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Rip Van Whitey, Part 2

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Rip Van Whitey

Rip Van Whitey

Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; and his only alternative, to escape from the danger of the “vibrant”, Federally-imposed “diversity” of his once-charming town, and the clamor of his feminazi wife, was to take a gun knife slingshot in hand and stroll away into the woods.

In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, Rip had unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the Catskill mountains. He was after his sole solace of porn hunting, and the still solitudes had echoed and re-echoed with his cussing as he tried to find cell service with which to pull up hornyhousewiveswholovebbc.com. Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, late in the afternoon, on a grassy knoll, covered with mountain herbage, that crowned the brow of a precipice. From an opening between the trees he could overlook all the lower country for many a mile of decaying suburban sprawl. He saw at a distance the polluted Hudson, far, far, below him, moving on its silent but polychlorinated biphenyl-poisoned course, with the rainbow reflection of oil slicks, or the sail of a lagging bark, here and there sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at last losing itself in the smog-enveloped highlands.

On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled with fragments from the impending cliffs, and scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of the setting sun. For some time Rip lay musing on this scene; evening was gradually advancing; the mountains began to throw their long blue shadows over the valleys; he saw that it would be dark long before he could reach the village, and he heaved a heavy sigh when he thought of encountering the terrors of Diversity at Dark—and, should he survive that, the bottomless vitriol of Dame Van Whitey.

As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a distance, hallooing, “Rip Van Whitey! Rip Van Whitey!” He looked around, but could see nothing but a buzzard circling overhead. He thought his fancy must have deceived him, and turned again to descend, when he heard the same cry ring through the still evening air: “Rip Van Whitey! Rip Van Whitey!”

Rip felt a vague apprehension stealing over him; he looked anxiously in the same direction, and perceived a strange figure slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending under the weight of something he carried on his back. He was surprised to see any human being in this lonely and unfrequented place, but supposing it to be some one of the neighborhood in need of his assistance, he hastened down to yield it.

To be continued…

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