McVanBuck
McVanBuck
Outdoors Country Humour!
Outdoors Country Humour!
McVanBuck
Trophy Mosquito
Mini-Book
This Mini-Book is four Chapters long and coming real soon. McVanBuck Trophy Mosquito reads...
{...Medical oxgen hoses have quite a bit of whipping power in the hands of a McVanBuck, even if this McVanBuck was still half-ill. The main lessons are: don't play with matches when your wife is looking, don't smoke while you have a high-concentrated oxygen hose attached to your nose, keep your eyebrows in one piece, and don't try to put eyebrows on old ladies when their oxygen hoses are within their reach...}
"Funniest book I've read in years. It made me burst out with laughter.
-Dianne, Teacher
"A rare blend of humour. I have read this book at least ten times and 'Grandma Juice' still makes me laugh."
- Quinton, Train Conductor
This is a small lot size, will be a rare first-printing edition there are only 300 copies in all and each book is numbered and some are signed by myself, Peter. It's not a long book in that it's 33 pages long, but it's a very rich read in content, hand numbered, and printed in Canada.
They are for sale for only $10.00 each. As to how to get this book into your hands is from the mail or if you see me in person at the mall.
Just drop me an email if you are interested and I will get you one as soon as I can.
We are now accepting E-transfer. Payments can be made with E-transfer if you are Canadian.
$10 forTrophy Mosquito +$5 Shipping
Or
$20 for Call of the Lighter + $5 Shipping
Or
$30 for Both Books+ $5 Shipping!
Contact me before you send payment... at mcvanbuck@gmail.com You will need to give me a mailing address, so I know where to send your great McVanBuck signed books by Peter N. Mast as quickly as possible. And conformation that the e-transfer payment was received.
Thank-you.
McVanBuck is up on his luck... for things are looking up!
Canadian Outdoors Country Adventures
Peter N. Mast is a clean humour writer. His writing style is fit for the eyes and ears of most people. McVanBuck is a new humour book that is mighty captivating and will keep you on the edge of your seat or it could throw you to the floor in tears... if it does, just grab your knees, put your thumb in your mouth and start rocking back and forth. You will not have to wash and scrub out your eyeballs with soapy water. It is age appropriate for most young adults and older. If you enjoy reading as much as my young adult sons and daughters do, then I am sure you will enjoy these humour stories.
When the McVanBuck family looked out into the world, there were some things that needed a wee little tweaking and a few adjustments.
You can get a book before the crowd of people you know, closes in on your fine piece of adventure reading.
It's truly one of the funniest books you'll ever read or hear read aloud... feel free to take a moment and see for yourself below...
Sample Chapter from Book #1 McVanBuck Call of the Lighter Nov 20, 2021
Chapter Five
*⁂*
Thistle Attack
In recent years, the dog ticks have moved into my area of Canada, and have been multiplying in vast numbers. These insects thrive in long grasses when they are young. When ticks grow up a little, they get bored of their surroundings, because their new wives make them mow the grass twice a week, and they decide, at that point, to go on tour to escape the yard work. They do this by jumping onto the backs of humans and furry mammals, much like a gang of stowaway hobos on a train.
As Tick Billy’s wife screeches at him to get out and start mowing again, Tick Billy yells over the hedge to his next-door neighbour, from his poverty-stricken sod house, “Hey, Sammy? Let’s blow this neighbourhood, and go on vacation. I hate mowing the lawn.”
“Yeah, let’s get out of here, before I have to vacuum the grassy carpet! But where will we go?” Sammy the Sucker whines back.
Tick Billy responds, “I don’t know. Hey, look here! Get on this here dog, quick. We can hitch a ride on him.”
Ticks are lazy and are poor planners for long road trips, so it isn’t long before Sammy the Sucker is griping and complaining again, “Boy, am I thirsty, my lips are sure parched and my canteen’s plum empty.”
*⁂*
Thistle Attack
In recent years, the dog ticks have moved into my area of Canada, and have been multiplying in vast numbers. These insects thrive in long grasses when they are young. When ticks grow up a little, they get bored of their surroundings, because their new wives make them mow the grass twice a week, and they decide, at that point, to go on tour to escape the yard work. They do this by jumping onto the backs of humans and furry mammals, much like a gang of stowaway hobos on a train.
