And with a final cough, sputter, and gasp, it was All She Wrote.
Kacked out doing what it was born to do: heaving God’s Most Miserable Creation.
An American Machine born in the days before we needed to Make America Great Again.
Sparticles in the Northern Clime, go out and Shovel One for the Beaster!
The original homage from March 2017:
Living on the Other Side of The Wall, farther north than Ned Stark’s deeded lands stretch, beyond the hinterlands where even the White Walkers fear to tread you learn Early On that diamond’s can’t be Your Girl’s best friend when they are buried under feets of snow.
In the place where Rust Never Sleeps and the new car dealers secretly guffaw every time A Mark is up-sold an Extended Warranty with Undercoating you have only One True and Faithful Pal that’s not your dog: a snowblower.
Or, as the late Hunter S Thompson would say, A Full On, King Hell, Screeching MuthaFugging Snowblower that Roars like A Banshee Unleashed from the Depths of Richard Nixon’s Black Soul.
In the Wasteland State bordering the Canadian Wilds to north, the Dakota-Lands to the west and The No Go Zone of Cheese and Hillbilly Dentistry to the east It Is Required that any Responsible Homesteader possess two machines: one capable of ski-doing across the snow and the other of An Ability to Toss the Miserable White into the neighbor’s yard.
(No, I didn’t forget Iowa. It’s just too insignificant to make jokes about much less allow to occupy brain space.)
Here at La Casa del Strozek the machine is known as The Beast.
A Beast passed down from Father to Son from the Days That Time Forgot.
No plastic or flimsy sheet metal.
Steel plate and lots of it with an engine that could have powered a P-51 Mustang after the Normandy landings.
The Beast’s provenance has long since disappeared, but I have sneaking suspicion the The Old Man got it war surplus.
When it first appeared pock-marked and paint scrapped in The Old Man’s garage back in the late seventies I swear it already had been used by Zhukov to clear the streets of Stalingrad of The Snow once The Red Army drove the Nazi’s from The River Volga.
When Ma Strozek declared The Old Man too frail to maneuver The Beast up and down their driveway I hauled it to My House where it has worked like Conan chained to the wheel ever since.
Oh sure, it’s been repaired and refurbished multiple times and has chewed through more shear pins than I can remember, but The Mighty Beast continues to chug along, the one Bad Ass MoFo that shames all the other neighborhood snowblowers with it’s ear-splitting, rocket-engine growl and towering, arcing rooster-tail throws of snow from one defeated drift after another.
So all you progressive, pink pussy hat wearing pukes scraping your Big Apple windshields of snow and ice with your American Express cards, cup your ears westward and you may hear The Beast’s mighty roar.
And his metallic, staccato laughter at your pathetic and puny efforts to Defeat The Snow.