This morning I heard a splash like a plane had crash-landed in my pool. I ran outside to see if there were any survivors and saw what appeared to be a large bird, perhaps an eagle, struggling in the water. I grabbed the skimmer pool/net thingy and fished it out. As I heaved it out of the water and onto the side I gasped in horror and vomited right there. Well, okay, I didn’t really vomit, I just gagged a little, well okay, a lot. Anyway, then I went and got a tape measure and camera because I like to document my hell for y’all.
That. That motherfucker could star in a horror film. I didn’t know whether to kill it or become it’s agent. Instead I dumped it over the fence into my neighbor’s yard. I hope it doesn’t murder them because I’m pretty certain that would make me an accessory and I’m way too pretty for prison. And that would be my defense too. “Not guilty by way of being too pretty for prison, Your Honor.” Shit, I’m doomed because 1) I think I’m the only one who thinks I’m too pretty for prison, and 2) I just know I’d get a shitty public defender lawyer because I’ve spent all my money on exterminators since moving here. Fuck. I’m going to have to cop an insanity plea. Easy enough, I can just direct my court-appointed psychiatric evaluator to this blog. I knew it’d come in handy one day.69 Comments
My weekend has been bubbling over with adventure and excitement. This morning I cleaned out my new (new to me anyway) pool’s skimmer filter. I may turn this into a series here on the blog. Don’t worry though, that generally just means you’ll see it only once on here. Squirrel! But for now, come with me on a magical photo journey of things maimed and/or murdered by my “Skimmer Filter of Death.” A place where Stick Science is applied religiously.
This Gray Tree Frog actually survived, though I’m pretty certain he’s like one of those last survivors from one of those SAW movies. Beaten up not only physically, but mentally fucked up and destined to be in a sequel.
This baby frog was not so lucky. This made me sad because I like frogs. RIP, baby frog. You’re with baby Jesus now.
This bug’s death did not sadden me. Perhaps life has hardened me, calloused my emotions. Perhaps I just don’t like bugs, especially clingy beetles. Yeah, go with #2.
And now the pièce de résistance of “The Skimmer Filter of Death” recent victims, the “What The Fuck Is That” and “I’m Going To Have To Burn My Gloves After Touching This” finale:
I bought a pressure washer because everything in this place needs pressure washing because no one ever gave a shit and it sat empty and abandoned for several years. This morning I gave it a test run on the driveway in front of the garage.
It’s been six hours and my hard-on still hasn’t gone down. I don’t even have a penis. Perhaps I should seek medical attention, or better yet, just see how long I can pressure wash before stroking out. Hell yeah!28 Comments
My crazy fool dog Jack and I were over at J’s one day last week and I had to go somewhere, I forget where. Since it was 10,000 degrees outside I didn’t want to take Jack with me knowing he’d have to sit in the car and bake like a tater so I asked J to watch him while I did whatever I was going to do. J looked at me and rolled his eyes and said “If I have to” and sighed an exasperated sigh like a teenager who had just been told to wash the dishes. I refrained from smacking him upside his head and was all “Dude, I’ll be twenty minutes at the most, just take him outside and tell him to pee, ’cause I think he needs to. And keep an eye on him so he doesn’t get into trouble.” (Side note fact here: Jack will make trouble if he can’t find any.) I let Jack out and J followed behind him, looking all defeated. I yelled out “Don’t leave him out there alone!” and left.
When I returned, Jack ran up to me in the house, all happy, wagging his tail and before I could set my purse down J said “Tell her what you did, TURDLEY.” all tattletale-like. I blinked “What? Who?” and then J proceeded to tell me that after I left, Jack spent his time trying to get back into the house to find me, whining and whimpering, all separation anxiety-ridden. J said he kept telling Jack to “go pee” and tried walking him off the patio into the yard. Jack would have nothing to do with that and stayed by the door. Jack then turned and while staring straight at J took a shit right there on his patio. At the door. J exclaimed “He just looked at me and let it drop! Plop. Plop. Like ‘I can do what I want where I want, asshole! See?’ It was unbelievable!”
So anyway, now J is calling him Turdley McTurdDropper and you know what the really strange part is? Jack responds to the name better than his own.43 Comments