As Tick Billy’s wife screeches at him to get out and start mowing again, Tick Billy yells over the hedge to his next-door neighbour, from his poverty-stricken sod house, “Hey, Sammy? Let’s blow this neighbourhood, and go on vacation. I hate mowing the lawn.”
“Yeah, let’s get out of here, before I have to vacuum the grassy carpet! But where will we go?” Sammy the Sucker whines back.
Tick Billy responds, “I don’t know. Hey, look here! Get on this here dog, quick. We can hitch a ride on him.”
Ticks are lazy and are poor planners for long road trips, so it isn’t long before Sammy the Sucker is griping and complaining again, “Boy, am I thirsty, my lips are sure parched and my canteen’s plum empty.”
Tick Billy calls over, as he shrugs his eight shoulders, “Hey, why don’t you just suck the blood of this here mammal that we’re riding?
Sammy the Sucker enthusiastically replies, “Oh boy, that sounds delicious! Too bad we left in such a hurry, I forgot my fork and knife. I’ll have to just suck him dry with my gums.”
Where the ticks lack in work ethic, they make up in their ability to adjust to rapid change. I guess there is no shortage of blood to go around for these nasty little parasites.
It’s just not all that pleasant of a sight to find one of those unclean hobos clinging onto one of my children, robbing a blood transfusion at my child’s expense. The ticks don’t even offer to pay for the meal, except for maybe in the way of giving them lime’s disease as an unwanted tip.
In one small case my wife, Joy, found one of their sneaky little feeding grounds. She was trying to get cuddled up with me one evening at bedtime just before turning the nightlight off.
She started to lean her peaceful head onto my arm, to snuggle on it, and make it her pillow for the night. This is when her eyes unexpectedly saw an unwanted guest invading my personal space.
Without warning, she promptly went into testing my hearing with a deadly, shrill
“Eeeeeeeeewww!” The high-pitched scream combed the hair down on the back of my head, and my ears flattened to my skull. This paralyzing sound was just a tweak shy of breaking my eardrums.
Her high-pitched scream was excessive, and my ears are still ringing to this day. This proved to me that her lips were way too close to my ears. Those terrifying screeches are only meant to be heard from down inside the hole to the underworld. Joy’s bulging eyes were also down-right impressive. She leapt right out of bed like a spooked cat and jumped over the top of the lamp. This was all done in one spectacular movement. Her leap was pretty close to Jack’s amazing jump over the candle stick, as she easily cleared the top of the lamp.
This put me into a paralyzed, stunned state-of-mind at first, like I had been stung by a deadly jellyfish. As I tried to clean out the ringing in my ear with my baby finger, I thought, If it’s the Grim Reaper coming for us, I’m going to be a goner for sure. With my lack of hearing, I would be no good at hearing the Grim Reaper’s eerie, “W-O-o... W-O-o,” if there was any.
This was what I imagined... until I saw what had made Joy scream and jump about. Her protruding eyes, out-stretched arm, and wiggling finger were now pointing at the fearful sight from the other side of the room. Her other hand, she held over her mouth. I thought it was a little late to be covering her mouth now, but it was the loving thought that counted... yet it was not going to help bring back any of my hearing.
When my eyes locked onto the blood-sucking beast, that she was making all of the fuss about, I then made my own motivated moves. Unfortunately, all of the screaming, leaping, and running laps around the bedroom was not helping. The feasting tick, in my mildly toxic armpit, did not even budge from his meal. He was, apparently, yawning with boredom, even with my wild running and arms flailing like a dancing orangutan. This tick did not even bother to take his deeply buried, blood-sucking head out for a moment, which a retract-and-retreat action on his part would have been more than welcome.
The tick must have been mighty thirsty to be having a midnight snack in my armpit. At least, this I could assume from its fat backside and smacking lips. Joy refused to get within ten feet of helping me remove it. It seemed that the next step for her would be to go into shell-shock, grab her knees, and cry for her mommy. I’d have to terminate this tick’s rental agreement, for being a squatter, on my own. So I heartlessly executed him for his crimes of gluttony, hole-punching, violating private property, being a sickening menace, and a number of other lesser violations of the human armpit.
