Norman, Oklahoma USA

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Melissa and Tim - page 3

Melissa and Tim has 18 articles published.

The Adventures of Soonerguy

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Last we saw of our Capeless Crusader, he was attempting to unseat an orange-hued squatter that had overtaken his Crimson Cave of Comfort.

As he sits outside the Secret Sanctuary that has safeguarded him securely low these many years, he wonders just how things could have come to this?  How could this year get any worse?!

Just as this thought crosses his brain, there’s a loud crack of thunder from the darkening sky! Seemingly from nowhere, a tall figure suddenly stands before him, a wide-brimmed bolero hat on his head and a red cape whipping about him in the wind that has just appeared. 

“Say your prayers, Sooner-scum,” the figure sneers villianously, “For I am your worst nightmare!  I am… El Bandido Rojo!”

“The Red Bandaid?  Gross.”

“No!  The Red Raider!  And I brought a few of my Amigos!”

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The Adventures of Soonerguy

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When last we saw Soonerguy, he was battling the deep dark despair that comes with the full realization that life is like a broken pencil: pointless.  And, moreover, everything in the universe is doomed to die, much like the hopes and dreams of a college football season.  
 
And he was under attack by nefarious super villains around every corner!
 
Battered and bruised, he seeks the refuge of his sanctum sanctorum, his fortress of solitude, his safe haven, the Sooner Cave, located in a hidden location somewhere on the campus of the University of Oklahoma. 
 
The Sooner Cave: the one place where Soonerguy might find solace.  Where his faithful companion, Sooner-Dog, is always a source of good cheer.  Where he can gorge on Cheese Doodles and drown his sorrows in kegs of root beer. 
 
But just as our hangdog and heartsick hero arrives at the door of his domicile he’s greeted by an unexpected sign hanging from the knocker!  Written in garish neon orange paint, it reads: “Home of Cowboy Guy”!

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The Adventures of Soonerguy

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The early morning air hangs heavy over the Blue Ridge Mountains of West Virginia.  Crickets still sing dimly in the dark over the quiet murmur of Lake Puskarhootchie.  Birds chirp.  Frogs croak.  But suddenly another sound breaks the calm atmosphere.

“Whoop! Whoop!” 

This is no whooping crane, nor is it a West Virginia Highway Patrol Car pulling over a rowdy tailgater dragging his muffler from the back of his 1979 Chevy 4×4 pickup.

It’s much more like the call of the fabled Bigfoot or “Sasquatch” resonating resoundingly over the landscape.  

“Whoop! Whoop!” it repeats.  The birds, the frogs, and the crickets go silent.  Then we hear the tremulous reply,

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