Hot Auction Heaven

For recreation and divine perspiration my wife and I bid and spirit stuff from all types of auctions. It’s not that we need anything in particular but we enjoy perusing through other people’s junk and paying a premium for heaving their leavings. What better way to embrace my life’s short history than being crammed into a small space with an OLD bunch of hunched  sweaty coots rubbing up and competing against me for dusty, rusty, and musty stuff-ty.      

         

Being raised by wolves I guess I am compensating for the fact that I survived a ‘hairy’ repressed childhood where the value of most ‘things’ was gauged on how they tasted or how good they felt to sleep on. My folks never let me beg for leftovers at mealtimes or settle for broken chew toys when growing up in a hut, so now I’m forced to seek out and make up for those lost experiences as an adult. At least my heritage explains my Husky size, the constant panting after a walk to the refrigerator, and my persistent dog breath the dentist so often complains about when scoping out my blow hole.   

I fit in well with the auction scene – where else can a saddle-burr like me give somebody the finger and they simply raise the price rather than beat in my face or cuss me out. Fortunately most of my twitchy TICks come from my watch rather than the forest, but I do have to be mindful to avoid conspicuous emanations, gesticulations and random bump scratching during furious bidding. When the wife risks prosecution for leaving a minor unattended, I do all the major work myself like folding the bid-card into an airplane, so it’s obvious that until she returns I have no one to do my bidding. 

I’m dangerously distractible and easily mesmerized by expensive shiny objects, so most lowly estate auctions are a safe escape since there is little risk of finding anything chrome toned or pit-free except for a few buffed n’ bald heads. Generally at most auction gatherings the only thing more weathered and craggy than the junk they’re hawking is the stuffed seizure-geezers who glue themselves, and defend rabidly, centered front rows of orderly padded seats. When my number’s ultimately up I hope heaven is just like this, except instead of white shrouds and wings, the ‘auction enlightened’ will proudly ‘peacock’ their rough stubble, patinaed pitch forks, patched pants, and dirty denim vests … and oh yeah,  since I’m there it will be LOTS hotter if that’s possible!