When these ticks moved into our area, apparently, I was one of the first people to have noticed that these unwanted guests had arrived.
So when my elderly neighbour, Mr. Brown, came to visit one day, he was quite adamant that, “There are no ticks in Central Saskatchewan. You must be mad,” because of his vast local knowledge of 90-plus years of living in the same area. “Yer an ignorant outsider because you lived in British Columbia! It’s too cold out here fer ticks! I’ve been here for ninety years. There is no ticks. Yer thinking of fleas. Now, now, Saskatchewan has lots of fleas, of course, but not ticks... ouch! You little bugger... ouch!” he exclaimed, as he scratched the back of his neck; and three or four fleas went jumping this way and that.
The only fleas that I had seen in this part of the country were located on the sole-breeding ground of Mr. Brown’s own wrinkly body, giving the fleas plenty of hiding spots to multiply in. It’s a good thing I have learned to cover the mouth of my coffee cup with my hand, to protect it from incoming shrapnel, while visiting with Mr. Brown. The in-coming jumping fleas bounced off the back of my hand because of my quick reflexes. These reflexes saved the fleas from a hot bath. On the other hand, Mr. Brown could have used a hot bath. But, then again, a bath would have turned his bathwater blacker than the coffee in my cup. Truth be told, I would have done a poor job of straining out those fleas from my coffee with my teeth, like Mr. Brown did, due to having one front tooth missing, making my teeth a very poor coffee strainer.
The fact was, Mr. Brown had hardly driven further than a ten-mile radius of his farm in some ninety years, and yet he was calling me the ignorant outsider to the ways of Saskatchewan. I was, evidently, still an outsider, because I had been living in Saskatchewan in the same house for only ten years, after moving in from Northern British Colombia. But it is hard to argue with a local fossil like Mr. Brown.
When people get older, sometimes it’s extremely difficult to try to reason with them that life, in fact, does change. With old-age comes the unwanted moles and skin tags -- just like the one that was growing on the top of Mr. Brown’s head -- and there was also the moustache that was growing out of his ears. These were changes that Mr. Brown, apparently, wasn’t aware of.
It is that stubborn streak that can only be taught one way; with actual proof, evidence, and another ten local farmers as witnesses to the actual event, testifying that the event had really happened. Then it could be, indeed, classified as an “event change”.
Now, up to this point, I was never aware that Mr. Brown ever had one of those large skin tags on the top of his head, and this one was quite big for a skin tag, perhaps the size of a pea. It’s one of those odd things in life, that when you are looking at something brand new growing on somebody’s face, such as new hair sprouting out of their ears, that your eyes just stare at it. They are drawn to the new thing by some sort of higher, secret magnetic force that is beyond the eyes’ control, like a lower form of hypnotism!
At this point in time, you just try to pretend that everything is perfectly normal, and you attempt to not stare at the new growing beauty marks for too long. Seemingly, prolonged staring is perceived as rude, but to the gawker, it’s just shock.
So you look at the “THING” briefly, then dart your eyes away; you look at the “THING” again, just to make sure that your eyes are not playing tricks on you, then you dart your eyes away, once more, from the THING”that is pulling on your eyes. It’s also wise to rest your knuckles under your chin, as this will keep your mouth from
falling open at the sight of the THING” in question. This is what we call “being polite,” but I’m only guessing here, because I never went to a polite finishing school. Although, I’m sure I would fit in perfectly well with the polished people.
The longer I talked with Mr. Brown, the more stubborn he became, as I tried to bring some kind of sanity and straight thinking to his stubbornness. He looked at me like I was some sort of lying parasite, myself, who was sucking out his thoughts and pulling him into a wild story of deceit.
The more I dug in, building up my case that ticks were in our area and truly existed locally, the more stubborn and adamant he became that there were no ticks -- even to the point that he appeared to be getting angry with a glowing-red face.
