Pest control, golf
clubs, jobs
in my area, and email hosting.
--
Toney
prodded my back fat before6
amtoday, telling me to not only wake up but to also get
up.Wha’?What’s going on?Is
there a fire?Is there A GREASE
FIRE?!
My wife said, “The hell?” then went on to explain, in adrenalized
tones, that there’s a mouse in the house.
A mouse?Man, I didn’t
like the sounds of that, not even a tiny bit.When I was a kid a rat the size of a cocker spaniel got in
through the dryer vent, and was rampaging from room to room like
something out of Stephen King.
My Dad eventually got it cornered and was spearing at it with the
stick end of a broom.And
I watched in horror as it reared up on its hind legs, bared its yellow
teeth, and hissed in defiance.I’ve
never been a fan of the yellow hissing...
But from what Toney was saying, this was no rat.It was reportedly just a small field mouse, “about the size
of a walnut.” That was
the good news.The bad
news?It was scampering
around our family room, and, gulp, the bunker.
I wasn’t sure what my role in this exercise was supposed to be, but
I went downstairs and we had a look around.I opened a closet door and jumped back, expecting it to rocket
out.But nothing happened.I flipped on the lights in the Surf Report command center, and
saw nothing out of the ordinary.
We conducted our investigation for upwards of ten minutes, and I never
laid eyes on the little bastard.I
never saw it, or even heard it.But
I’m not exactly at ease in here.Know what I mean?
If it’s a baby mouse, where are its parents?And its brothers and sisters, for that matter...Do mice have lots of cousins and extended family hanging
around, like, you know, Italians?I don’t know the answer to any of these questions.
So I’m sitting here with my Hal McRae bat by my side, ready to start
swinging and shrieking at the slightest activity in my peripheral
vision.I just know it’s
only a matter of time before six or eight chittering walnuts drop out
of the ceiling tiles, attach themselves to my face, and begin a
synchronized-gnawing campaign.
Stay tuned for reports from the rabies center.
--I hope everyone had a
great Labor Day.Ours was
nice, but I got way too much exercise.I mean, seriously.Andy
had a long walk every day, I played basketball with the Secrets, mowed
the grass, and even hit a bucket of golf balls.
I found a driver, you see, at a flea market.The thing was all banged up, and had mud caked on it, but it
was priced right at four dollars.I bought the club, and two vintage coffee cups from
International House of Pancakes (circa 1960s?), and got change back
from a five dollar bill.Oh
yeah.
Eager to try out my new club, the boys and I made a beeline for the
driving range.
A small bucket of balls costs three bucks there, and I told the girl
we’d take three of ‘em.“Fifteen
dollars,” she answered.No,
three times three is nine, I said.And she snatched the ten from my hand, not taking too kindly to
my trouble-making ways.
We opted to hit off regular tees in the grass, instead of using the
concrete pads.I have no
proof of this, but I believe you’re viewed as a goofkins if you use
the built-in rubber tees poking out of indoor/outdoor carpet.Am I wrong about this?
I hadn’t swung a club in at least twenty years, but was smacking the
ball pretty well.I was
getting good distance on it, anyway, and some even went straight.More or less.Sure,
if I were to watch video footage of myself, I’d probably realize I
looked like a palsy victim caught up in a swarm of gnats.But I did better than I had a right to.
Exhilarated by my success, I returned home and cleaned off my new
four-dollar driver.And
guess what I found beneath all the filth?That’s right, a woman’s signature.It was Sandra something-or-other, or maybe Connie.
I was using female equipment!Oh,
the humanity.And now
I’m going to be all paranoid that it’s obvious to everyone at the
driving range.“Hey
look, guys!He’s using a
club from the Carol Burnett Collection!Hey buddy, after you get a little better, maybe you can upgrade
to a Betty White!“
Why’d I have to clean it?Why’d
I have to ruin it all by cleaning off the dirt?!
--It’s weird, but the
backs of my thighs were sore the next day.Not my arms or my chest, just the backs of my legs.It’s hard to predict the misery.You just go to bed, and the next morning it’s like a
Christmas surprise.
--Some good news from the
long weekend:I got my
email problems straightened out.Comcast
was the culprit and, after consulting with my webhost, I’ve taken
our over-zealous spam-busting cable company out of the equation
altogether.
I now have a crisp new email account, and am starting again at square
one.Everything’s
working, and should continue to work.I’m sorry things got screwed-up -- again.But if you need to ask me a question, or whatever, shoot me a
message (to jeff(at)thewvsr.com) now.
This time I’ll almost certainly receive it.
--And starting tomorrow I
guess I’m going to have to climb atop the job-hunting treadmill
again.I’ve been
slacking all summer, but I need to re-serious myself, before time
runs out.
I’d love nothing more than to make my living off this website, and
various other writing projects, but it’s not reality at this point.Maybe if we moved to Mexico,
like somebody suggested…Maybe
then, but I can't really see that happening.
So, if anybody knows of an opening in the Scranton area for a 44-year
old swaddlin’ man who’s afraid of field mice, and plays golf with
a Sandra Bullock signature series driver, please let me know.I’d be much obliged.
--I’ll leave you now
with an extra-good Smoking Fish sighting, this time at the Minnesota
State Fair.Check it
out.Thanks Kristin!Very
cool.
I don’t really have a Question today…So, how about stories involving animal home invaders, like our
little walnut menace?Have
you ever had an encounter with a mouse or a rat, or maybe something
more exotic?Let’s hear
about it.Use the comments
link below.
And I’ll see you guys tomorrow.
I'm a street walkin' cheetah
with a heart full of napalm
