02 January 2006

Glue's clues.

About five this morning, mounting internal pressure let me rip out one of those early morning, fifteen second, melodious farts that we men are so fond of. I chose the opening bars of John Philip Sousa’s Black Horse March, as it lends a certain grandeur to woodwinds and brass.

Yes, I am talented. But I wouldn’t have dreamed of doing such a thing in bed; and I certainly wouldn’t have dared to fluff the covers and hold them above spousal head-level. I’d as soon give a puma a Tabasco enema whilst wearing a mackerel cod-piece. I’d be more likely to retain use of my genetalia.

No, I was on the couch, and could be as foul and manly as I wished. And I wished to rattle the windows and scare away the cats that had taken to using me as a heat source, while giving them a taste of what their foul cat-box smells like.

“You want some of this?” I said gleefully, pinning them under the blanket. “There’s plenty more where that came from!”

Actually, they were unimpressed. They stretched and fell back asleep as close to my rump as they could get.

Never let anyone tell you that cats are too effete to be proper companions for gentlemen. Disgusting little creatures they are, making a perfect match.

In any event, my couch exile was self-imposed. Last evening, I had been laying linoleum on the new porch. I managed to get the glue in places that I thought glue could not possibly get; to whit: In my beard, on my fore-arms and in unmentionable dark personal places. Suffice it to say that all of these locations are well endowed with hair.

Mineral spirits did nothing to dissolve the sticky mass, nor did acetone or diethyl ether. I even went as far as trying the mysterious, corrosive powers of cheap tequila (con gusano!) to no avail.

It was then announced (gleefully, I might add) that I was not coming to bed all gummy and sticky, and the fur stripping began. In a past life, She must have worked for Torquemada.

Well, what would you have done? I fled to the couch to find surcease of pain and gain proximity to the keggerator. Normally I wouldn’t drink beer so late in the evening as it makes me gassy, but since I was already a refugee...

Hmmm. I might just have to start doing more home improvement projects. Here, kitty, kitty, kitty...


And that's the way I likes it.