He pounded his hand on the table as he started to rise off of his chair, insisting, “There’s no ticks in Saskatchewan!”
Even after telling Mr. Brown the story of my first-hand sighting of the unsightly beast, that had made residence in my armpit, I could not persuade the old hairy-eared geezer; even when I gave him a simple example of things changing, like the fact that he had hair growing out of his ears... and wasn’t that a change?
He simply replied by saying, “I’ve always had hair growin’ outta my ears.”
I questioned him with shock in my voice, “You had hair growing in your ears, even when you were a baby?”
He replied, “Why yes, I did. Hmm...mmm, I was an early bloomer -- back in the day!” I might add that Mr. Brown said this rather proudly, like it was a badge of hairy honour.
I do have to say, that as a kid, he would have been the child with the most hair growing out of his ears. Maybe he even had hair growing out of his ears as a baby, but we
call those types of babies werewolves, nowadays. For it’s most assuredly a werewolf, when a comb is needed to untangle the hair that is mysteriously coming out of one’s ears.
There was this other experience that I had, which again, when telling Mr. Brown the story in trying to make him believe my encounters with these insects, his stubborn streak would not allow him to accept change that involved his life and his surrounding environment.
I had run into these tick parasites when I had been working as a heavy equipment operator, grading the Saskatchewan prairie roads, for that was my trade at the time.
I needed to make a pit stop, to go to the washroom. Now, if it is the typical relieving
myself of the two gallons of water, that is no big deal. This secret is just done beside the heavy-equipment road grader, when no one is looking. If it is an event of where I need to relieve myself of my wife’s cooking from the night before, that is going to need a bit more of a private location. In this case, the private location, out in the countryside, was a vacant, abandoned homestead. The land around this homestead had been gobbled up by one of the larger farm operations, and the yard went quiet with no people around.
The yard site had been unkempt for some years. It now grew tall grass, wild weeds, wicked Canadian thistles, an array of Bull thistles, like large purple-flowered plums sprinkled about, as well as some nasty, evil bur weeds known as Burdock Arctium.
The Dutch use these weeds as herbs for many ailments, such as a scalp treatment to fix the itch, I believe, or was it to fix the flakes? Those Dutch go hardcore with their bur-weed oil. But I have found the only good use for these burs, is to use them as a cure for the ailment called laziness. For whenever I get wandering into a patch of burs in error, I end up with ten thousand unwanted prickly burs in my clothes, and I am stuck with them until I pick them off -- one by one -- for the next two hours!
Looking for a good spot to relieve myself, I decided to deposit the load at the far corner of the vacant homestead. I wove my way carefully around the thistles and past the Burdock burs. Seeing a good-sized red ant hill, I paused a moment, to give it some good kicks with my boot, to get them livened up and give them something to do. Then I carried on and avoided a large wasp-nest home, which was built in an abandoned badger hole in the ground. The wasp nest was about the size of a basketball, and I resisted the urge to give this hive a kick.
Finally, I found my perfect hiding spot behind a clump of tall trees. I dropped my trousers and work coveralls to my ankles, in a very common human-type fashion, and set out to get this business out of the way, before it made an appearance in an unwanted way, in my wife's laundry, like a stray brown cat running across the lawn.
As my ‘business’ drew to a conclusion, I looked down at the inside of my drawers and made a frightening discovery -- that thankfully was no brown cat. Apparently, I had ran headlong into a nest of dog ticks, for there was not just one tick crawling around inside my drawers, but a whole army of ticks. The ticks were there as if they had just found new territory and had conquered it by just showing up, uninvited. There were far too many ticks to count at a quick glance, and this army was multiplying by the microsecond, as they climbed off the surrounding tall grass and into my sunken pair of trousers and underpants!
The next procedure was that, I needed to make a choice. There were too many ticks to just pick them off, one by one, for who knew how many new ticks would climb aboard, like a gang of hobos onto my clothing from the tall grass, if I had tried removing one tick at a time.
It was at this moment that the words of my fourth-grade teacher came to mind. She would say to me, “Peter, you are going to do your math now or you will be going to jail!” ...it went something like that.
