Mother Tucker!

At one time or another in your sheltered life you decided to venture out into the wilderness in hopes of escaping your sad work laden existence, searching for the glamourous unfettered beauty of the outdoors. Maybe it was a spiritual awakening yourself through shrooms thing you saw in a movie or heard on a hardo podcast but more likely the sole motivation was to snap a selfie portraying yourself as outdoor and adventurous (gots to do it for the gram!), the most edgy thing you can do without edge. While you thought you'd just walk along flat red clay trail easily identified by markers that took you to scenic overlooks and cascading falls, you soon realize that you're going to spend the next few hours walking in a muddy trench through the path of least resistance occupying yourself with looking at trees in hopes of catching a faint shade of spray paint as your guidance because you never learned the basics of navigation. When you finally make it back to your car which now is sovereign territory to a pack of raccoons, you realize that below the skin irritation on the back of your arm you most certainly believe is from poison sumac, now lives the juiciest tick slurping your life force from you in microgram doses. The tick had engrained and entrenched itself so well into you that you could almost sense its thoughts in this parasitic relationship. You decided that it was just going to be there forever until Rupert Murdoch emerged from the brush, newest wife in tow and flicked the tick from your arm into oblivion with ease. Tom isn't here to save you from the mind f**k of this episode.