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.
THE DEAD FLY ZOOMED STRAIGHT AT MY FACE AND LANDED ON MY RIGHT CHEEK, JUST UNDER THE LENS OF MY GLASSES!
"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.