Rob-buh-buh. The man got to design his own name and still chose to misspell it (man! that joke never gets old…sorta like Devon who may or may not be Benjamin Button). Robb is the exact opposite of what you expect to see when he’s mentioned as a Christian Minister. Robb is a tattooed, long haired, toe ring wearing, barefoot going, multiple wrist and ankle bracelet having, outdoors connoisseur that is borderline free love hippy, squirrel killer. No, I didn’t make any of that up either…Robb is all of those things…and somehow one of the manliest dudes in our church all though he squeals like a child if you startle him…so, there’s that. Robb’s primary role in all outdoor adventures is to keep us all alive since we’re all pretty sure that, if left to his own devices, Robb would probably live in the woods. One thing about Robb is his deep devotion to the Bible. No, again…not an attempt at humor. But…Robb’s deep devotion sometimes overflows and erupts with a random “Hallelujah!!!!!” that tends to catch first time guests by surprise. Those of us that know him well can often anticipate the bubbling over of a Hallelujah. More on this to come. Just know, Robb is the kind of guy that you’d want on your side in a spiritual battle with an actual demon and out in the wilderness surrounded by a parliament of cotton headed ninny muggins.

There you have it…our merry band of misfits. What’s that you say? No funny aside about Brad. Oh ok, you talked me in to it.

Brad was introduced in the first post…if you’ll remember during our time travels Brad actually became an Indian Chief after he used his AR Pistol to shoot an incoming bear from 400 yards. The local Indians were so impressed by his mystical pew pew skills that they named him Chief Flamingo Legs on account of the fact that he, in fact, has Flamingo Legs.

Actual Picture of Brad’s legs in swimming flippers

Outside of jokes about his oddly pale and grossly thin legs Brad is a good dude…minus the permanent scowl on his face. I’ve never seen someone that looks as solidly unhappy at all times as Brad. Even his smile makes you think he might kill you soon. Brad is a legit commando. Not like Josh and Devon mind you but Brad has seen the movie Commando enough times that he’s earned the title. If ever doomsday strikes, my second stop after retrieving Robb is to Brad’s home where we can stock up. Brad may or may not be a prepper who is prepared for some kind of Red Dawn stuff. Due to his sickly legs, we’ll have to trust that he’s a good shot and leave him to lay down cover fire for those of us that don’t walk around on spindles.

Now you’ve officially met the whole degenerate mob of outdoorsmen extraordinaire. What? Me? You don’t want to hear about me. Plus, I refuse to make fun of myself. Nope…not happening…not a chance. Fine…but just a couple sentences.

And then lastly, there’s me. I’m the mastermind of most of these adventures and the person that typically comes up with the really awful ideas but I describe them so well others just follow suit because of course I sound like I know what I’m talking about. I identify as being a 6’5″ bodybuilder who is also a multi millionaire. As it turns out, you can’t just identify as things…who woulda thought? I’m the guy that outside of Robb loves the outdoors the most and also most likely to do something dumb that causes catastrophic injury or death to myself. I’m also the most likely to investigate weird sounds off in the woods…not because I’m brave mind you, I’m just really, really stupid sometimes. Now in my mid 30s, I’m a pair of white New Balances, hi socks and a fanny pack away from being a stereotypical dad in the woods. I’m also most likely to think it’ll be ok to walk through the woods in flip flops whilst there are leaves the same color as a copperhead covering every square inch of ground. In a past life I was “Bad Man” Eric James but these days I have a new moniker…”Dad Bod” Eric James.

For real this time, that’s the posse…the gang…the crew…the pack…the baddies and buddies…the nuts and bolts…the 50 shades of (animal) slay…the riders on the storm…the 6 pack…the parks and wreck dept…we went from a 2 man power trip to a conspiracy (actually a name for a group of lemurs) of interesting gentlemen…we are…Them Idiots from That Church.

Stay tuned for Part 2 and beyond!!!

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