you can bite my ass

No wait, fellas. I meant that figuratively. Not that I literally meant for you to bite me on my ass for real. heh heh.

Chigger bites. That's right people. On my ass. Both cheeks. One of the little fockers dared to make the climb into the great gorge, falling just short of my holy grail, you know that place from which things exit but never, ever enter. Dirty bastard.

Try to conduct a full day's worth of therapy sessions when you've got chigger bites all over both of your gluteus maximusses.

"And then, Dr. Yogurt, after he called me a whore, he grabbed me by the hair and threw me across the ...."

I'm sorry, Mrs. O'Reilly. Do you mind if we pause for a moment while I scratch my ass?

scratch. scratch.

scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch

They itch like freaking hell. Especially the dime sized ones. Chiggers like creases. Yeah, right there. Both sides. And at my age, creases are everywhere the sun don't shine.

My daughter fared worse than me. She counted more than 50 bites. Most of them following a military straight marching formation along her bikini line.

Where were we? What were we doing? And how long were we doing it, when we gave chiggers unlimited access to our asses?

First we were walking along here:

Lady Bird Lake, which at my house shall always be referred to as Town Lake Hike 'n Bike Trail. This is part of the Colorado River that runs through Austin. We are standing on the 1st Street pedestrian bridge looking westward, at that dividing point between downtown and south Austin. The bridge in the distance is the Lamar Pedestrian Bridge.

And here:

And here,

The reason my tweenage twin daughters are looking all sullen and petulant and refusing to look at the camera, otherwise known as bringing me the kind of joy and satisfaction I knew would be my reward for all of those million-and-five sh*tty diaper changes, is because the forced march walk was Stalin's their mother's idea. And none of their friends were available to come along. You know how that goes. Mother will pay.

But how did the chiggers skip over the ankles and plant themselves on the butt-tocks region, you ask? I asked that too.

Apparently while we were crouching down to capture the right amount of sunlight for their America's Next Top Model portfolio, a nest of larvae-of-harvest-mites were rubbing their grubby little arachnoid legs together in anticipation of a late lunch.

Right about here,

So yeah. Mother always pays.