Gomer Clodhopper didn’t talk much. It had taken years for him to perfect loafing to a fine art, and he had chosen to settle down in Moose Hole, Alaska, specifically because the atmosphere of this bush village seemed the ideal environment for the continuation of his research. As a result, you could count on three fingers the topics that Gomer deemed worth the energy expenditure required to activate his vocal chords. On the rare occasion when a person was able to coax him into uttering more than two mono-syllabic grunts in succession, you could bet that he would be discussing hunt-n-fishin’, chawin’ terbaccy, or whippersnappers.
I never could figure out exactly what a “whippersnapper” was. The word evoked images in my young mind of a lion trainer or Indiana Jones, but Gomer’s descriptions of them were not nearly as dashing. One thing was clear, however. Whippersnappers were always young. Perhaps their occupation was so dangerous that they inevitably met a horrible fate before they had a chance to reach middle age.
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