Saturday, July 27, 2013

Dog Days and Possum Juice

My cats want it to be noted that they didn't name this time of year "The Cat Days of Summer" because cats are totally awesome, Yo.  Nope, it's dog. D.O.G. because dogs suck and so does the weather.  (I actually like dogs but don't tell them because I don't want to wake up with a hairball in my shoe.)

It is so hard to get up at 5 a.m. to ride my bike in this miserableness.  My head is a hurty little resentment filled balloon floating on top of my achy, spiteful body and is going to explode any minute - like after I go over that big bump.  My right eye has a big red rash around it and I look like I've been punched by a slightly melty raspberry gummy bear.  Probably because he cut me off while texting in his car and I yelled something really rude at him that had the word douchenozzle in it and also something about who his mother had relations with last night in the alley behind the gummy bear factory.  Yeah, call the Wahmbulance so they can bring a shovel and a hefty bag to scrape my self pitying ass off the bubbling asphalt.

So yesterday I went out and it was eleventy hundred percent humidity, yucky and hot and sticky.  It started raining which actually was kind of nice and I was humming along when I saw a puddle ahead.  It looked like there was something in the puddle - kind of gray and tattered like an old grocery bag.  It was not until I was splashing my wheels through the puddle that I noticed that it was not a nice, old innocent grocery bag.  Nuh Uh, Nossiree Bob, it was a mother humping DEAD POSSUM!!   Sweet Golden Brown Cinnamon Toasted Baby Jesus and all the Assorted Toaster Pastry Saints save us.  I had just splashed dead possum water all over my bike, my legs and in a nice stripe up my back.  I tried not to self destruct with disgust and battled the urge to just stop, lie down in the grass next to Walmart Super Center and die of an aneurism.

So after my stomach did a few somersaults I managed to calm myself a little.  You can wash this off when you get home.  It's really okay.  Then I realized I was thirsty, ten miles from home in the heat and I had dead possum juice splashed all over my water bottles.  I reasoned with myself that the water probably hadn't hit the nipples of the bottles and if I wiped them off on my jersey I be okay.  Um, no, my germophobe brain said.  Right now there are itty bitty dead possum molecules migrating up the sides of your bottles and crawling inside.  Game over.  You'll just have to die of thirst.

I did make it home, drank a gallon of water and had to fight the urge to throw my bike, bike clothes and water bottles onto a flaming funeral pyre and douse my body in a gallon of bleach.  But I'm still twitching like a fly bitten horse's rump at the memory. Ugh.  I am so done with Dog Days.

Tuesday, July 9, 2013

Overheard at the dinner table

Oh Shit! <crash>

Me: Hunter S. Thomson has hummus and a little baba ghanoush on his face and it's detracting from his gonzo image.  Can you hand me some napkins?

Him: <sigh> <rustling sounds>

Me: I may need that helper monkey sooner than I thought.

Him: I wonder what the cats would think about living with a monkey.

Me: We could probably get two and write them off as medical expenses.  You do have that nasty thumb arthritis.  Then we could get tiny saddles for the cats and have races with monkey jockeys.

Did you know that Hunter S. Thompson once had a drunk monkey in his pocket?

Him: No, I wasn't aware of that particular fact.

Me: Yeah, he actually did.  It threw up in there too.  Poor Hunter now has to endure eternity smelling like monkey vomit, charred eggplant, feta cheese and pureed garbanzo beans.