Friday, June 04, 2004

The store manager returned, having changed into a nice yellow vintage-look Jackie O dress with pillbox hat. The total effect was Trying Too Hard in Lemon Chiffon. Where the ensemble would have looked breathtaking on Andre, on ‘Lucy’ it only highlighted her flaws: the body of a 12 year old sacrificial Inca topped by an elongated skull that made the hat choice especially unfortunate. Her eyes bulged with a nervous desire to please. She made an effusive bee-line for the heli-tubbies, mother and daughter. “OOOOHHH! Madeline! Mrs. Petrie! I always say, ‘They can’t be mother and daughter!’ So young! And yet YOU MUST BE! AH Hhahahahahahha. Let me show you what just came in today! I thought of YOU! Immediately, as I always do…” Blah blah blah.  They soaked up her flattering spray of gibberish, nodding and preening like bloated schoolgirls. The littlest dug her underwear out of her buttcrack, which I have come to believe is an international little girl gesture of emotion.  Lucy reappeared with an armload of colorful garments, beamed and said, “You both just get prettier each time I see you! Your skin is like cream! I have JUST the dresses for your big 7th and 47th BIRTHDAY PARTY!!!” If she could shit chocolate crème puffs she would have them, literally, eating out of the palm of her hand.   You didn’t have to be a monkey biologist to glean that Andre hated that little girl and her mother. He glared at them as I moved him around the store attempting to distract him with shiny things, which he threw at them, hooting and shrieking.   The mother refused to look our way again.  The girl made faces. A waiter appeared bringing the little girl a huge cherry cola with an umbrella stuck in it, and the mother a frothing coffee drink topped by shaved chocolate.  “I WANT WHAT YOU HAVE!” the girl wailed throwing her drink at her mother. “Of COURSE!” Lucy purred, “Manfred, get Madeline a virgin mocha!” On his way out, Manfred slid over to Kym and asked if he could bring her a refreshing beverage.  She declined, studying a new mound of baby frocks that her sales assistant, ‘Kaitlyn’, had retrieved from the back room. “Just in today! Just For YOU!” These people oozed sycophancy. No one asked Andre or me what we would like. I was very thirsty. The little girl stuck her tongue out at us. I dug my underwear out of my angry crevice.   I took Andre over to the farthest corner of the store: the little boy/girls undergarment section.  Normally, Andre loves underwear. This day he wore crotchless boxers, though they hadn’t started out that way.  Andre requires a great deal of room for his various transactions, if you know what I mean. Today, however, he was not to be distracted by the many brightly colored and assorted style of underwear. He continued to make malevolent monkey eyes at the girl, who in turn looked coyly at him sideways, holding up her drink tauntingly. I selected a size 12 pair of girl’s bikini briefs in a leopard print and held them up to Andre. “Katy!” Kym called to me over a mound of infant suits. “Come help me decide. They all look alike with their snapping crotches and flameproof material…” Snapping crotches! I wasn't going any where near that! I had my own problems... I grabbed Andres full fist just before he flung a handful of monkey makings toward the little girl and her mother. The girl was modeling a princess dress in pink satin.  She looked garish. She picked her nose and flicked it toward Andre. Andre bared his teeth and hooted loudly. “I’m busy,” I yelled back at Kym.  The manager was coming our way. “Do you have any bondage clothing?” I asked her. She huffed and turned red, “NO!. Do you even know that this is a CHILDRENS CLOTHIERS!?” “It’s for my mother,” I clarified. “She's very petite...after she dies, I’m having her stuffed.” She did the blinking thing. “So, I’m collecting little outfits…” She didn’t seem interested in helping.  “Why don’t you and your pet go next door and enjoy a coffee drink on the patio while my sales assistant helps your friend?” she asked. “No. Thanks. This is actually not my pet so much as my friend’s husband.” I pointed my hammer from Kym to Andre, drawing the picture for her.  Sadly, Andre liked her hat so much it had facilitated an untimely Monkey Erection, so my family portrait ended on a bad note. “He’d shake your hand but it’s busy just now.” “KATY!” Kym yelled again.  Seeing the manager trying to maneuver us out of the shop, Kym waved her rare and impressive Iridium American Express card. “Why don’t you help my monkey try on pretty underwear and handbags while my friend assists me? Be a dear…” she instructed Lucy, who grimaced.  “I’m helping another customer right now,” she smiled. Madeline and her mother stared at us with open mustached mouths from across the room. “They can wait, I’m sure. They’re enjoying their beverages.  Oooops!” Kym dropped a couple of Andrew Jackson’s floor-ward.  “Of. Course.” Lucy minced. Kym kicked the 20’s her way and I handed her a softly hooting Andre, whose red little unit was still emphatically pointed in her hat's direction.   Of course there was no way Lucy was getting anywhere near Andre’s underwear region.  She led him over to the handbags. She called Manfred and instructed him to bring Mrs. Petrie and her daughter a plate of little sandwiches and fruit. “I want CAKE!” Madeline screeched. “And some cake,” Lucy added, gritting her teeth into a pained smile.   Andre picked out a nice yellow handbag with the likeness of Curious George on the side. That monkey LOVES irony! He would fill it with monkey doo, as always, but it made him so happy. When the food came Andre detoured Manfred for a moment by showing him his purse. Manfred is a nice man and he gave Andre an apple, patting him. Andre loves apples. His mood changed immediately.  Gently he removed Lucy’s hat and placed it on his own head. She smiled tolerantly, her jaw snapping. Truthfully, the hat looked so much better on him. He was made for it.   “I don’t like crusts!” Madeline whined.  "I only like hot sandwiches!" “I don’t want fruit!” Her mother told her she had to eat just one piece of fruit. “Eeew! I hate prunes, they taste like poo!” “Eat them anyway, Madeline, if you want cake, sweetums…” her mother encouraged. She cried loudly with each bite. Manfred was halfway back across the store when he turned suddenly and looked at the girl, who made a very nasty face as she choked down the wrinkled brown item. Then he looked at us. “There weren’t any prunes on that plate…” he said softly.  Because of Madeline’s whining, only Kym and I heard. “I’d keep that to myself, if I were you,” Kym said.  “A little monkey poop won’t hurt that girl.” “Don’t be too quick to blame the monkey,” he winked.   In the end we bought nothing, except I did press $7.45 into Lucy’s hand when she refused to accept her hat back. It glistened suspiciously.  Kym decided against traditional baby clothes. “I’m not having this thing rip its way out of my vagina to dress it in fucking duckling jammies.” Kym yawned. “Let’s explore your bondage idea. Or maybe something from Satanrys… I wonder if I could get inutero cloven hoof implants…”   It’s times like these that I miss my own mother and can hardly wait to have her mummified remains on my mantel. 10:04:28 PM    comment []

