Adventures in freakdom.
I never imagined so many people would be Googling “ass smelling” (I’m #4) and “smelling ass” (#1) until I wrote my last entry, which contained the sentence “Her ass smelling ass.”
I sure know how to pull in the readers.
I shared my experiences at the Land Trust with the director of the Land Trust. He thanked me, and passed all the information on to the police along with my name and number in case they want to talk to me.
He also got a kick out of the story that ensued when he asked me if I disposed of the gay porn I found in the parking lot.
I strode along the Bluffline trail last weekend, less than half a mile from my car on the flattest part of the 6-mile hike I was finishing. My mind was elsewhere, as it often is when I hike, and when my foot clipped the section of rock poking up through the dirt it didn’t register in my head until I was doing my best Superman impression.
Turns out I can only fly about three feet.
I hit the ground hard, my arms barely breaking my fall, and when my chest slammed into the dirt I made a noise eerily reminescent of Popeye’s laugh. Snorting laughter at myself, I popped back to my feet and quickly looked around to make sure no one had seen me.
Thank God for small favors, I thought when I saw only forest. I don’t think I’d be able to drag someone who passed out from laughing at me all the way back to the—
A wave of pain registering about an 18 on a scale of 1 to 10 ripped through me, starting in my right shoulder and radiating out to fill my whole body. It sucked the laugh out of me and brought tears to my eyes. I suspect I went pale, based on how I felt, but didn’t have a mirror handy to check. I made my way back to the parking lot cradling my right arm, and by the time I got there the pain had mostly subsided.
Lesson learned: just because it doesn’t still hurt all the time doesn’t mean it’s completely healed.
The bright lights flickered on, casting the bathroom in white. I picked up my toothbrush and loaded it with toothpaste. Orange mint, because I’m so cool. I caught sight of the cat food bowls and noticed one was low. In the distance, I could hear my wife happily chattering at one of the cats. Probably Miz Poo, who is her soulmate. I got a scoop of cat food from the big bag in the bathroom closet and dumped it in the bowl. Dropping the scoop back into the bag, I–
What the hell?
I bent down for a closer look. Lying on the floor in the closet was a cicada, on his back with all six legs pointing up. I reached down and touched him gingerly, checking to see if he was alive. He remained motionless.
In my mind’s eye, I saw Mister Boogers racing around the house with a madly buzzing cicada in his mouth, grumping for someone to pleasepleaseplease look at what a good hunter he’d been, only to find no one there to praise him. I saw him batting the weakened insect around the bathroom, playing kittycat hockey with it until it died. I saw him bat the dead bug under the closet door, losing interest in it shortly after it was out of sight.
I picked the cicada up and was carrying him toward the trashcan when something — I suspect Satan — made me veer over to Robyn’s sink. I looked around for someplace to hide the giant bug. Her rinse cup? No, she’d kill me if she accidentally drank a cicada. On the soap? Nah, she’d see that right away. My eyes landed on the tan handtowel hanging from the ring in the wall. Perfect. I pushed the cicada against the rough cloth so his legs would catch in the fuzz. When I let go, he hung there as if the towel were a landing spot of his own choosing.
Quickly, I brushed my teeth and took out my contacts. I got into bed just as Robyn came through the door. Miz Poo followed close behind like a familiar. I held my book up and pretended to read as I watched my wife in the bathroom. I couldn’t see much of her because she was against the counter, just one shoulder and part of her ass. The sound of a contact case being opened. Disinfectant spraying. I heard water splash. My wife turned toward the wall.
And then she was moonwalking across the bathroom better than Michael Jackson ever could. Her voice warbled, a ululating eeeeeeeeeeee sound that grew in both volume and intensity as she backed away. She raised her arms, perhaps for protection against the dead cicada.
Then she saw me laughing out in the bedroom.
“WHAT IS THIS?”
“It’s a cicada,” I wheezed.
“IS IT ALIVE?”
“No.”
“COME GET IT!”
She skedaddled out of the bathroom as I approached. I plucked the cicada from the towel and walked back into the bedroom.
“You should really come look at this,” I said, looking across the room where she cringed in the corner. “I see these all the time on the mountain, but not so much around here. They’re pretty cool up close.”
I held the cicada out and she squealed.
“Jesus, Bessie, I’m not going to throw it on you.”
Though it would be funny if I did.
“I don’t care, just get it away from me.” Her eyes were wide.
I walked over and dropped the cicada in the trash.
“FLUSH IT!” she cried.
“I’m not going to flush it,” I said. “It’s big. It might stop up the toilet. Relax, already. It’s dead. You think it’s going to come back to life and get you in the middle of the night?”
“IT MIGHT!”
I got back into bed and Robyn returned to the bathroom, casting a last wary glance at me before she shut the door. I returned to my book.
Several minutes later the bathroom door opened and Robyn emerged. She fixed me with a stinkeye, then slowly walked over and peered into the trashcan.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
She looked up.
“I’m checking to make sure you didn’t get it out of the trash and hide it in the bed.”
“C’mon, Bessie. While it would be funny, you know I wouldn’t do something like that. The joke’s over.”
