27 January 2006

I really have no idea what the title of this should be.

Right.

I’m pissed off right now. It seems that the realtor lied when they said my house was built on an Indian burial mound. That I could live with. I mean, how cool is it to have an ominously bound trap-door in your basement, inscribed with eldritch runes and decorated with the empty skull of Richard Simmons?

“Stop jumping up and down on it kids!” I frequently have to scold. “I don’t want you taunting the demons.”

Well, it turns out the whole thing is a fake, with the exception of Richard Simmons’ skull. I am quite sure of the provenance of that, since I placed it there myself.

In reality, the house is built on the roosting grounds of the North American hamster. Every year, millions of hamsters migrate from the deep south to do the nasty on my 10 acre plot. It’s rather like that bit of Baja for the Monarch butterfly, Patagonia for the Great Auk or coastal Thailand for the Brits.

After spawning, they lay their eggs and die. It would all be a fascinating glimpse into the majestic pole dance of life, except they’ve taken to scrogging in the floor joists and walls of my house; then the females want to talk. When they do go to sleep, they steal the covers, causing the males to grumble all night long, until they die in the wee hours.

As you can imagine, the stench is incredible and my siding is getting damaged as all of the neighborhood weasels have taken to licking it with their long, raspy, forked tongues.

Honestly, I could deal with all of this with good humor, if a pair of hamsters hadn’t crawled into my five gallon bucket of lard (I keep that much in case an emergency keeps me from the store; something like a blizzard say, or a nuclear exchange with Peoria) to get a little hamster action.

Imagine the sight, when opening up the can for breakfast you were to find an enthusiastically fertilized hamster egg sack. Fairly put me off my breakfast, it did.

So that’s why I was standing in my boxers on the front porch screaming at the weasels. Richard Simmons, or someone that looked very much like him told me to calm down, eat right, get some exercise, or I’d have a heart attack.

So I bashed him skull wise with a shovel. Well, one thing led to another, and the neighborhood busybodies called the police. I barely had time to pull his pants down before they showed up.

“I had to, officer!” I explained indignantly. “He was exposing himself to the kids.”

They were very nice about it, and even let me keep his head to put on the fake-trap door.

Now, if you put your ear against it, you can hear the groaning of tortured souls, all to the beat of “Sweating to the Oldies!”

True story!


And that's the way I likes it.