What do you mean I “can only bring a hundred pounds of this back to the wagon?”

Look at this thing. It’s dead. And if you think hauling it all back is a chore, let me tell you about finding it.  I had thirty seconds to shoot it, I can only fire a single bullet in one of eight directions and the first three times a rabbit got in the way.  Or a cactus. I literally can’t tell.

I’m not wasting this.  I don’t think if I only shave a few steaks off the flank it’s going to grow back.  What happened to “use every part of the buffalo?” Didn’t that Indian at the Snake River crossing tell us that? The one you traded with to get thirteen more wagon wheels because, and I quote, “why do we need three sets of clothing each, anyway?”

So, what’s the deal here?  Is this heavy?  Is this dead slab of desperately-needed protein a tad too heavy for you, Poopfart?

Yes, Poopfart.  That’s your name. Were you aware your name was Poopfart?

I’m sorry, are you blaming that one on me too?  Well save your breath, buddy.  I didn’t name you.  The stupid third grader playing this bestowed that devout Christian moniker on you while his Social Studies teacher wasn’t looking and you’re stuck with it just like you’re stuck with me and this entire motley little crew of ours: Poopfart, Boobies, Buttmunch, Jebediah, Sue Ellen, and MooMoo Mc-Tough-Shit-I-Don’t-Have-a-Handcart here.

So I guess this is another rule now? Did I miss that meeting? Because when we first set out for Oregon your exact words were “who cares if we can’t afford a full set of oxen?  We can hunt all the animals we want, and it’ll look like we’re learning something while we’re just killing time until third period ends.”

You have no idea how this world works, pal, so don’t start telling me the rules.  Remember Green River?  If it wasn’t for me you’d be trying to float the damn wagon down the river like that EVER WORKS.  I’ve seen the maiden voyage of the S.S. Poopfart, pal.  It ends in tears.  Tears and me writing your tombstone on the side of the trail for other people to read using numbers and letters to make a little design of a cock.

Oh, you disagree? Well let’s just put the leadership role up to a vote here.  What do you say, Sue Ellen? Sue Ellen? Oh that’s right.  The dysentery.   And you know what? While we’re on that subject, I’d like to point out that I didn’t hear any bitching about Sue Ellen weighing more than a hundred pounds when you hauled her ass into a pit on the side of the road before wondering aloud how many wagon wheels her church dress would bring in.

What’s that?  Oh.  You know what? Yes. Fine. Yes, Poopfart. I am saying that about Sue Ellen. That is exactly what I’m saying. I’m calling your dead, 14 year old half-sister child bride a fatty. Start something.

Oh, great. Yeah, go off and sulk.  Like you needed an excuse to not help me with this anyway.  Just go back into the wagon and… Poopfart?  No.  Poopfart.   Poorfart.  NO. NO.  Poopfart DO NOT PUSH THAT WAGON INTO THE RIVER I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU TRY TO FORD THE RIVER I AM GOING TO oh sweet tap dancing unmerciful Christ.

Sigh.

“Here Lies Poopfart.”

Eight. Equal Sign. Equal Sign. Equal Sign. Equal Sign. Equal Sign. D.