“Yeah, right. Probably you just didn’t think of it,” she said, and went into the closet to change. A few seconds later she spoke from behind the closed door. “We’d have issues if you hid that thing in the bed, you know.”
I reached over and took the cicada from where I’d hidden it under her pillow, and slunk across the room with it.
I don’t want to have issues with my wife.
So I put it in her underwear drawer instead.
If you want to get notified whenever Fred writes a journal entry, this link will do the trick.
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The question, of course, is where I’m going to put it now… If I could bear to touch it, that is.
I snorted so hard that I hurt my nose. Ow.
That was the freaking funniest thing I’ve read in a long time.
I hope Robyn gets you back though!
Robyn - it could have been worse!
When I was a kid (jr high age) my parents thought it’d be funny to hook a bunch of locust shells on the fabric of my bed pillow using the disgusting hook-like feet. There were probably 10 of them stuck at various places on my pillow and I didn’t see any of them until my face was thisclose to touching the pillow and the shells. They laughed their asses off (which greatly explains why I am who I am today) and to this day I cannot stand locusts!!!
I think you need to post a picture of this horrible looking thing. I live in the great northeast and we don’t have those monsters here!
Niki: See this page. ::shudder::
There’s also a nice big picture linked in the entry, that looks pretty much just like the one I found.
That was funny, made me laugh a lot. Though I feel compelled to say that you had done that to ME, something very bad would have happened to some part of you that you love very much!! (HATE those big creepy bugs…)
[…] If you’ve ever wondered what it’s like being married to a man who seems to be a 12 year-old boy stuck in an old man’s body, this might give you some idea. […]
Oh, that’s a zipper-gluing offense.
I must remember to not read your journal before my arthritis pain pills kick in. It HURTS to do the wheezy,snorty laughing that take over my whole body !
P.S. Remember,The Biggest Loser starts tonight on NBC.
Yeah, my mom used to do the locust shell thing to me too. She’d stick them in my hair while I was wathcing tv. Or put one on the remote when I wasn’t looking. *the horror*
I have a suggestion for Robyn as to where she can put the cicada - your portion of next week’s BBQ pork hoagies!
I heard something today that made me think of you. Aron Ralston was a guest on Howard Stern’s radio show this morning, and he was describing the awful ordeal of having to cut off his own arm after being injured while mountain climbing alone. Just hearing him describe it was torturous…I can’t imagine living through it. The thing I found so strange is that he still insists on going mountain climbing alone. He said life just isn’t worth living if he can’t do what he loves. It reminded me of reading your entries where you were so antsy to get back to hiking. You probably have the same mentality as Aron. But for Robyn’s sake and the Spud’s sake, BE SAFE!
Katy - the section in his book dealing with his amputation was pretty harrowing. Luckily I never hike anywhere too far from people.
I don’t think it’s possible to get more than a half-mile from a trail here, and my cell phone works in most places.
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Thank goodness you keep your cell phone with you. Never hike without it! For me, the worst part of listening to his story was when he talked about drinking his urine. At first I’m thinking okay, yes it’s gross to drink piss; but I guess people could do that if they are literally dying of thirst. But then he said the consistency of his piss varied from that of orange juice to motor oil. He figured he was still fairly safe to drink if it looked like orange juice; but when it came out looking like motor oil, he would refrain. oy vey!
Oh the HORROR!
smooches.
I myself am terrified of bugs. I believe it has been a lifelong phobia….ever since I was a 5 year old child, living in Puerto Rico ….with those GIANT cockroaches …..everywhere. My pillow..my dresser drawers…Ok… that’s enough to set the stage for the initianl phobia.
Fast forward from 5 .. once when I was 17 , I stayed out tooooo late with my botfrind because I was at the laundymat …doing my evil mothers LAUNDRY…
I get in bed …and pretend to be asleep .. she actually PUT a giant cockroach….with her BARE hands …into the neck of my shirt!!!!
The horror of bugs is nouthin’ to be messed with! lol
Once, years ago..my son’s friend , about 8 years old , knew I was terrified of bugs . So we alk in k-mart (yes k-mart…that’s all there was back then) and we BARELY get in the front door ..when friend literally THROWS a cricket on me!!! I scream my head off ,right in public , as friend and “my 3 sons ” cackle their asses off.
God bless all of you that have a bunch of sons…lol
and all of you that have any daughters.
Lena
Sorry ’bout the typo’s …..I couldn’t find spellcheck.ACK!!!!
You are mean! Mean, mean, mean, mean, MEAN!
I LOVE it! LMAO!
I am more vengeful than Robyn though so if hubby ever did that to me, he’d really regret it! LOL I guess that explains why he’s never pulled that kind of prank on me.
)
Here in WV we had the cicada invasion about 6 or so years ago. Tens of thousands of them buggers came out of the ground and were E-V-E-R-Y-W-H-E-R-E!! The sound of them in the trees outside was almost deafening. They’d fly at your head if you went outside and man! Talk about being completely freaked out!! I hope to never have that experience again thankyouverymuch.