Clyde Formaldehyde

“Hot diggity dog!” pulling up his trousers, Clyde Formaldehyde began jumping up and down as if his pants were on fire.

“Jumping! Jack! Flash!” Clyde dropped his trousers, and this time shimmied his feet out of them, leaving his scuffed boots lying there on the out-house steps as he ran in his knickers and bare feet through the pine needles and crusted, dark, ground cover between his shack and his out-back-get-rid-of-that, what-chya-ma-call-it outhouse he curses about from time to time.

“Gaw darn critters!” He leaned over airing his hind side while scratching his ankles something awful.

“Jeepers creepers!” The wind picked up and Clyde lost his balance, landing him on his head with his behind sticking straight up in the air.

Approximately, 87 years old, weighing no more than 140 lbs soaking wet, and when standing, Clyde Formaldehyde is 6ft tall. Most often than not, Mr. Formaldehyde has a tobacco pipe hanging from his mouth. The long wooden pipe prevents the smoke from yellowing his long white beard. The beard reaches his waist line and his winter white hair reaches his shoulders, but he usually has it tied with an elastic rubber band at the nape of his neck.

Flinging his arms up in a retaliation manner, Clyde looked sillier than silly, “These blasted excuses for bones! These dang itches from some pit of misery! Why me? Why me!” Rolling over to sit instead of having his hind side up and head down on the crusty ground Clyde looked hopelessly stiff and unable to move. His hands were palms down on either side of him, he sat straight up with his boney legs sticking straight out in front of him, and his eyes looked glassy and somewhat seemed bugging out from his sunken angular chiselled face—but, his hair and beard looked great—no evidence of having tumbled over on his head.

“Of all the gall dang it times I got to seize up like a rusty chain without grease! Those no-good-for-nothing red ants and the ole shitter bringing in those garden snakes by the dozen, well, I should just plain give up!”

Clyde Formaldehyde with his white hair and beard died sitting there within seconds of realizing he could not move. He had a half decent dwelling to live in (his shack), he did have clothes, and his old shitter out back. He was old, but liked the freedom of having his own place, but it meant being alone. He lived far away from civilization, somewhere far up in the hills of Frankenfurt Mountain. No-one found him, and his remains still sit there. His journal tells his story, about why he chose to live that way...