Friday, May 28, 2004

The Gilded Lily is a children’s designer ‘clothier’. That word, ‘clothier’ is a strong indicator that someone is taking oneself too seriously to cheerfully dress and redress a monkey, especially an angry monkey who has already humped one’s little girl purse display, to completion. Twice. Okay, once was me, but it was mostly an empty gesture aimed at the idea of little girls needing purses to begin with.    AND, I’ll never understand why ‘ships’ and ‘carnivores’ are such strong recurring themes in children’s clothing. Andre loves ships on his clothing, though, and truthfully it makes more sense for a monkey to wear a sweater bearing the likeness of a schooner. It is irony of the highest order whereas a drooling fat toddler wearing the same is just mocking our sea faring ancestors and their watery graves in a way that, frankly, I find offensive.   There we were, Kym and I, baby shopping with a purpose this time, beyond mocking and scorn.  You’d think we’d be warmly embraced for the consumers we so obviously are.  I dressed expensively and wielded my smallest, almost cute, even, accessory hammer; more of a fashion statement, certainly, than a threat.  Andre is going through a slight cross dressing phase, but pulled it off brilliantly in a Chanel suit with matching pink cowgirl boots.  Sadly it was exactly what the shop’s manager was wearing. Her look of horror and disgust did not fade, even in the face of Kym’s Iridium American Express card, which is so impressive, there are less than 1000 issued,  that she wears it around her neck when shopping. Normally this garners her respect and fawning from salespeople.  Andre was already humping the little handbags, though, and so respect was late in coming.  “I must find the perfect ensemble for my precious Item Number As Yet To Be Determined,” Kym said, patting her slightly bulging midsection. Packaging is everything, indeed. Kym’s plans for her unborn asset have been changing with her moods.  This week she is thinking Ebay. “I need an inspiration or it will just get lost amongst all those car parts and vintage lunch boxes.” The manager had scampered into the back room, presumably to change.  A brittle looking saleswoman in plaid too her place.  “I don’t need just another cute romper!” Kym raged flipping through rack after rack of star spangled ‘onesys’ or bear-bearing overalls. Kym was told about the Gilded Lily from a lady at her Birthing Class. “It’s so exclusive that they have a certified wet nurse on staff and someone they call Grammy who changed poopy diapers. AND NOT JUST FOR CHILDREN.” The woman had said. That was handy because the prices were absurb.   $50 for a pair of socks with tractors on them.  “Allow me to help you,” the plaid lady said.  “What is it that you have in mind?” Kym went into her shocking explanation of what she needed to get a good bid on her unborn child.  “I’d like to have the outfit that I chose artistically rendered on our first ultrasound next week,” she said. The woman stared.  Her eyes drifted to the Iridium card and she smiled again. “We had some things just come in today….” The door chimed and a Chunky woman with her chubby little girl waddled in. The little girls face was so fat it was almost featureless. She was eating an ice cream and the effect was very disconcerting. She then threw the cone at her mother and proceded to touch her chocolately paw to everything.  Andre, understandably, hooted as the little girl approached the purse display. “IS THAT AN ANIMAL in the STORE?” The portly mother wailed pointing. “I was going to ask you the same question,” I responded pointing back.    (next page)   12:18:53 PM    comment []

Wednesday, May 19, 2004

A BRIEF ASIDE: "Olive Osmond, the matriarch of the Osmond family, was buried Saturday amid tight security after rumors surfaced of a $30,000 bounty for a photograph of her in a coffin. A family spokesman said there were no apparent attempts at taking such a picture." -Reuters News Of course no one showed up to photograph the Olive, despite the gruesome fact that her uterus was so large it had to be buried seperately, in a little white and pink coffin next to the main one.  It had taken over her life completely, even after she quit bearing her 106 kids.  It had its own assistant, a local cable access talk show, and was expected to tithe to the church. They bickered constantly. Still, those skeezy Osmonds should know that they'll never get a Christmas Special this way.  I knew this was coming after the slamming success of the Paris Hilton sex vid. Those big toothed Osmonds are always laying around 3.2 beer bars whining about a comeback, getting drunk on their milk drinks and Near Beer Chasers, trying to call old Hollywood contacts.  "What'll it TAKE!?" Heres what it will take: Pay someone to dig Mommy up, baptise her Jewish, and have someone video her marrying a big Hollywood Dyke in Provencetown this next weekend. KaCHING!  Christmas With The Osmonds this year for sure!  I'm available for stuffing and mounting work, after. She isn't a marvel of petite preserved perfection like my mother, but she'd make an imposing head on pine over some nice nonmormon's mantle. And that uterus... Two words: Japanese Businessmen.   8:38:31 AM    comment []

