Donold J. Grump Jr. #1

Rocky & Rolled: The Donnie Jr. Chronicles

Part 1: The Moose Is Loose

The sun hung high over the jagged ridges of the Rocky Mountains as Donnie Jr. tightened the straps on his stars-and-stripes ATV helmet. Behind him, his three most loyal adventuring bros—Chet, Kyle, and Randy—revved their engines like overcaffeinated 7th graders who’d just discovered torque.

“Time to reclaim nature,” Donnie Jr. declared, eyes shaded by wraparound camo Oakleys. “Like Lewis and Clark... if they had monster energy drinks and firearms.”

Chet, the designated navigator, squinted at a screen strapped to his arm. “Okay, GPS says turn left at the angry tree.”

Kyle frowned. “That’s in Russian.”

“I bought it off eBay,” Chet replied defensively. “It’s authentic Soviet military surplus. Way better than Google Maps.”

The group rolled out into the forest, tearing through underbrush, ignoring posted signs that read:

                                      NO TRESPASSING – PRIVATE LAND

                                                RESPECT WILDLIFE

They weren’t there to respect anything but the echoes of their own masculinity.

Suddenly, Randy let out a yelp and slammed the brakes. “Bro! BRO! Moose! Five o’clock!”

Sure enough, just off the trail, a young moose stood in the clearing. Small, doe-eyed, barely five feet tall.

“Aww, it’s like a toddler moose!” Donnie Jr. grinned. “Let’s get a selfie. For America.”

“No, let’s chase it!” Kyle shouted. “Content, baby!”

They revved up their engines and peeled off into the woods, hooting and yelling as the frightened mooseling galloped through the trees.

That’s when the real moose showed up.

First came Mama Moose—taller than the ATVs, her antlers casting shadows like aircraft wings.

Then Papa Moose—a full nine feet of raw, furry vengeance with hooves like dinner plates and the gaze of a vengeful forest spirit.

“OH DEAR GOD!” Chet screamed, yanking the handlebars as they veered wildly. “WE’RE IN A HORROR MOVIE!”

“THE GPS IS SAYING SOMETHING!” Kyle shouted.

“It says ‘prepare for glorious death,’” Chet translated, weeping.

The moose gave chase.

The woods became a blur—trees, branches, shrieks, and one moose-slap that sent Kyle flying into a patch of poison ivy.

They crashed through a wire fence marked with a faded maple leaf, hit a scarecrow made of Tim Hortons cups, and landed in an enormous pile of cow pies.

Steam rose from the cow manure like shame from a failed coup.

As they lay twitching and moaning, a drone buzzed overhead. A speaker crackled:

“YOU HAVE BEEN FILMED HARASSING THREE PROTECTED MOOSE UNDER CANADIAN WILDLIFE LAW. THIS IS A FELONY OFFENSE. REMAIN WHERE YOU ARE. AUTHORITIES HAVE BEEN DISPATCHED.”

“Wait…” Donnie Jr. sat up, cow pie on his chin. “Did that say Canadian?!”

“We crossed the border,” Randy said in a whisper of horror. “We invaded Canada.”

Donnie Jr. stared at his soiled boots. “This… this is January 6th all over again.”

Sirens wailed in the distance.

Mounties were coming.

Donnie Jr. tried to stand, but slipped and fell back into the mush with a sad thud, his Oakley's now bent and fogged with shame. Chet sat on a pile of broken fence, still clutching the Soviet GPS unit like it might start issuing life advice. Kyle had hives from the poison ivy and was now shirtless, bright red, and covered in hoof-shaped bruises.

Randy? Randy was trying to hide behind a bush that was barely taller than a garden gnome.

The drone continued its slow circle overhead, blaring:

      “YOU ARE TRESPASSING. WILDLIFE HARASSMENT IS A FELONY. LAY ON THE GROUND AND REFLECT ON YOUR POOR LIFE CHOICES.”

Then came the sound of tires on gravel. Calm. Deliberate.

Out of the treeline rolled two Royal Canadian Mounted Police SUVs. Red and white, with moose silhouettes on the sides and a polite authority that screamed, We will arrest you gently, but firmly.

The first Mountie stepped out: tall, stone-faced, sunglasses gleaming. His uniform was pristine. His mustache was majestic.

The second Mountie followed, holding a clipboard and sipping from a Tim Hortons coffee. She raised an eyebrow and called out in that signature, terrifyingly polite tone:

“Would the gentlemen in the manure kindly remain motionless?”

Donnie Jr. sprang to his feet, flinging cow pie everywhere, arms flailing.

“Do you know who I am?!”

Both Mounties paused. Then the clipboard one grinned slightly.

“Of course we do,” she replied. “Why do you think we’re smiling?”

The other Mountie pulled out a small, leather-bound book titled “Very Dumb Americans We’ve Been Warned About.” He flipped to page 73 and pointed.

“Right there—Donnie J. Grump Jr.,” he said. “Photo taken outside Bass Pro Shops. Known for trespassing, confusing moose for elk, and frequent misuse of the term ‘patriot.’”

“Also,” the clipboard Mountie added, “once tried to claim diplomatic immunity at a beer pong tournament.”

Donnie Jr. opened his mouth, but only a wheeze came out.

Randy tried to bolt, only to trip over Chet, and both fell back into the muck like synchronized idiots.

“All right,” said the mustached Mountie. “Let’s have a look at the vehicles.”

The Mounties began a slow, methodical search of the ATVs.

First came the empty beer cans. Then the maps with coffee stains and mysterious Russian scribbles. Then the duffel bag.

Inside were four handguns, two AR-style rifles, and one shotgun — none of them registered in Canada, none declared at a border crossing, and all of them illegal under Canadian law.

The officer whistled low.

“Well, well. Unauthorized firearms. That’s a big no-no up here, fellas. Especially since you crossed into Canada illegally. Guess what that makes you?”

Chet gulped.

“Tourists?”

Another Mountie chuckled.

“Criminals.”

Donnie Jr. started sputtering.

“You can’t arrest us! We’re Americans! We have Second Amendment rights!”

The lead officer nodded sympathetically.

“Sure you do. In America. Here? You’ve got the right to remain silent... and the right to wish you’d read a map.”

One by one, the group was cuffed and lined up next to their muddy ATVs. Donnie Jr. tried to protest, but every time he opened his mouth, a Mountie tightened the zip-ties on his wrists.

Another officer leaned in and said kindly:

“Don't worry, bud. The jail’s heated. And tonight’s poutine night. You’re gonna love Canada, eh?”

Behind them, the wrecked scarecrow leaned drunkenly against the broken fence — a silent witness to the dumbest international incident of the year.

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Just remember if you have someone in your life that loves you, holds you at night, makes you laugh, cry...

Then you are richer than

"He Who is PU!"