From the Crow’s Nest
by CLINT YOUNTS
I often wonder what you readers know about the hard work that goes into writing this here column. Most of you think I just sit out on my deck, drinking cold beer, listening to Jimmy Buffett and Bob Marley, waiting for the booze to kick-start some lame idea for me to write about. Well, OK, that is what I do, and I have gotten pretty good at it. That is, the sitting and drinking parts. The lame ideas don’t come as easy for me as they used to. Occasionally, I’ll write some column that most folks think is funny, while others outside our county line get a bee in their bonnets. There are times when I just can’t find much to write about. This normally occurs when my beer fridge has only a couple of Frescas and somebody’s Fuzzy Navel chillin’ in it. Luckily, I have friends and cohorts who will offer me an idea occasionally, and then there are times like today when I’m assigned an investigative story by my editor.
I know what you are thinking. This Crow’s Nest wacko can’t be a serious investigative reporter, too. Well, I’ll have you know that back in the late ‘70s, I worked for the Pinkerton Detective Agency. That’s right, I was a Pinkerton man with a badge and everything, patrolling the grounds and clubhouse of a fancy country club up in Memphis. For two summers, I walked the beat between the first and ninth hole, keeping the peace and searching for potential threats to professional golfers, celebrities and even an ex-president. Well actually, Gerald Ford’s golf swings were the main threats out there, but I could yell “duck” better than anyone.
When a recent story broke over in San Marcos about a mysterious gas forcing an evacuation of the high school, the editors and stockers of my beer fridge needed an experienced investigator to solve this mystery. They gathered in the news room and tried to find just the right reporter for this hard-hitting assignment. “Who on our staff has the most experience with noxious gas?” asked the Chief. Immediately my name, like a baby’s poot, arose, and all agreed that this story must go to yours truly. When the Chief informed me of the assignment, I looked in my fridge, wondering what a Fuzzy Navel tastes like. I asked the Chief how dangerous might this assignment be, but I was informed it’s no worse than extracting a dead skunk from underneath my house. So I was off to San Marcos in search of the truth behind the shadowy cloud of funk.
When I arrived at the high school, the smell was gone, but the mystery remained. After proving to the security force that I was a reporter and that old restraining order had expired, I was allowed to walk the halls of the school. Since the fire department had determined the smell was not from natural gas, speculation arose that it was some kind of pepper spray. So I interviewed Mr. Jacque Strapp, a student teacher from Texas State. He informed me that he had previous contact with pepper spray while crashing a sorority party, and the awful gas that emanated the school was much worse. So I went on.
I interviewed Chemistry teacher Bud Senburner, who told me the smell did not come from his lab but offered to mix up a killer Mexican martini for me. Smart guy. Who’d of thought you could make such a tasty martini from ethanol and Lime-Away?
Next stop was the biology department where I visited with Mr. Pete Treedish. He claimed the smell was far worse than the time someone hid a frog cadaver in his desk drawer over Spring Break, but had no suggestions what might’ve caused such a stink on Thursday. So, I headed off to the cafeteria to interview Miss Teri Meete. She informed me that on the day in question, they were serving meatloaf and tater tots with sliced peaches and fresh milk. Nothing was burned in the kitchen that day, and the gastro-intestinal factor of meatloaf is only a 2+ on a scale of 5. So, I scratched the cafeteria off my list.
Further interviews with custodians Mopsy Flores and Misty Pott revealed little evidence on what cause the malodorous maelstrom. No M-80s in toilets. No broken bottles of cheap perfume form Valentine’s Day. No skunks trapped in the A/C units. There simply is no logical explanation for the mysterious gas cloud that swept through San Marcos High on that day. The fire department couldn’t solve the mystery. The school’s administrators remain baffled. Even this ex-Pinkerton detective hasn’t a clue, although as I was leaving campus, I did hear a rather portly sophomore ask a schoolmate, “Hey, dude, pull my finger!” Hmmm?
Clint Younts’ Pinkterton days are over. Period. No more smelly investigations, except on his dead animals and cow patties.
