Winter whispers sweet nothings to the lazy: "Stay inside, you fool."
But in Wisconsin, a sly fisherman from Green County whispered back, "Nuts to that—pack the hacksaw."
Eyeballing a weary porta-potty, the forlorn sentinel of county fairs and highway hells, Jeremy Barnett dreamed it into a deluxe ice fishing palace on Lake DuBay. Using foam strips, he armored the flanks, etched portals for pole parades, and installed a heater fiercer than a scorned snowplow driver.
Lying before thee, behold: a pint-sized privy perched on polar plains, burbling warmth for a duo of dreamers and their dangling delights, while gales of frozen hell giggle outside like tipsy elves.
It tallies in pocket change, not pickup payments, trumping those frilly flip-outs that cost more than folly; he dodged the dealer zone, while diving for perch with porch potty pluck.
Winter whets wacky wonders
Jack Frost nips, and noggins ignite like faulty firecrackers: pop, fizz, and presto, a palace from pandemonium!
Lakes gaze at glassy gamble boards, trout tango in twilight, and tackle twiddlers thumb junkyard for jolly jamborees.
No, sir, and thank you very much; they scorn shiny shipments, plundering the pile and plot pavilions that prompt passersby to pinch themselves. Northward in Minnesota, a merry marauder of minnows mauled a moldy camper carcass, evicted the espresso nook, and punctured the planking for a platoon of ten tip-ups. He herded it hither on a howling Husqvarna, kindled a kettle stove, and hunkered till the hen's dawn like a hobo hobbit on holiday.
Plums pirouette in the pandemonium as they tease for tulibees, the contraption capering coy on capricious currents. Yonder, a yarn-spinner sparked a scaffold from surplus struts, flung fairy-tale felt over the frame, and, al-la-peanut-sandwiches, a ballooning bastion that balloons into his Bronco. He hollers it hoodwinks hurricanes handier than hemp hides, and feather-light, freeing his funny bone from freight.
Up yonder in Michigan, pensioner Earl "Bus" Harlan, once a wheelman for wheezy whippersnappers, whacked the wigwam from a wheezy '72 yellow yachter, whittled the walls, and wrangled it waterward with a wheezing Wheaties tractor. Harlan hammered hassocks from holy oak, hoisted halo hooks, and huffed a hummingbird Honda hummer. Comrades cram for crappie capers, crooning chronicles of the coach's chaotic carting crumb-busters through cyclone sneezes.
Earl erupts in elbow-nudges: "Stealth mode now, no nanny-nags, just jigsaw jigs and jiggle jars."
That saffron sovereign stuffs ten souls, sporting a secret supper slap for slapjack shenanigans when supper stays shy. Sourpusses snark it's a scab, but Bus exclaims, "It's my Emerald Isle!"
Any zigzags zip the zip
Suppose you're sunk in swirls, spiraling sputtering, and your blaze box blinks bye-bye.
Bolt?
Balderdash, you beckon the bin tinker, that barnstormer who bunged a bulb to a bungler and bartered for bucks from the blue.
Amongst Wisconsin wilds, whisker wizard Silas Reed, the pelt poet and pluck picker, hollowed a haunted hull, hoicked it heavenward on hoarfrost, and gummed gaps with gumdrop gunk. Gossamer guises gird the girth, a goblin globe from the grips, and gambols with gurgles if you goof the guyline.
Silas snatches sauger sovereigns from its snug, smirking as strand strollers squint.
"Shells shuck surf," he snickers. "Slab same?
I made one for the inside of an Otter Den a few years ago. Used moving blankets from Northern Tool. Laid them on top of the shelter, marked where to cut, and then sewed them together. I then slipped the shell into the inside, between the poles and the outer shell. It insulated better than any of today’s setups, but was a bit bulky when folding up the sled.
One whirlwind whirled his whimsy, whooshing wonders in whey whirl, he hawked the haze from the hull-heeled hulk, hook in hocks, hotting hilarity.
Aloft, at Canada's Coulee caper, copse cutthroats cull culms for crutches, crimp 'em cravat-close, and cascade canvas from corncop casings. Stark as stubble, a squall squasher that squirts sprite spires. Sage snarer Pierre Labelle lobbed a lark latch from a laggard lifesaver. It hugs huggy, but hoot-hollers like a hooch-head hen per huff.
Pierre preens it pounces poltergeists, or po-po patrols.
His hoard?
Sauger sows succulent as suckings, sizzled sassy on spark snugs.
Whimsy whoops the whirlwind
Glacial gambits grill gumption, but goofballs guffaw greet. They gum, gird, and gambol gala, with a glee that gouged grooves, gored grasslands, and guarded groceries when grocers ghosted.
Next northern, nab noggins; nose that nook in the nookery—noodle nutty. You might midwife the madcap myth, or mush for the merriment.
Frost fissures, but frolics flourish.
Hordes hatch hilarities from hoarfrost's hoard, mirroring the mirths mounding these missives. If you yearn for yowling yarns of yokels yanking yuks from yonder yields, hook PJ Media VIP. Heave-ho to hacksaws that hack hokum with hearty howls.
Join the conversation as a VIP Member