Friday, May 14, 2004

Last night Eric gave me a copy of Dr. Laura-Psycho-FuckTwit-Schlessinger’s Proper Care and Feeding of Husbands. It's like a family plague. “Christx claims that it has saved her marriage,” he told me. I actually expected a little credit for that.  Christx’s husband wasn’t interested in her coming home until he started receiving midnight calls from perverts looking for the woman whose name and number was written on the chewed up crotch of oversized JC Penny panties.  I must have distributed thirty pair, plus tacked one up in the bathroom at that skeezy sports bar on Super Bowl. She wasn't interested in him until she needed someone to bail her out of Homeland Security jail.  I’m fucking cupid and who notices? I had only to read a few simple lines from the description of the Schlessinger book, Unabashedly asserting that man is a "very simple creature," who needs only "direct communication, respect, appreciation, food, and good loving'" to respond with devotion, compassion and love, this controversial marriage and family therapist claims that every woman can achieve a deeply satisfying marriage if she adheres to certain fundamentals men require. to know that it was the wrong book for me.  On the other hand, How to Be Your Dog's Best Friend, an informal, friendly guide by The Monks of New Skete, is really two books in one: a step-by-step training manual and a philosophical discussion of the spiritual benefits of owning a dog. The Monks cover it all: naming the puppy, training with eye contact and jingling keys, establishing the best sleeping arrangements, even dealing with pet loneliness. Owners are advised to think of themselves as the dog's alpha figure, to train with praise instead of punishment, and to beware of becoming the dog's maid or doorman.   TWO BOOKS IN ONE!!! That makes it a BARGAIN AT HALF THE PRICE!! almost…actually, more like at 2/3s the price. I’m no mathematician, but I know marriage. I absolutely know men. Substitute ‘husband’ for ‘dog’ like they do in Alaska and it’s all the same. This sounds like just what Eric’s and my relationship needs.   Notice I didn't link to the Schlessinger book. That's because instead of buying her book, you can save $20 by just hacking off your breasts with a bread knife and giving them to your husband to play with while you iron his socks and cook pie. If you are into that sort of thing... 8:15:13 AM    comment []

