Freddogg Off The Chain

Rich people love their money more than most and when they pay for adventure just stay out of the way and don’t expect CPR, the Heimlich or any other licking Maneuver, unless you’re the one with you tongue out and I have no idea what that means.

I was shocked and appalled—actually I don’t care—I was stunned and surprised—actually not at all-when I read that 40 rich mother fuckers hell bent on a trophy for the custom carved mantle, cock suckers who paid 75 thousand dollars each for permission to climb Mount Everest, passed a dying but still wheezing oxygen depleted social Darwinist on his way back down the almost level to the ground Mountain of no love.

The story unfolds then wraps up with the guy dead under a rock, 1,000 feet from the summit, looking like Pat Summit when she first wakes up in the morning. The defense, “he was already just about dead so what the fuck?”

Did you know that Roger Bannister in the race before he broke the four minute mile went back to pick up a runner who had fallen? Think about it, what kind of person are you?

I was on a rafting trip once down a raging Lehigh River in the Poconos after a tremendous spring runoff. We followed a guide who looked just like Arlo Guthrie wearing a crash helmet. It was four people to a raft. We were exhausted and realized rafting for seven hours down the river was the only way out except death by drowning or a straight stick into the eyeball after crashing into the river bank.

It was white water followed by paddling through calm over and over. We were trapped in the belly of Boy Gorge who really did want to hurt us.

The last and most dangerous rapids was highlighted by a permanent boulder appropriated named Dead Man’s Rock. Arlo said he would position himself behind it and to stay away from him at all cost.

Chris, our fat bald guy on board captain, advised putting all oars in the boat because we didn’t know what the fuck we were doing anyway and so that’s what we did. And down we blistered spinning like a Tea Cup ride, so fast that all other images were blurred. There was no stop action.

But off to out port side steamed the four “Coal Cracking Lesbians” from Shamokin aboard the “USS Carpet Muncher” and they were shouting out a cadence and also heading right for Dead Lesbians Rock. Chris just shrugged and said, ”They’re lunchmeat!”


The raft flew up onto the flat wet surface of the rock and pitched all four Phys Ed teachers up and out into the white water. We laughed so hard it actually hurt and I knew it was because we was delirious anyway.

They all arrived alive into calm waters because Rapid Roy took the big mommas the only place they could have gone it wasn’t like they had a choice. They were hugging each other and crying and we laughed even harder because we were so stupidly exhausted it was the only inappropriate emotion we had left.

Am I stopping 1,000 feet from the summit of Mount Everest to share oxygen with a stranger in the throes of decompression anoxia? Absolutely I am and I wound minister and comfort him “how’d us two assholes get in this predicament” and pray a rouge Sherpa showed up to rescue us and not laugh about it. Then again maybe I would just laugh and keep moving?

Peace Freddogg