Dragon Bones

A Mostly Harmless Guide to Your Smoky Mountain Interlude (Near That Dragon-y Bit)

Right, so, you've arrived. Congratulations. You've somehow managed to navigate the vast, bewildering chaos of the universe and ended up here, in a cabin nestled near that... thing... in the Smoky Mountains. Yes, that Dragon-y bit. Don't ask me what it is; frankly, I'm as clueless as an Elephant eating potato chips.

First things first, and this is crucial: try not to panic. And, if possible, attempt to relax. It's a vacation, after all. A brief, hopefully non-lethal, respite from the general absurdity of existence.

Now, about this cabin. Treat it with the same level of respect you'd afford a particularly intelligent pangolin(Anteater). Or, perhaps, a slightly less destructive fire breathing Dragon. Basically, don't trash the place. Keep it clean. It's not rocket science, though, let's face it, rocket science is often less complicated than figuring out why towels disappear in laundry hampers.

And speaking of the baffling mysteries of the universe, you're in the countryside. The deep countryside. The kind where the local wildlife doesn't subscribe to your quaint notions of "personal space" or "hygiene." Expect bugs, insects, reptiles, and creatures of all shapes, sizes, and levels of existential dread. Some will be cute, like a babbling brook. Others, less so, like a particularly grumpy badger with a grudge.

Important Note: Leaving food lying around is like sending out an engraved invitation to every creature within a five-mile radius. They will come. And they will judge your culinary choices.

Now, the plumbing. Ah, plumbing. A system as baffling and unpredictable as Airport Decor. This cabin uses a septic system, which, in layman's terms, means it's delicate. Think of it as a small, easily offended universe contained beneath your feet. Only toilet paper goes down the toilet. Anything else, and you'll be facing a level of plumbing-related chaos usually reserved for intergalactic travel.

There's a garbage disposal, which, let's be honest, is more of a placebo than a solution. It's for the minuscule scraps of food that might cling to a rinsed plate. Not entire galaxies of leftover casserole. Scrape the food into the garbage can. The septic system doesn't appreciate culinary adventures.

And do wash your dishes. Leaving them in the sink is like waving a flag that says "Free Insect Buffet!" Rinse the dishes and place them in the dishwasher, then run the dishwasher when appropriate.

Right, let's talk countertops. Butcher block. They are glorious! Glorious I tell you! Hot pans? More appropriately they are Tiny, searing suns of countertop-doom! Imagine: countertops, with feelings. Woody feelings. Then, BAM! A Hot pan. Scorch mark. Woody screams of agony. Bills. Long, convoluted, completely unnecessary bills all just for you. So, let's think Trivets. Little heat-resistant shields. Preventing countertop existential crises. Saving you from galactic-credit-collector-level bills. Think of the wood. Think of your wallet. USE THE TRIVETS!

Put garbage bags in the bear-proof bins outside. Lock them. Bears, you see, have a sophisticated palate and a keen interest in your leftovers.

The outdoor steps? Use at your own risk. It's a bit like navigating a probability matrix – you might make it, you might not. We don't want to think about it, so its better in the end, if you just use the less step-py way, by walking around! 

The fence? It's more of a philosophical statement than a barrier. It's saying, "There's a hill here. Be careful." Don't climb on it. Don't sit on it. Don't Ignore its existence. The universe has enough gravity-related mishaps already.

Locked doors are locked for a reason. Don't attempt to breach them. You don't want to know what's behind them. Trust me.

While we're on the subject of things you shouldn't do: Smoking. Absolutely, positively, no smoking. Not inside, not even a tiny, furtive puff while attempting to communicate with sentient dust bunnies. This isn't a suggestion, it's a cosmic law, like the speed limit for light or the inherent unreliability of tea dispensers. Violate it, and you risk a fate worse than death. We're talking fines that would make a galactic credit collector weep, and, let's be frank, potentially a spontaneous combustion event that would leave even a fire-breathing dragon slightly impressed.

There are cameras! They're watching. Not in a creepy, "Big Brother" kind of way, but in a "keeping you and the cabin safe from the general chaos of the universe" kind of way. Mess with them, and you'll be ejected faster than a disgruntled quantum particle from a collapsing probability field. Basically, it will be swift and utterly inconvenient and potentially involving a brief, unpleasant jaunt through several alternate realities.

This place is remote. Think "heart of nowhere" remote. The nearest shop is a 20-mile trek, which, in local terms, is about the same as saying "its a long Stinking ways". Bring everything you need.

The neighbor's dogs bark. Especially when new people show up and disturb their NON barking time. It's a fact of life, like the improbability of finding a decent cup of tea in space. They stop eventually. A few minutes here and there is all it ever is, just be known. 

A starter pack of supplies is provided. Think of it as a small, but vital, survival kit. If you run out, you're on your own. We won't be delivering anything, because, frankly, we're probably busy trying to figure out why the Earth exists in the first place.

The kitchen spices? Use at your own risk. They could be anything. Anything at all. They should be what they claim to be, but what is salt really?

Then, there's the matter of pets. Now, we understand. You have companions. Fluffy, scaly, or tentacled companions. But this cabin, It's a delicate ecosystem. Like a terrarium, only bigger, and with more squirrels. Therefore, only management-approved pets are allowed. And by "management-approved," we mean pets that have filled out the appropriate forms, passed a rigorous personality test (involving questions like, "Do you understand the delicate nature of butcher block countertops?"), and paid the required pet fees. These fees, naturally, are calculated using a complex algorithm that takes into account the pet’s cuteness, potential for shedding, and general level of existential angst. Think of it as a small, but vital, contribution to the ongoing maintenance of the universe's delicate balance. Any unauthorized pets will be swiftly relocated to a dimension where they can chase their tails in peace, and you, well, you’ll be facing a bill that would make a black hole seem like a bargain.

So, enjoy your stay. And remember, Don't Panic. Life is Great! You're just visiting a small, mostly harmless planet. Near that Dragon-y bit.

E-