Boy, she was right. I didn’t want to go to jail, so I learned math fast, and it sure came in handy at this time. So in my head, with the help of my fingers and my toes, I quickly calculated that while I picked one tick off, I would have at least two or three more ticks climbing aboard, into my clothing. And apparently, this was a very large dog-tick family which, obviously, had all twins and triplets for children, because they were all identically, very ugly kids.
With this horror unfolding in front of me, a split-second decision needed to be made. I decided that I needed to get to the grader as quickly as humanly possible to get these hobo-riding ticks off of me. The lump of new soil, laying on the grass behind me, was also a highly-motivating factor to vacate the premises quickly.
Now the grader was parked some hundred metres away, and what laid between me and the grader was nothing but that tall grass, those thistles, and the weeds. Taking off my pant-ware, shoes, and clothes and then running naked through the grass wasn’t an option, with the thistles and burs in the way. Pulling up my pants and drawers with a hobo clan of ticks inside, was most certainly not an option, either!
With a firm decision needing to be made quickly, the only logical option remaining was to bunny-hop my way out of this mess. So I started hopping, as if in a potato sack race. It was the greatest race of all time, with maximum speeds and high jumps being my
main focus. I was hoping that, with some luck, I could shake off some of the clinging ticks with the wind that was blowing between my legs, or bounce the ticks off with the shock waves of my feet hitting the ground.
These spirited leaps were aided by an inner fear, which had the intensity of an ancient Egyptian nine-tailed whip on my back! Being a slave to the fear of an insect slowly sucking your blood will really get a person moving an extra knot or two faster.
Danger seemed to be everywhere, as I tried to dodge the thistles with my wild frantic jumps, going this way and that. It seemed that the zigzagging helped me to get away from a small patch of purple Bull thistles and burs, but instead it led me into much larger patches of Canadian thistles. Instead of jumping over the thistles, which I had calculated in my head would be quite easy to do, with my quick math, I jumped right into the thistle patch. Perhaps my math was wrong, this would have worked if my jumps were a little bigger and the thistle and bur plants a little shorter than their five-foot height. Looking back, only in my mind could I have made those leaps, but fate would not allow mind over matter in this healthy patch of thriving thistles.
It would have also helped if I could’ve been able to pull my pants back up to my waist, to enable me to make such good-sized jumps, but with my clothing-shackled feet, my jumping was in vain. Heightened anxiety and fear are deceptive in making you believe you can do more than the moon jumps of an astronaut. But fear can only take a person so high into the air. Even if the mind is telling you, “Higher, I said HIGHER,” you are not going to jump like a spooked white-tailed deer just like that, no matter how high the fear level is, or how many thistles and burs are accumulating inside your pants, which are still shackled around your feet like a giant tumbleweed.
With this maddening dash, thankfully, there weren’t any spectators, who usually show up at times like this, to clock my world-record speed in the potato sack race though the thistle and bur patches. When the jumping attempts over the thistles and Burdock burs failed with each “Ouch, oh, ah, eck, ouch,” I just decided to wing-it and make a shortcut straight through the thistle patch with the biggest jump I could muster. I envisioned this jump would be as high as an Olympic pole-vaulter, just without the pole or the Olympic-sized skill-level to go with it.
This is when I found the badger hole with both of my feet, as I landed in it. I had not been able see the badger hole with my eyes, due to the height of the thistles obstructing my view. This is when panic bolted past fear, as my memory kicked in, for it was reminding me that there was a large grey paper wasp nest in the hole that I was now standing in. The wasp nest was now a deflated basketball under my feet, and my trousers were still hanging at my ankles.
My boots were stuck in the badger hole like wet concrete. Wasps, it seems, do not like having the gates of their city kicked in. It was apparent that this hive of wasps were also easily provoked when I started swatting at them with my full toilet-paper roll while stomping up and down on their nest, as I tried to free my feet from the grip of the badger hole.
Using the toilet-paper roll in my hand like a medieval war mace was some quick thinking, but did little good in beating the attackers off. This wild whacking at the ticks and wasps with my homemade soft mace was like the soft blows of a pillow and only seemed to provoke them more, like poking at a mean dog who had rabies with a stick.
