A Brit Goes Muddin'

As best man, I expected to go to a party before the special night and endure long drinking games until the sun came up when we would all march dutifully into the steeple-house and watch the vows with glazed over, stupid smiles. There was drinking, but it was no party. Instead, with borrowed breeches, here called britches, I did something I'd never done. With beer in hand, I boarded an ATV, splattered in something indistinguishable from horse dung. Come to think of where I was, that wasn't out of the question. The next morning when we walked into the church, I was still scanning every inch of my visible body for it, for mud. The mud from the watery field where cows had vacated just the day before, where tire tracks remain imprinted on my mind, and makes me want to go back again.