Tuesday, May 11, 2004

Jesus came out to trim our trees. That hot holy horticulturist can turn alder into vine, I swear. He brought with him the most incredible piece of equipment; a thing of functional beauty. It is the American Patriot Wood Chipper.  Bright, shiny fire engine red, the Patriot sports a wide haudralic mouth and a powerful chip discharge that makes me blush just writing about it.  It has the strength and power of a thousand men, without the sister baggage. I could go on, but it’s unhealthy. The American Patriot weighs about 400 pounds, so it wasn’t easy to move it into my living room, but Jesus helped me. He wasn’t comfortable with the idea of leaving this brand new piece of expensive equipment at my house, but I promised him that I only needed it for one night. I shoved a 50 spot in his baggy drawers. He smiled at me and I threw in a ten and some change, which rattled straight into his leather boots.  As he sauntered off, a glittering trail of dimes and nickels followed him.   Christx and her new expensive hunting dog were the first to arrive, even before Eric. I have not spoken with or of her since that ugly night months ago when I came home from Nogales to find that she had set all my hamsters free, except ‘Darwin’ who had lost his legs in a wheeling accident, and ‘Sheila’ who was always pregnant; is, in fact, in a constant state of pregnancy.  Even without legs, Darwin is unstoppable.  I regret using pages from the Book of Mormon to line their cages.  Regardless, the Hamster Den was vacant when I came home and Christx was clearly and gleefully responsible.    “I let them go in a nice field.” She told me when I jabbed her awake with the dog poop shovel late that night in February. Days before I got home, she loaded up all the cages except Darwin’s handicap-accessible cage and Sheila’s maternity outpost and drove my hamsters to ‘a farm.’ Hamsters, I do not need to tell you, are DESERT DWELLING CREATURES. I cried and cried while I beat her from hell to breakfast with that stinky shit-smeared trowel. Then I collected myself and told her we were going for a ride. “What?” she cried. “You are insane!” “No, really, let’s go get ice cream. Talk about salvation, your president, why poor people deserve to starve naked in big city streets because they’re lazy. Please, I’m hungry.” I coaxed her to my car. “You’re so pretty,” I crooned, holding out a can of diet pepsi free, her favorite. “And popular!” I drove her out into the middle of nowhere; several hours from town. “Where are we going?” She had asked suspiciously, eating the ice cream that I bought her at the Goody’s Drive Thru. “Oh, it’s a surprise! I know you’ll agree that it is ‘nice’!” I kicked her out of the car at the Hazardous Waste landfill, first taking the rest of her double chocolate fudge chunk cone. “Let’s see how you fucking like it!” I yelled as I drove off. “HAMSTER KILLER!!” I reported her immediately to homeland security. “I don’t know what she’s doing out there at this time of night, rooting around a hazmat dump, but she sure hates the government…”   She looked the same Thursday evening as when I saw her sprawled on the toxic soil back in February; a hazard to herself and others. This time, instead of her puritan flannel gown, she was dressed with crisp precision in ‘casual attire’ from Bon/Macys. I recognized the outfit from the cover of this last week’s circular. It looked better on the 12 year old model. The bow in her hair was over the top, even for a republican. She had a dog in a crate and was pulling it into the house behind her like a piece of luggage. “Why is that dog boxed up?” “Because that is his place. He is a rare breed of hunting dog.” she added distastefully. “He’s not like your… dogs; he has a purpose and is highly trained to fulfill it.” Meanwhile, Maytag was nose deep in her crotch. “And you hunt?” I asked. “No,” she smiled patiently, “Pal is a gift for my husband. We have reconciled.” She produced a small package. “Which reminds me, I brought you a gift.” She pulled the dogs cage into the living room and parked him in a corner. The wood chipper loomed in the background like a dashing suitor. I had tied a black bow tie around its wide red neck. I put a John Deere cap over a corner of its wide mouth. It looked rakish and intriguing. “Open your gift,” Christx prompted. “I want you to know that I forgive you and want us to be civil.” I unwrapped a book by Dr. Laura Schlessinger, ‘The Care and Feeding of Husbands.’ “Thanks!” I said. “This is perfect!” I pulled my safety goggles down over my eyes and fed it into the wood chipper, debris shot all over the furniture and walls like righteous cretin confetti. Eric showed up about 10 minutes later with party fare; beverages not fit for grownups consisting of Sissy La Las Hard Lemonade, bottled beer named after polluted northwest rivers, and 6 good pizzas from my favorite place – Lucky 13. I had to throw one in the wood chipper because it had pineapple on it.   He stopped short when he saw the Chipper demolish the family sized pie, box and all, spraying chunks all over the room. “What is that thing?” he asked. “And why is it in FRONT of the television?” “It’s a wood chipper! Isn’t it great?” “Please, God, tell me that you didn’t buy that,” he moaned. “No. Not yet. I am renting it from Jesus. I knew you were worried about how noisy Karaoke might be.” “Yes, this is much better.”   The evening definitely wasn’t going my way. My friends only stayed for about an hour.  As soon as that odious theme song to ‘Friends’ started up in the next room, everyone rushed for the door. Kym wasn’t feeling well because she’s pregnant and a bitch and can’t drink herself into a happy stupor. Yahtzee was mad when he found out that I didn’t get a Karaoke machine. After eating 5 slices of pizza, he preferred to go across the street and listen to his 70’s music with Andre.  Andre cannot stand Curt and Sarah. Curt is a monkey tease and Sarah is shrill and stupid. “That song is insipid.” Yahtzee announced.   “’I’ll be there for you, cause you’re there for me too.’” Yahtzee mocked dancing in the doorway. Everyone in the living room scowled. Andre tossed a healthy load at the television and they left me alone with Eric, his friends, and The Patriot.   “Katy, this is really rude. You can wait until later to do your…chipping.” “Why don’t you and your friends go somewhere else to watch your sordid little tv show?” I proposed. “There are only 15 more minutes and everyone is tired of straining to hear what is going on.” “I’m sorry! I just have a few things I need to chip. Jesus wants this back tomorrow. This cannot wait.” ”Fifteen more minutes!” he whined. “Fine!” I sat on the edge of the chipper, sipping my dentini.  Waiting. I thought it was over when that bimbette who sleeps with Brad Pitt got on the plane. That’s typically when things end. I started up the chipper and fed in an old clock radio.  It had a wood veneer. It made quite a racket. “STOP!” Christx and Sarah yelled. On the television, some woman was smashing a foosball table with something.  She seemed confident and sure of not staining her pants. “Oh! Isn’t this a tampax commercial? I thought the show was over!” “NO THIS ISN’T A COMMERCIAL” Eric hissed. I turned the chipper off and sat again. Tapping my foot, waiting. My safety glasses were all covered in pizza sauce and some other left-overs from the refrigerator that I had chipped, plus sawdust, so I really can’t be blamed for what happened next. I just had one more thing I wanted to chip: An ugly old end table that had taken up space in the living room for far too long. Really quickly during a silent moment, I grabbed the table and started stuffing it into the Patriot’s wide wide mouth. Sadly, it was Pal’s crate.  Fortunately, I hit the safety switch while thrashing around with him and so it only ate through the plastic and wire.  Physically he was completely unharmed, thank god. Emotionally, he’s having ‘Nam flashbacks. Christx called yesterday.  “He’s ruined!” she cried. “He won’t get anywhere near a crate and when that Friends theme song came on the radio he had a seizure. He’s losing his fur from stress and pees himself constantly. He hasn’t stopped whining for 30 seconds since Thursday night.” I always say, those purebred hunting dogs are nothing but trouble.     10:30:08 PM    comment []

