True Story©… The Nauga Farmer
This honestly could have stopped with PETA, but they didn’t wanna play along.
… no, seriously, click that link and come back here when you’re done…
So anyway, this whole shit could have stopped with PETA, but now I am here concerned with the plight of the poor Naugas, of which I now have a small ranch that I am running to care for them. I don’t know if y’all know this or not, but raising and healthily engaging with all these Naugas is resource intensive in time, money and effort. What I am sure you all know is that I do that with the salary I earn from a regular-ass job – well, what I have left after paying these bills.
The first thing I
tried to do was to sue the creators of Instagram, on the grounds that they had
stolen something from me. No not the
concept of shittying up the resolution of pictures to show off to people who
don’t actually like me anyway, but the actual NAME ‘Instagram’. For me, I would create an app for people to
order party drugs for delivery in fifteen minutes or less, or to make a long
description short, an Instant Gram. I had no plans to ACTUALLY deliver the drugs,
just to take the people’s money and bolt.
Who they gonna call, the police?
Needless to say, the judge in court was nonplussed and kicked me the fuck out of his court with the thinly-veiled warning that he COULD take me up on conspiracy to sell drugs using my own words in the lawsuit. I thanked him and fuckin’ left.
[Phlip note: I hope Detective Woodpenis doesn’t read that paragraph]
My next idea was to ATTEMPT a GoFundMe, but the hurdle to that one was that my story and reach were not sad and heart wringing enough to get any real traction. Mainly, I am betting, because I couldn’t afford the rights to use Sarah McLachlan’s In The Arms of an Angel. That lasted approximately zero time and here I am, just me and my Naugas here at the house, looking for ways to get money.
Then came my
I went to the print shop around the corner and had a nice large glossy photo of a Nauga printed and set out on foot door-to-door soliciting donations to support my Nauga farm.
I called it “Nauga knocking.”
First thing’s first… I can’t go Nauga Knocking in or around my own neighborhood. These are the people who see me every day, all times a day and outside in the community a whole lot. I could be easily traced or followed back to my house, they could converse with Wife Person™ about my shenanigous dipshittery in the community and I would be in a doghouse we do not have because our dogs are inside boys. I have burned down the northwest with the Boy Scout Cookies thing, so I had to head to the northeast for this one.
I borrowed my mom’s car for the task, so no one would easily identify me as me and headed out with the trusty photo and began knocking…
I rang the doorbell and waited for the woman and man of the house to come to the door before showing them the picture and started my spiel…
Me: “G’day sir, ma’am… I am out here on this fine day Nauga Knocking to raise aware--…”
… and they slammed the door in my face.
In a hope that this neighborhood is somewhat like mine and
that the OGs have either died or sold off and moved and that the remaining people
don’t know each other well enough to actively contact a neighbor further than
NEXT DOOR, I went two streets over before selecting another house to approach.
I walked up and rang the doorbell. This time, a man came to the door alone wearing a Vietnam Veteran hat. I held up the photo and went on into it…
Me: “Good afternoon, sir… I am out here on this lovely day Nauga Knocking and--…”
Him: “… shouldn’t you be, like, RUNNING or something?”
Me: “First of all, that is racist sir… Second, I said ‘Nauga’ knocking.”
Me: “See this lil guy here in the picture? He is a Nauga, and industry through the years have been killing him and his brothers to make Naugahyde goods for--…”
Him: “Isn’t Naugahyde that fake leather bullshit from back in the 70s?”
Me: “No, I-I--…”
Him: “I remember seeing the commercials when I came home from ‘Nam, I remember that stupid shit like it was yesterday.”
I was not prepared for someone to actually know what an actual Nauga was!
Me: “You have a good day sir.”
Him: “Fuck off!”
it off of this man’s property before the flashbacks would have a chance to begin
and he go for his rifle.
No doorbell on this one, but the big door was open. I knocked on the screen door and two guys in their mid-twenties came to the door. I should mention that as soon as the door opened, the whole front yard began to reek of weed and I knew anyone to emerge from that door would be higher than giraffe pussy. Unfortunately, I am here now and I gotta go for it…
Me: “What’s up fellas, I’m out here today Nauga knocking. This lil fella here is a Nauga and I have been out trying to raise awareness to the fact that he and his brothers have been getting slaughtered by industry for their pelts for years now, and--…”
He wasn’t even looking at me. His whole back was turned to his roomates.
Him: “Yo! This guy says he is n**ga knockin’!”
Roommate (yelling from inside): “Why didn’t he run!?”
Him: “I’on have a fuckin clue, man!”
He turns to me…
Him: “Bro, if you’re n**ga knocking, how come you didn’t run?”
Do y’all know how DIFFICULT it was for me to choke back laughter in this moment?
Me: “Nah, nah… The picture here? That is a Nauga, and I am trying to run a refuge for them, a farm so people won’t catch and kill them for their skins.”
Him: “That look like a cartoon. Yo, this n**ga funny as fuck y’all! How much money you done made so far, my man?”
Me: “Nothing yet, you’re only the third door I’ve knocked on.”
Him: “Hol’up a second my dude.”
He spins on his
heels and goes in the house. One minute
I am considering just walking off before these motherfuckers strap me to a chair and force me to watch old episodes of The Nanny. This thought continued to swirl in my mind despite the periodic moments of UPROARIOUS laughter from inside, then he comes back out.
Him: “Aye man, I was telling my roommates what you told me about the nog--… the n--… the n**gas or whatever you called em? They thought you was cool as fuck too, we broke you off a little bit here. You can come back and let us know how shit goes, man.”
I stood there, completely unable to close my mouth as he handed me a large wad of dirty-ass bills that all ALSO reeked of weed. I didn’t even bother counting it, I just stuck it in my pocket before I shook his hand and thanked him and went to the car.
When I got home, I counted the money the potheads gave me…
$162 dollars. Ain’t THAT some shit!? Not bad for 25 minutes of a Saturday afternoon, huh?