The ticks that had climbed aboard the inside of my clothing, also seemed to be as terrified of the wasps as I was, for the ticks were starting to climb up my legs for the safety of higher grounds. But those higher grounds were way-off limits for them, in my mind! My mind was numb with fear, but not blind to madness!
As the wasps zoomed around with rage, my legs were easy targets for them to sting, and with the invading army of ticks from beneath, this gave me the needed incentive to take a temporary loss.
So I flopped onto my backside into the thistles and burs, and army rolled out of harm’s way. This worked brilliantly in freeing my feet from the badger hole, and I wormed myself speedily away from the swarm of wasps. The speed of my worm crawl would have been impressive if I had been a snake fleeing its natural enemy, but for a human with only bare skin as a shield against the thistle-riddled, rocky soil; this is called “madness”. When my body could not take any more of the grating upon the skin, I stopped to catch my breath and get back onto my feet, but...
....to continue reading the rest of this story and other fun stories with it, get the full 10 chapters of McVanBuck Call of the Lighter softcover book on Amazon.com
Or get the full 10 Chapters of McVanBuck in an Audio Book on Audible.com
Thank you for giving a bit of your time to go out of your way to purchase McVanBuck Call of the Lighter, and taking the time to read or listening to them, it means a lot to me.
All rights reserved including photos, Illustations
Peter N. Mast @ 2021
As of August 20, 2020, the full-length McVanBuck Call of the Lighter can now be purchased on Amazon.ca in Canada, Amazon.com in the USA, and Amazon.everywhere Amazon goes...
Now also at Barnesandnoble.com!
All rights reserved including photos, Illustations Peter N. Mast @ 2019 -2024
This book will
have the whole family
laughing!
Guaranteed!
*Yes! Very Funny
*Yes! High Action Stories!
*Yes! Rich, Easy Reading
*Yes! Clean Rich Humor!
*Yes! Worth Every Cent
*Yes! Best Book Gift Ever!
*Yes! Scary Fire Stories
*Yes! Cheap Stop Smoking
Ways You Never
Dreamed Of!
*Yes! For Men, Dads,
Husbands
*Yes! Outdoors
*Yes! Hunting Story
*Yes! On Audio Book
*Yes! I Am Canadian
*Yes! Funniest Book
*Yes! A Winner Christmas Gift
*Yes! Medicine for the ill, lame and the
Pregnant!
*Yes! Book For Your gift!
...more Guaranteed ways you are going to love this book and the new McVanBuck coming soon next year... If you don't like the book I will give you your money back... it's just that easy. Just drop me an email and we will get your money back to you. Your joy, laughter and happiness in the book is what matters to me more the price of the book.
McVanBuck: Call of the Lighter
The full-length softcover book is here now, and some of you wanted to know more of the facts of seeing Big Foot and what went through my mind after my encounter with the ape face.
The full-length softcover book is here now, and some of you wanted to know more of the facts of seeing Big Foot and what went through my mind after my encounter with the ape face.
Question: How did you sleep at night after this encounter with that massive Big Canadian Sasquatch? ...known also in other parts of the world as Big Foot.
Answer: You re-think your next big hunt, he was very still and gave me chills up and down my back. Sleep was already in short supply after the grizzy bear had charged me the previous fall.
Chapter .1.
Sasquatch Chills
This story is in Chapter 1 of the book. I painted a painting of him a few years back, at least that is what he looked like to me on the edge of the field. This Sasquatch was living in the backwoods of northern British Columbia, Canada. I saw him when I was hunting black bear 20 years ago in a farmer's oat field. The spot was south of Pink Mountain, B.C. and about 1 hour northwest of the city of Fort. St. John, B.C.
McVanBuck Call of the Lighter
-Book Review-
British Columbia, Canada
"Lol. Love the book! Peter is our very own Canadian Patrick McManus. Laughed until I cried while reading it out loud to our family. Well done!"
-Hannah K, Musician
"Lol. Love the book! Peter is our very own Canadian Patrick McManus. Laughed until I cried while reading it out loud to our family. Well done!"
