Eau du SeanQ
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Varmints
For you to truly appreciate the story I'm about to tell, you'll need a little context, which means I have to start off with an admission.
I hate mice. I hate looking at them, being around them, hearing them, smelling them, even the thought of them. I don't even care if it's the little fluffy white one you got from the pet store because your girlfriend couldn't stand the thought of someone feeding it to his snake or spraying pomade in its eyes, and now you keep it in an aquarium next to your bed and she makes you say goodnight to Snowflake every night before she'll even think of blowing you. If you bring it within twenty-five feet of me, I'm getting a goddamn restraining order. CANNOT. FUCKING. STAND. MICE.
I know exactly where this phobia is rooted, too. During my grade school years, my family lived in a house built on the side of a large granite outcropping (on, appropriately enough, Cliff St). In one corner of the house, the home's builders decided to use the granite hill as part of the foundation, in a room which became my bedroom. Not only was the house resting on the hill, but part of the rock actually came into the room itself. The builders decided that would make a fine place to put a built-in nightstand. So for years whenever a hard rain fell I would hear the water running down the hill into the crawlspace under the house. And for years, every night I would hear dozens of mice scurrying from the woods behind our house into the basement, inches below my head as I tried to sleep.
At least, I always thought they were mice. You see, we lived in a coastal New England town, not far from several marshes and the mouth of the Farm River. So these were no ordinary mice coming to visit, they were swamp rats. A few months before we finally moved away, I saw one of my scurrying pals in the basement window. Unmistakably a rodent, it was roughly the size of a dachshund. Our cat walked up to it hissing, and swiped at the window with her paw, and I swear I heard the thing laugh. I know I never slept soundly in that house again, the wonder is that I ever fell asleep again.
Fast-forward to my current home. Every year as summer turns to fall, we deal with an attempted invasion of field mice - this though there isn't a goddamn field within half a mile of the place. Two winters ago a couple made it into the basement through a crawlspace under our porch, and I would hear them scampering across the heating ducts during the night. After securely sealing up the window casing where I suspected they'd entered, I set about half a dozen traps around the place, looking over my shoulder as I did. Even the knowledge that we were dealing with simple field mice, and nothing even approaching the John Carpenter nightmare creations of my youth, could not settle my rattled nerves.
Eventually, we caught the two trespassers. I made my wife empty the traps. Were it not for a sympathetic jurist on the Second Circuit Court of Appeals, I would have lost all rights to my penis.
Which all dovetails nicely with my story. This fall, to my great delight, I've found I have another ally in the Mouse Wars... our new cat Pinkie.
In addition to being button-cute, sweet to the kids, and a warm companion to our older cat, it turns out Pinkie is a ruthless and coldly efficient killing machine. A few Sundays ago, as we returned from church, we pulled in the driveway to see Pinkie playfully leaping about our back yard. My wife was quick to share that Pinkie loved to chase leaves as they blew in the afternoon wind. I was quick to notice that it wasn't a leaf Pinkie was currently toying with. As I walked toward the cat, she picked up her prey like a sacred offering, and delivered it about five feet to my right.
It was only when I bent to confirm that she had slain the first mouse that I saw the carcass of a second in the exact same spot. Judging by the state of decomposition, she must have killed the other mouse a couple of days earlier. Beaming like a proud father, I grabbed a shovel, scooped up the two cadavers and, holding them several feet away from my body, tossed them over the fence behind my neighbor's garage and into their compost pile, making a mental note not to accept any tomatoes from next year's harvest.
About a week later, my kids happened to see Pinkie in action once again. I only found out when one of them raced breathlessly into the house and told me "There's a rat in our driveway." I tentatively followed her out to the spot where Pinkie had abandoned her latest victim, except this time the killing machine had not completed the job. Apparently they had interrupted her mid-kill, and now several neighborhood children were gathered around admiring her handiwork. Pinkie must have severed its spine, as only the front paws were moving, and it was panting and gasping for air. Obviously unable to defend itself, the terrified rodent's eyes darted from face to face as the kids pressed in.
Finally, I knew what had to be done. As I attempted to disperse the crowd, both of my daughters pleaded with me... "Is it hurt? Will it be okay, Daddy? Did Pinkie hurt it? Can we get a box and bring it inside?" "don't' worry," I said reassuringly, "I know a place to bring it where it will be just fine...."
And I grabbed the shovel.
"Go on inside with Mommy, I'm going to take care of the mouse." I herded them toward the back door, throwing quick gas-faces at the other kids again approaching the victim. As my wife opened the door, I said in a stage-whisper, "Don't let them watch."
"Oh, what are you going to do?"
"The only humane thing to do, I have to put it out of its misery."
