Boy oh boy NOTHING pissed me, Snorkel Bob, off worse than total immersion in tropical communion, with the ferns, the wild ginger, the babbling brooks, the swamp mud and pig dukey out there just like it was waaaay back in 1970 before massive human infusion, when––What the hey!––here comes a whomp whomp whomp whomp whomp out of nowhere like a major scene from Arnold's next movie. CHOPPERS!
I, Snorkel Bob, was ready to send in to Soldier of Fortune for one of those handy home-built ground-to-air kits. But then my, Snorkel Bob's, long time friend and snorkel buddy, Matt Roving, pointed out to me, Snorkel Bob, "What? Are you freaking nuts? You can't just go shooting them out of the sky like mosquitoes at a clam bake!"
"Well, then," said I, Snorkel Bob. "What would you have me do?"
"Ride one!" exclaimed Matt Roving.
And so I, SB, did.
Now, in the warm, moist folds of the dewy swale, I, SB, look up and know how much fun they're having up there, what with the view, the AC, the forward-facing seats, the live-action video to take home and watch over and over along with Arnold's movies. Maybe a Wrist-Rocket slingshot flits in and out of peripheral fantasy now and then, but I, Snorkel Bob, 'm confident; it's only whimsical, a certain by-product of the humidity.