Thursday, May 06, 2004

When I got home, Eric was shining my Vaginas.  He finished his Back Rehab a few days ago and is behaving almost giddy with relief and a desire to please.  We certainly got our money’s worth with Dr. Yahtzee and Nurse Andre. Yahtzee decided, after seeing a PBS special on lab monkeys, and confusing it with commercials he saw while flipping, that Andre should be cutting hair and giving manicures.  Maybe they’d both start getting laid. SO, now it’s an Enlightenment Center and a full service Back Clinic and Monkey Salon.  It certainly worked for Eric, I must say. Not only does his back seem almost good enough to stand upright, Eric’s eyebrows are tweezed to dramatic thinness (3 - 4 hairs scattered across each brow) and his hair is exactly the same color and consistency as Andres. (Only it can’t be combed or it falls out.)   “I’m having some people over.” he told me, spritzing one Holy Orifice with Princess Fanny’s Feminine Hygiene Spray. “Why are you douching that Pure and Saintly Vagina, as if it had spent the weekend on its back in some scabby port?” I asked. “Because the birds LOVE it! Watch!” He replied, standing back.  After a few moments, sure enough, a couple of Robins landed on the spring fresh lips for a moment then hopped inside. Yards away I could hear the quail coming our way.   “SO THAT’S IT!” I was relieved.  Lately I’d experienced a few bazaar episodes with birds that were right out of Alfred Hitchcock for Porn enthusiasts.  I would have to switch brands immediately. Other people were starting to notice. I didn’t need to end up on an Audubon Calendar. “Did you hear me?” Eric asked.  “Curt and Sarah and Phil. And… (Christx) are coming over.” He said the last name particularly quietly. THEN he made himself small and stood behind my Succulent Bird Vagina and told me that these people would be coming over to watch the final episode of ‘Friends.’  “Why don’t you just wait until I’m asleep tonight and, using a rusty cheese grater, shave my nipples off and piss on the small bloody pile?” I replied. “It would be over quickly and I wouldn’t have to listen to your sister horse-laugh over goofy humor and pratfalls.” He sighed and patted the Vagina, soothingly. “Please, it will be fun! I’ll fix snacks and drinks!” he coaxed, stroking the silky pink lips. “I’m inviting my friends, too, then.” “Fine.” He smiled. “It will be a party.” “My friends and I hate ‘Friends,’ it symbolizes perfectly the superficiality and dimwitted delusion of our shallow preening prime time masses. My friends and I will rent a karaoke machine, drinking and singing top 40’s hits until we lie motionless in our own vomit instead.” He couldn’t hear me. The ducks had landed.  Six aggressive males. The Vagina was filled with robins and quail.  The ducks started milling closer and closer to Eric. It wasn’t so fun anymore.   7:40:15 AM    comment []