She pointed to the shovel. "With that?"
"Well I guess I could run it over in your car."
She turned around quickly and called, "Okay girls, time to get ready for the bath," as the door shut behind her.
The rest of the crowd finally dispersed, I leaned over the wounded animal and told it, "Sorry, dude, it's for the best." I brought the shovel up about head high, and brought it down with gruesome authority.
**** CLLAAAANNNNNGG!****
I lifted the head of the shovel and peered under. I guess the mouse didn't agree with my plan, because now all four limbs were violently and rhythmically twitching, head jerking back, eyes dancing in its head. My reaction was, of course, abject horror. Fight and flight battled to a preliminary draw, with fight finally winning in overtime.
GAHHHHH JESUS FUCKING ZOMBIE MOUSE WHAT THE FUCK GAHHHH
****CLANG!CLANG!CLANG!CLANG!****
Ten seconds later, the mouse was reduced to a fine paste. I scooped up what I could, deposited it behind the garage, and hosed the rest off the driveway. Rattled, I walked into the house. My oldest daughter called from her bath, "Daddy, is the mouse gonna be okay?" And as I reached for the Jack Daniels, I gave an honest reply, "He won't suffer any more, honey, I promise." And I promised myself, next time that damn cat doesn't finish the job, I'm running it over and driving to the car wash.
Or sending out my wife.
I hate mice. I hate looking at them, being around them, hearing them, smelling them, even the thought of them. I don't even care if it's the little fluffy white one you got from the pet store because your girlfriend couldn't stand the thought of someone feeding it to his snake or spraying pomade in its eyes, and now you keep it in an aquarium next to your bed and she makes you say goodnight to Snowflake every night before she'll even think of blowing you. If you bring it within twenty-five feet of me, I'm getting a goddamn restraining order. CANNOT. FUCKING. STAND. MICE.
I know exactly where this phobia is rooted, too. During my grade school years, my family lived in a house built on the side of a large granite outcropping (on, appropriately enough, Cliff St). In one corner of the house, the home's builders decided to use the granite hill as part of the foundation, in a room which became my bedroom. Not only was the house resting on the hill, but part of the rock actually came into the room itself. The builders decided that would make a fine place to put a built-in nightstand. So for years whenever a hard rain fell I would hear the water running down the hill into the crawlspace under the house. And for years, every night I would hear dozens of mice scurrying from the woods behind our house into the basement, inches below my head as I tried to sleep.
At least, I always thought they were mice. You see, we lived in a coastal New England town, not far from several marshes and the mouth of the Farm River. So these were no ordinary mice coming to visit, they were swamp rats. A few months before we finally moved away, I saw one of my scurrying pals in the basement window. Unmistakably a rodent, it was roughly the size of a dachshund. Our cat walked up to it hissing, and swiped at the window with her paw, and I swear I heard the thing laugh. I know I never slept soundly in that house again, the wonder is that I ever fell asleep again.
Fast-forward to my current home. Every year as summer turns to fall, we deal with an attempted invasion of field mice - this though there isn't a goddamn field within half a mile of the place. Two winters ago a couple made it into the basement through a crawlspace under our porch, and I would hear them scampering across the heating ducts during the night. After securely sealing up the window casing where I suspected they'd entered, I set about half a dozen traps around the place, looking over my shoulder as I did. Even the knowledge that we were dealing with simple field mice, and nothing even approaching the John Carpenter nightmare creations of my youth, could not settle my rattled nerves.
Eventually, we caught the two trespassers. I made my wife empty the traps. Were it not for a sympathetic jurist on the Second Circuit Court of Appeals, I would have lost all rights to my penis.
Which all dovetails nicely with my story. This fall, to my great delight, I've found I have another ally in the Mouse Wars... our new cat Pinkie.
In addition to being button-cute, sweet to the kids, and a warm companion to our older cat, it turns out Pinkie is a ruthless and coldly efficient killing machine. A few Sundays ago, as we returned from church, we pulled in the driveway to see Pinkie playfully leaping about our back yard. My wife was quick to share that Pinkie loved to chase leaves as they blew in the afternoon wind. I was quick to notice that it wasn't a leaf Pinkie was currently toying with. As I walked toward the cat, she picked up her prey like a sacred offering, and delivered it about five feet to my right.
It was only when I bent to confirm that she had slain the first mouse that I saw the carcass of a second in the exact same spot. Judging by the state of decomposition, she must have killed the other mouse a couple of days earlier. Beaming like a proud father, I grabbed a shovel, scooped up the two cadavers and, holding them several feet away from my body, tossed them over the fence behind my neighbor's garage and into their compost pile, making a mental note not to accept any tomatoes from next year's harvest.
