Tuesday, September 7, 2010

What’s Worse Than Dying During Sex?

TCG:  The yard guys are here. Were you going to tell them something about using the blower to remove the dropped birdseed from DOB’s door where it attracts rats?

UCC:  Kinda busy here, and plus I’m shy, can you do that?

WISIMH: Since it’s your mother and her rat problem that is only made worse by her failure to sweep up dropped birdseed from immediately outside her door?

Time passes

TCG:  I told them about the birdseed, but now they may not do the patio…

UCC:  What…

WISIMH:  …the fuck?
TCG:  Well, maybe I wasn’t real…. About the…. They may not use the blower at all? I’m not sure.

Sure enough, they’re starting to rake the patio outside the window where I’m trying to do e-mail. I go out and explain - using actual words - that they can use the blower as usual, but please to get all the birdseed and blow it downhill from DOB’s door instead of merely moving it into my part of the patio. I’m speaking to two guys, one of whom doesn’t have very much English and they seem to understand me better than TCG. Language is not the only barrier to comprehension here in the Fortress of Attitude.

WISIMH: I need to master the ability to release a little steam from my ears like cartoon characters who are pushed to the brink of insanity by unreasonable behavior of other cartoon characters. This would presumably keep my head from exploding when I am confronted with the increasingly common communication snafus. Until I do master this steam-releasing trick, I mentally review the Catholic Popes who died during sex.

First, there was Leo VII (936-9), who died of a heart attack; then John VII (955-64), who was bludgeoned to death by the husband of the woman he was “with” at the time. Then another John XIII (965-72), who was also murdered by a jealous husband; and last in this line was Pope Paul II (1467-71), who allegedly died while being sodomized by a page boy. Thanks to The Google, I’m saved again.

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