Tuesday, May 04, 2004

Of course Gretchen, or ‘The Gretch’ as the children call her, is a 6 foot, 200 pound woman in a security uniform designed for a slightly smaller individual.  As she sashayed slowly down the hall toward us, like a determined cargo ship, her 2 enormous feet splayed outward; she was just finishing a chocolate ice cream drumstick and a ring of chocolate accentuated her sneer. Her badge said ‘Officer Gretchen Standwick – School Patrol’   “Is this the perp?” she asked channeling a real cop as she nodded toward me and hiked up her already maxed out polyester pants. She stuck her hands into her back pockets and rocked back and forth on her shiny, shiny shoes. I realize what, exactly, the phrase ‘Camel Toe’ means at last.   The Couch and the Special Ed teacher hovered behind the trophy cabinet, which was mostly empty except a trio of pictures: Victoria, The Couch, and a man in a nice suit handing the other 2 a check. There was also a stack of t-shirts bearing the school team name, ‘Go Weasels!’   Victoria clasped her too long red nails in front of her chin and clacked them together distractedly.  Not for the first time I thought, ‘in the lobster world, she would be greatly admired.’ “Gretchen,” she said. “Why don’t you walk our visitor to the health class so that she and her little hobo friend can be escorted out to the bus stop?”  “Kenneth!” Her voice changed to lobster claws on chalkboard, “you and Connie can fish that… turd… out of the fish tank.” Gretchen produced a pair of rubber gloves, which she put on, keeping her squinty suspicious eyes on me, and a ziplock baggie, which she handed to the Couch. “Put it in this. We might need it later.” When I snickered, she added. “FOR EVIDENCE.” “How will I know which turd? Everyone’s been pooping in there now!” the couch whined. “I know! I know which one!” piped up Special Ed Connie, raising her hand high into the air, looking suddenly important. “I can tell you which one started it all!” It is truly a gift, to be able to positively id a solitary piece of feces from a lineup.   “Hey, I don’t really care about your potty problems,” I told the mole. “And we will cheerfully leave just as soon as you write my substitute a check for $65. Actually… cash would be better…”  “We aren’t PAYING you for loitering around our school all afternoon, reeking havoc and causing no end of trouble!” Victoria scoffed. “You have to pay! We didn’t do all this FOR FREE!” She just smiled. “Gretchen? Show them to their car…or VAN…”   The Gretch took a firm hold of my arm and dragged me down the hall toward room 32. I took out some gum from my purse and pointed it at her. She loosened her grip immediately taking a piece. “I’ll just go in and get him,” I told Gretch, wrenching away easily. I slipped into the class while she was still forming her protest. I locked the door behind me.   “Where’s the Captain?” I asked the mostly empty classroom. A bored looking girl in the front row who was examining the ends of her long blonde hair pointed behind her to a door in the back of the room. “He’s in the closet?” “NO! That’s the door to the GYM.  Some of the class decided to take him to the locker room for a shower.” “He REEKS!” another girl said.  I heard Gretchen’s keys in the lock, although I’m sure she would have preferred kicking the door in, just as several boys and girls were leading a clean Captain through the back.  He looked vulnerable without his filth. He wore only white soccer shorts and a GO WEASELS! T-Shirt that was much too small. “My dad says he probably has scabies and maybe a fungus.  He’s coming right down,” a tall boy in dockers and a collared shirt said. The Captain scowled. “I want my fucking clothes and $65.” He looked at me, “YOU said we were going to DO things TO children!” “No, honey, I said we were going to teach 6th graders health,” I corrected. “And a fine job you’re doing with it, too!” boomed a jovial voice behind Gretchen. “Dad!” the tall boy said. “I was just telling Victoria here what a great idea to have such an edgy and informative guest for health!” the man put his arm around a cringing and very nervous Victoria. “That’s kind of funny,” I replied, “Because…” Victoria sidled up to me immediately and said, “Why don’t we let the doctor here help the kids examine the homeless man while you and I got get your payment straightened out.” She and Gretchen led me out the door. As we passed the special ed. Room, I saw the Couch and Connie pulling a brown slimey object out of one of the fish tanks with hot dog tongs. “Nope,” Connie said. “Not that one either!”   When we passed the trophy case I recognized the man in the picture with the Couch and Victoria as the Doctor.  “Why don’t you just pay me and the Captain for the entire week,” I suggested.  “We have so much to teach.”     1:15:25 PM    comment []