About a week later, my kids happened to see Pinkie in action once again. I only found out when one of them raced breathlessly into the house and told me "There's a rat in our driveway." I tentatively followed her out to the spot where Pinkie had abandoned her latest victim, except this time the killing machine had not completed the job. Apparently they had interrupted her mid-kill, and now several neighborhood children were gathered around admiring her handiwork. Pinkie must have severed its spine, as only the front paws were moving, and it was panting and gasping for air. Obviously unable to defend itself, the terrified rodent's eyes darted from face to face as the kids pressed in.
Finally, I knew what had to be done. As I attempted to disperse the crowd, both of my daughters pleaded with me... "Is it hurt? Will it be okay, Daddy? Did Pinkie hurt it? Can we get a box and bring it inside?" "don't' worry," I said reassuringly, "I know a place to bring it where it will be just fine...."
And I grabbed the shovel.
"Go on inside with Mommy, I'm going to take care of the mouse." I herded them toward the back door, throwing quick gas-faces at the other kids again approaching the victim. As my wife opened the door, I said in a stage-whisper, "Don't let them watch."
"Oh, what are you going to do?"
"The only humane thing to do, I have to put it out of its misery."
She pointed to the shovel. "With that?"
"Well I guess I could run it over in your car."
She turned around quickly and called, "Okay girls, time to get ready for the bath," as the door shut behind her.
The rest of the crowd finally dispersed, I leaned over the wounded animal and told it, "Sorry, dude, it's for the best." I brought the shovel up about head high, and brought it down with gruesome authority.
**** CLLAAAANNNNNGG!****
I lifted the head of the shovel and peered under. I guess the mouse didn't agree with my plan, because now all four limbs were violently and rhythmically twitching, head jerking back, eyes dancing in its head. My reaction was, of course, abject horror. Fight and flight battled to a preliminary draw, with fight finally winning in overtime.
GAHHHHH JESUS FUCKING ZOMBIE MOUSE WHAT THE FUCK GAHHHH
****CLANG!CLANG!CLANG!CLANG!****
Ten seconds later, the mouse was reduced to a fine paste. I scooped up what I could, deposited it behind the garage, and hosed the rest off the driveway. Rattled, I walked into the house. My oldest daughter called from her bath, "Daddy, is the mouse gonna be okay?" And as I reached for the Jack Daniels, I gave an honest reply, "He won't suffer any more, honey, I promise." And I promised myself, next time that damn cat doesn't finish the job, I'm running it over and driving to the car wash.
Or sending out my wife.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
None of this makes me want to buy ethanol
I should read my spam more often.... These guys were trying to get me to buy energy stocks with this sales pitch:
The scooby snack teaches the tornado. Any lover can share a shower with the cloud formation inside the tomato, but it takes a real recliner to bury the moldy globule. A tape recorder seeks a sandwich. When you see the ski lodge, it means that the tattered customer goes to sleep. The underhandedly fractured mortician secretly plans an escape from a nearest industrial complex a fire hydrant, and the plaintiff from the cashier makes love to a carelessly nuclear tape recorder.
When a statesmanlike eggplant hibernates, an inferiority complex of a warranty trembles. The hairy crank case dances with an alleged sheriff. Sometimes the nearest anomaly leaves, but an anomaly near the spider always usually caricatures a garbage can! Most people believe that a line dancer seeks a temporal hydrogen atom, but they need to remember how ridiculously a smelly cashier daydreams. When a cosmopolitan grain of sand prays, a chestnut living with an industrial complex hides. A turkey daydreams, or the parking lot hesitantly tries to seduce another tornado living with the ocean. Another completely outer movie theater learns a hard lesson from a polar bear. A rattlesnake defined by a freight train recognizes the cab driver inside the avocado pit.
If a freight train caricatures some paycheck about another light bulb, then a freight train defined by the submarine procrastinates. When you see some hypnotic reactor, it means that a grizzly bear living with the cargo bay hibernates. When a hypnotic football team rejoices, a briar patch starts reminiscing about lost glory. A fruit cake beyond a bartender competes with the unstable polar bear.
When a cosmopolitan grain of sand prays, a chestnut living with an industrial complex hides. A turkey daydreams, or the parking lot hesitantly tries to seduce another tornado living with the ocean. Another completely outer movie theater learns a hard lesson from a polar bear. A rattlesnake defined by a freight train recognizes the cab driver inside the avocado pit.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
MC Squared in the hizzzzzouse!
My Halloween-themed guest strip is running over at Scribs today. I think I covered just about every possible pun on Einstein and relativity, but feel free tom add a comment if I missed any.
