Monday, July 29, 2013

Help Wanted. Murder Accomplice.

I need a new accomplice.

Last night, just as I settled down to watch my Sunday night TV lineup, a fly buzzed around my head. Circled it like a family pet meeting a new ball of fluff for the first time. Don't think my home is crawling with pests, other than the two-legged kind. It's not like some odorous rural garbage dump, back when "landfill" was just a gleam in the eye of political correctness. It's not like an establishment named Ye Olde Pigge Entrails Shoppe, run by an Original 13 Colonies ex-pat in the teeming equatorial rainforest. It's not that upstairs bedroom window in The Amityville Horror. No, we have issues because the only time Genius decides to chat with me is while he's on his way out the front door. He's like an anti-doorman, letting in all critters indiscriminately, even if they're wearing acid-wash jeans, Crocs, and poofy-sleeved pirate shirts.

When that fly flitted insolently about my noggin, I declared, "NO MORE!" Even though I was comfortably-reclined, I stretched my right arm to reach my handy baby-blue flyswatter. It's on the table by my plier-lamp (read about that plier-lamp in the upcoming Not Your Mother's Book...on Home Improvement, due out September 10), right next to my red wooden backscratcher that I got for Christmas one year. So intent on murder was I that I did not even chortle at the thought of how my mom used to whack my sister with a wire flyswatter handle for lying as a youngster.

In one fell smoosh, I thumped that thousand-eye-er forthwith. He deanimated instantly. I called to The Pony, laying on the couch waiting for Big Brother to come on. "Hey! Get him! Use that Puffs I just cleaned my glasses with. Pick him up in it and squeeze it. Put it in the trash bag."

The Pony trotted over to the wooden TV tray on legs that acts as my end table to hold remote controls. "Where? I don't see it."

"Right there. By the Puffs."


"How can you not see that? Right in front of you!"

"Oh. There." He picked up the Puffs.


"Yuck! Get it off!" I clawed at my face, ousting the poop-crawler from my flesh. "What were you thinking? I can't believe you just did that! How could you not see him, laying there with his feet up in the air, dead?"

"Actually, he was not laying on his back. I saw his guts all over his back."

"EWW! And he landed on my face! A poop-crawler with oozing guts was right THERE on my face! Now he's flying around here, suffering a painful, lingering death. I hope."

The Pony shrugged and plodded back to the couch. As you may remember, this is his second failure at corpse removal. What's a hit-man to do?

I am advertising for a new accomplice. Only clean people need apply. Uh huh.


  1. Soon--in a month or so, The Pony will be the only young'un at home. Perhaps he will take the Genius' place and become aloof and absent...

    And don't listen to those Lowtalkers. They're trouble every time...

  2. I couldn't make it past the visual of the critter wearing acid-wash jeans, Crocs, and a poofy-sleeved pirate shirt.

    You DO live in weirdsville. (Fly guts, poopy feet--EEEeeewwww!)

  3. Did you not hear "Help me"

  4. We've all been there, but I doubt many of us could make flyicide as funny as you.

  5. I cannot read your blog anymore at 10:30 p.m. I ma laughing out loud and woke the snorer.

  6. I found a roach in my kitchen once, and I burned it!

  7. They always buzz around me, making me feel like I must be smelly. My Toni Louise is very adept at snapping her mouth and killing flies. I try not to think about her talent when she is sniffing my eyeballs.

  8. Sioux,
    I find the close-talkers more troublesome. Unless your relatives need to be taken on a whirlwind tour of New York, of course.

    Yes, every day finds me weirding my way around Weirdsville, giving folks a window into my weird, weird way of life.

    I did not. Perhaps Mr. Guts On My Back needs to enroll in a couple more acting classes, so he can eventually appear on Inside the Actor's Studio. Where he can explain his motivation for screaming, "Help me..."

    It's all fun and games until somebody gets a gut-backed fly on his cheek under his right eyeglass lens.

    I shall not be held accountable for the number of snorers disturbed after 10:00 p.m. Do I need a disclaimer, or will you forget the lawsuit?

    Well, you and The Pony are kindred spirits, since that is exactly what he suggested when I ousted the invading hordes by drowning a few posts back.

    I forgot to mention that I wrenched a neck muscle flinching from the touch of little gut-backed fly feet when he landed under my eye.

    Wait! I think you're insinuating that I'm smelly! I would have suspected such a slight from the first-commenting Madam above, but not from you, YOU, with a similar husband and similar dog...I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt, and chalk it up to hypersensitivity due to absorption of fly gut fluid and fly toe jam.

    Sweet Toni Louise is a treasure of hidden talents. All Juno did this morning was poke her nose in my butt when I started back into the house. I guess she realized that her thigh-pokes have not been productive. This time, she must have been pleased with the squeal and jump that she elicited.