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Please Tell Me Those Are Chocolate Cupcakes Stuck to the Ceiling

Crap.

My wife said she’d be back ‘after noon’ today. Well, it’s five till, and the house is a stinkin’ pile of wreckliness. The bed’s not made, my clothes are everywhere… there are blankets strewn all over the house like dirty Kleenex, and dirty Kleenex littered around like… well, themselves, I guess. I’ve got magazines in the sink, dirty dishes in the desk drawers, and throw pillows in the dishwasher. There’s still lipstick on the dog, for chrissakes!

(No, not for that, you Saluki-smoochin’ pervert. I don’t go around French-kissing French poodles.

(And don’t even ask me to call them ‘Freedom poodles’ — what the hell does that mean, anyway? And aren’t we over that yet?)

Amyway, I didn’t gussy up the dog’s lips for a makeout session — I just got bored, and wrote stuff on her with it. You know, like ‘This End Up‘ and ‘My Other Dog Is a Cocker Spaniel‘, and a big red fake blood trail leading from her mouth, so we could play Cujo. It’s all perfectly normal. Don’t get your knickers in a twist over it, folks.)

Anyway, the point is that I’ve got to get the place cleaned up before my wife gets home, or she’s gonna kill me. Great sweaty melons, there’s a lot of crap to do!

(How was that? Did you like that one — ‘great sweaty melons‘? That’s one of the new exclamations I”m trying out. Kinda catchy, don’t you think? See, you guys thought I was just saying that I was gonna come up with new shit like that, but oh, no — I went and did it. Eh? Whaddaya think of my resolutions now?

Yeah, okay, don’t answer that, really. Nobody needs to hear that. Ooh, but if this were Family Guy, this would be where the saying gets acted out somehow. Can’t you just see Tony the Tiger opening the door to a Vegas strip club’s dressing room, panning around inside, and then proclaiming, ‘They’re grrrreat!‘ Huh? Yeah?

Which begs the question, of course: ‘Why the hell isn’t this ‘Family Guy’?!‘

Ooh, ooh, and also, ‘What the hell is wrong with me? Have I been smoking my dirty socks again?‘

I’ve got no answer for the first question, I’m afraid. Though to the second, I can reply with a resounding, ‘probably not‘. There are an awful lot of socks tied like streamers on the staircase right now, and another pile of them stuffed in the downstairs toilet. I seriously doubt that I smoked any of them at all last night. None of the wet ones, for sure.)

Anyway, I’d better wrap this up, take a shower, and start to clean up.

(Well, okay, wrap this up, get the frozen waffles out of the tub, then take a shower, and then clean the place up. There’s nothing worse first thing in the… um, afternoon, than getting Eggos squished between your toes. You can’t ‘leggo’ ’em, even if you wanted to, sticky little bastards.)

I’ll be back later, assuming I get things to a point that doesn’t warrant my immediate execution upon my wife’s return. In the meantime, though, I’ve got a lot of work to do. Man, I am never letting my wife go on an overnight trip again. I obviously can’t be trusted alone!