Sometimes, inspiration strikes.
2006-07-10, 2:58 p.m.
Sometimes, I’m sitting here thinking, “Welp, I better write something and post it, lest I lose my tens of devoted readers.” But what to write about? Sometimes I end up going ON and ON and ON ON and ON about absolutely nothing, and sometimes, inspiration strikes.
AN STORY DEVOTED TO MAGGOTS
I had a friend in grad school whose name was Steve Fisher. Sure, go ahead, Google Steve, find him, contact him, and direct him here so I can say hi. I’ll wait while you do that.
Anyway, Steve’s personal anthem was “Dirty White Boy”, and he liked to party. He told me a story about a really bad string of weekends he had, that started innocently enough with a wild party at his house. I wasn’t invited, by the way. I was just regaled with the story afterwards.
Actually, this is easier if I just illustrate it.
Wild party at Steve’s ====> Many bags of trash to be disposed of.
Many bags of trash ====> Bags of trash in trunk of car to be taken to dumpster.
More partying or whatever ====> Bags of trash forgotten in trunk of car.
Trash finally remembered in trunk of car ====> Trunk of car coated in layer of maggots.
Trunk of car full of maggots ====> Vacuum maggots out of trunk.
Vacuum maggots out of trunk ====> Vacuum cleaner stored responsibly in hall closet.
Vacuum cleaner stored in hall closet ====> A week or two later: house full of flies.
He said that at first, he and his roommates just noticed that the house was full of flies, and they could not figure out where they were coming from. I guess a bit of deductive sleuthing led them to the hall closet, and that’s when the realization came crashing down on everybody. They were flying out of the end of the vacuum cleaner hose.
Our lesson for today? If you leave bags of garbage in the trunk of car, and they sprout maggots, and you vacuum said maggots, THROW AWAY THE VACUUM BAG.****
To answer a question in the comments, yes, this is a man’s watch on my wrist. As with everything, there’s a story, but sadly, there are no maggots in this story, although I could embellish the story a bit to make it more interesting.
LG came home with this watch one day, and said that his grandfather ended up with it somehow (in other words, it was free), and that the grandfather did not want it, nor did his grandmother. LG didn’t particularly want it either
for it was just teeming with maggots, but he brought it home anyway.
The watch I had previously worn for 10 years had run out of battery
was full of maggots, and since it was a gift from Mr. Surly from many moons ago, I decided I did not really want to wear it anymore. LG was carrying around a free watch in perfectly good shape that nobody wanted because of the maggots, so I purloined said watch.
I wore it until the watch band was consumed by ****
maggots weasels, and then I clip-clopped off to Target and bought myself a new $10 watch band. So far, this one has not attracted maggots OR weasels.
Speaking of watches, I had this conversation with DW recently:
Me: What’s on your birthday list?
Him: I dunno. What’s on yours?
Him: Oh no.
Me: A nice watch without maggots, not from Target, but from an actual jewelry store that our friend owns, a digital camera, and a really good facial and massage package from Patricia’s Day Spa.
Him: Good LORD.
Now, every time we talk about things like patio furniture or an outdoor beer cooler, I holler “Put that on my birthday list, too!” I have a feeling that my birthday will roll around, and I’ll be Charlie Brown looking in my trick-or-treat bag, saying “I got a ****
Here’s another conversation. The funnest and funnierst parts of my days are when DW and I talk. Please note that spellcheck insists that “funnest” and “funnierst” are not real words, nor is “spellcheck”. What is that, nihilism? Where it denies its own existence?
We’re in the grocery store parking lot. Occasionally, DW goes with me to grocery shop, ostensibly to keep me company and pull his weight in the drudgery, but I know it’s really because I don’t buy enough good junk food for him.
DW: My mom used to have a car just like that. A Lincoln Continental.
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Me: I got six girlies in my Lincoln Continental!
Me: Beastie Boys!
DW: I’m not even sure I know who that is.
Me: You know, you gotta right to fight for your party, or whatever. Wait! FIGHT! For your RIGHT! To PAAAAAAAARTY!
DW: Oh. Right.
Me: You have no real concept of what a treasure you have in me. A middle-aged woman, hollering Beastie Boy lyrics in the HEB parking lot. I’m full-spectrum, baby, and you have no idea.