I had an “Aw, shit!” moment the other day. We had received warnings of immanent, severe weather. It was the usual blurb from local meteorologists:
“Nothing to worry about (if you’re Superman).”
“Secure children and small pets to sturdy fixtures driven at least six feet into the ground.”
“If you are driving on a major highway, abandon your car now!”
“Good news. The storm has been downgraded by the National Weather Center from cataclysmic to merely life-threatening.”
I took the usual precautions by checking for loose objects, taking light weight items inside and resupplying my liquor cabinet. I went out on the back porch to watch the storm, which did turn out to be rather severe. As I sat there placidly and amusingly watching the rains beat sideways and the winds pick up, I noticed an object floating in the lake near my house. Someone, I thought, has had the misfortune to have their shed blown into the lake and slowly sinking.
At the moment, I realized that it was MY shed blown into the lake and slowly sinking.
How many times in our lives have we had that unfortunate moment when we realize that no amount of prayer, wishful thinking, incantations to the gods or promises of remorse is going to reverse the irreversible.
All of this, by way of my swamp of consciousness, brings to mind a winner of the Bulwer-Lytton contest. As you may recall, entrants to the Bulwer-Lytton fiction contest are invited “to compose the opening sentence to the worst of all possible novels” – that is, deliberately bad. This one came immediately to mind:
“The bone-chilling scream split the warm summer night in two, the first half being before the scream when it was fairly balmy and calm and pleasant for those who hadn’t heard the scream at all, but not calm or balmy or even very nice for those who did hear the scream, discounting the little period of time during the actual scream itself when your ears might have been hearing it but your brain wasn’t reacting yet to let you know.”
In other words, “Aw, shit!”
We have a pleasant Yorkie, a likable, lovable, spoiled little seven pound creature. An affectionate doggie who loves to cuddle and play and look cute.
She likes to spend the day nestled in your lap when, without warning, she
How badly does she fart, you might ask? Badly enough to knock a buzzard off an open garbage truck. Badly enough to call out an emergency hazmat team. Badly enough to make your eyes water, your nose run and your skin itch. THAT’s how badly she farts. Her farts are thermonuclear. Actually, they are more akin to a neutron bomb in that they are stealth farts. They do their damage without leaving any trace or registering on any seismic device. It is inconceivable that such a small creature can wreak such olfactory havoc.
Not only does she fart spectacularly but she has the audacity to act as though someone else had performed the dirty deed. She jumps off your lap and looks around in amazement like a little girl caught in the act of breaking mommy’s vase and pretending it was done by her bad brother. (Our doggie has no brother, bad or otherwise, so the culprit must be a squirrel or a sparrow or maybe the mailman.)
Now such vile activity in a somewhat larger animal – a Saint Bernard or an English Mastiff or a Great Dane – might be understandable, though not any more pleasant, but a seven pound Yorkie?! Pound for pound this has to be one of the most intense effusions of odor imaginable. If this odor was pleasant rather than, well, odoriferous, I could foresee bottling it as Chanel Yorkie, rather than as something best called Essence of Open Sewer Rotting Fish.
Now you might think our doggie is offended by being described as a broken septic field on four paws. Not at all. She is, this very moment, waiting to jump back in my lap, nestle down and…
I am holding my breath.
FOAF has found another winner. It undoubtedly appears elsewhere but, like pizza, is too good to pass up.
CALLER: Is this Gordon’s Pizza?
GOOGLE: No sir, it’s Google Pizza.
CALLER: I must have dialed a wrong number. Sorry.
GOOGLE: No sir, Google bought Gordon’s Pizza last month.
CALLER: OK. I would like to order a pizza.
GOOGLE: Do you want your usual, sir?
CALLER: My usual? You know me?
GOOGLE: According to our caller ID data sheet, the last 12 times you called you ordered an extra-large pizza with three cheeses, sausage, pepperoni, mushrooms and meatballs on a thick crust.
CALLER: OK! That’s what I want …
GOOGLE: May I suggest that this time you order a pizza with ricotta, arugula, sun-dried tomatoes and olives on a whole wheat gluten-free thin crust?
CALLER: What? I detest vegetables!
GOOGLE: Your cholesterol is not good, sir.
CALLER: How the hell do you know!
GOOGLE: Well, we cross-referenced your home phone number with your medical records. We have the result of your blood tests for the last 7 years.
CALLER: Okay, but I do not want your rotten vegetable pizza! I already take medication for my cholesterol.
GOOGLE: Excuse me sir, but you have not taken your medication regularly. According to our database, you only purchased a box of 30 cholesterol tablets once, at Drug RX Network, 4 months ago.
CALLER: I bought more from another drugstore.
GOOGLE: That doesn’t show on your credit card statement.
CALLER: I paid in cash.
GOOGLE: But you did not withdraw enough cash according to your bank statement.
CALLER: I have other sources of cash.
GOOGLE: That doesn’t show on your last tax return unless you bought them using an undeclared income source, which is against the law.
CALLER: WHAT THE HELL!!!
GOOGLE: I’m sorry, sir, we use such information only with the sole intention of helping you.
CALLER: Enough already! I’m sick to death of Google, Facebook, Twitter, WhatsApp and all the others. I’m going to an island without internet, cable TV, where there is no cell phone service and no one to watch me or spy on me.
GOOGLE: I understand sir, but you need to renew your passport first. It expired 6 weeks ago…