-Hannah K, Musician
When Grizzly Attack
This video is the incredible actual footage from 20 years ago of the Grizzly attack that is in the book. There is a lot more detail in the book and it is a great read.
McVanBuck
Tips & Review:
Classic Book Moby Dick
Tip 1: To make room on your bookshelf for your brand new McVanBuck book, remove a old dusty bad book, like Moby Dick, then put the old wind-filled book to good use helping to level out a low table leg, or restuffing the bed mattress with the pieces, and you'll have plenty left over to warm your house for a year... give or take a month or two. Then put McVanBuck Call of the Lighter in its place! A real win, win, win.
Tip 2: You just can't judge a book solely by its cover, you will also want to judge it on how thick it is, take for instance a book like Moby Dick. You could hurt your back when carrying it, so you will need to borrow a dolly or a forklift first. So in short, judge carefully, it's important for your lower back's health.
Tip 1: To make room on your bookshelf for your brand new McVanBuck book, remove a old dusty bad book, like Moby Dick, then put the old wind-filled book to good use helping to level out a low table leg, or restuffing the bed mattress with the pieces, and you'll have plenty left over to warm your house for a year... give or take a month or two. Then put McVanBuck Call of the Lighter in its place! A real win, win, win.
Tip 2: You just can't judge a book solely by its cover, you will also want to judge it on how thick it is, take for instance a book like Moby Dick. You could hurt your back when carrying it, so you will need to borrow a dolly or a forklift first. So in short, judge carefully, it's important for your lower back's health.
Tip 3: Review of the book, Moby Dick... in short this book is about a whale that lost his mind, and went mad psycho, then went on a wild rampage after he was needled one too many times by his foes. The foes thirsted for his yummy fat, that would light their oil lamp at night and fill the greasy rack at the local greasy spoon restaurant.
How to Skin a Mosquito in 5 Mins
Once you have bagged your Trophy Mosquito, the next step is to skin it out. The key to a clean, quick skinning is to get a mosquito that is not bulging full of blood, because a full bulging mosquito explodes at the slightest touch of a sharp skinning knife.
It is tricky to get the mosquito to lift off of your hunting buddy's back once the 'squito has started sucking. However, it is of great necessity to get the mosquito to lift off so that you can get a clean shot at the 'squito with your shotgun without injuring your buddy. One thing that you can do to encourage the 'squito to lift off before he gets too engorged, without ruining his pelt by beating him to death with the butt end of your shotgun, is to take your shirt off and use the 'squito's inner sucking lust against himself. The draw back to this trick is that you could draw an even bigger 'squito in from the woods, like the king kong of 'squitoes with his six bulging biceps, menacing furry eyebrows, and a trunk like a pick axe, or worse... a whole swarm of trunk dualing 'squito king kongs!
More coming soon.... I have to run, I just remembered... I forgot my hunting buddy in the woods yesterday while 'squito hunting... hope he is alright.
By: Local Farming Legend, Mr. Brown
In the meantime while he tries to look for his friend in the woods, you can read more about Mr. Bown in my books.
Peter N. Mast
McVanBuck Call of the Lighter
- Audio Book - Audible.ca
-Click Below to listen-
The full Audio Book is available for purchase and download on itunes and audible.
Audio Book sample is from
Chapter 2. Fire Fools
The great voice of Marty Mast from youtube at codergopher, as he reads aloud McVanBuck. His outstanding, half-dozen different voices that he uses for the different characters really brings the stories to life. Great for listening in the car on the way to work or to kill the bordom of a long holiday drive. The whole family can listen along. You will not be disappointed.


McVanBuck News
September, 2022
To all McVanBuck book lovers. Book #2 McVanBuck Guns, Grizzlies and Scares, which has even more laughter and fun-filled outdoor/indoor stories than the first book, has now been written and is completed. It is now available in soft cover truly love this book. This book is based on true stories and is made for picky men readers who only read well written books.
McVanBuck Guns, Grizzlies and Scares
New in September of 2022! An excellent read for husbands, dads, and the whole family. Some of the funniest Canadian outdoor/indoor stories you will ever read. You'll love this book as much as you did the first one.