- May 18, 2001
- 7,856
- 344
- 126
Mommy, I don’t feel so very good.
My nose is runny, my throat is scratchy, and my left eyelid keeps twitching uncontrollably. Every time I hear a cheery “Merry Christmas” or “Happy New Year,” I’ve had to force a smile and choke down the string of obscenities that I would love to let fly in response. I’ve caught myself numerous times in happy daydreams that involved me, my coworkers, heavy blunt objects, and lots of bone-crunching crunches. A few days ago, I would have guessed that I was just completely stressed out and spent by my crucial year-end project. Now I have reason to believe that something more serious is wrong, and someone may actually need to lead me behind the woodshed and put me out of my misery.
This revelation came to me on Christmas morning.
This year seemed more or less like a typical Christmas at my house, other than my constant barely contained rage, the newly sprouted ulcers Santa brought me, and the recently imposed minimum safe distance that the wife and dog maintain between me and them. This year, the wife asked for an iTouch. Now I’m a tech guy who knows a few things about electronics, and years ago I received my official “Apple Gargles My Balls” t-shirt straight from the hand of Bill Gates. I begged the wife to ask for something – anything – else, but she wouldn’t have it. One of her typical non-tech doesn’t-even-know-how-to-friggin-cut-and-paste housewife friends promised that owning an iTouch ensured a future full of ponies and rainbows, so I obviously didn’t know what I was talking about. So a few weeks ago I suppressed my gag reflex and bought the Apple product. Ever since, I’ve had an unnatural compulsion to wash my hands regularly and often.
We had just finished opening our presents, and my wife was still bugging me to show her how to use her new toy, when our neighbor called. We are blessed with rich neighbors who like to shower us with scrumptious holiday foods, and the call was to let us know that the goodie basket was on the way. Our neighbor was going to ride her golf cart to the bottom of our driveway where she would leave the package. As though Santa himself had announced that he was closing in on our house, I eagerly ran to the window and pressed my nose on the cold glass in anticipation. Moments later, I was surprised to see my neighbor, instead of stopping at the bottom of the long driveway, speed up it as if the devil was on her heels. Judging by the somewhat frightened look on her face, I knew that something was really wrong.
I met her outside, and she quickly informed me that at the bottom of the driveway was a raccoon which was very obviously sick, angry at the world, and actively looking for a victim on which it could administer some holiday “joy.” Somewhere in the back of my mind, I pulled out two facts that seemed relevant. First off, being that coons are rather fond of the dark and will normally avoid the sun at all costs, I began to suspect that something very unraccoonlike was happening. Secondly, I vaguely remembered glossing over a newspaper article (that at the time seemed personally irrelevant) that said something about “…blah blah blah local rabies epidemic blah blah blah…” I had a rabid raccoon in my driveway; something had to be done.
I’m a pretty good shot with a rifle, which I unfortunately don’t own anymore. I have a pistol, but suck at its use. If I wanted a decent chance of actually shooting something as small as a my excellent compatriot with a pistol, I would probably have to pin its neck with my foot while not getting bitten, then take my shot from point blank range, in which case I would probably still miss and shoot my foot instead. It seemed like a really good idea to call the sheriff’s office. The dispatcher promptly reminded me that it was Christmas, and that they could hardly be expected to protect the public during the holidays, rabid my excellent compatriot or not. She wished me a “Merry Christmas” and hung up, and once again I got to practice my smile forcing / obscenity suppressing skills.
So I called my father-in-law. He has plenty of rifles and a long proud history of killing woodland creatures. He assured me he would be glad to kill mine, and would be up promptly. No sooner had I hung up than the phone rang. It was the sheriff’s deputy who was parked at the gate to my property. He enthusiastically told me that *any* day, especially Christmas, is a good day to shoot something, and that he didn’t know what the hell the dispatcher was thinking when she told me to stuff it. I told Barney how to open the gate, then gave him instructions as to where he could find his target.
I tried to quickly get dressed, because I had the feeling that whatever happened next would possibly be really entertaining to watch from a safe distance. Before I could even think about getting my shoes on, I could hear the deputy in his excited zeal open fire on the my excellent compatriot. I had missed the show. I quickly hurried down the driveway to find a furry pile of rabid meat at the feet of an officer who was obviously very pleased with himself. I guess on a cold Christmas morning, happiness really is a warm gun. The officer climbed back in his car. I asked him when I could expect the animal control people to rid me of the diseased carcass, since I figured it was the job of the CDC or some other expert with lots of latex outerwear to handle it. He mumbled something about “probably never”, then wished me a “Merry Christmas” and sped off. I stood there in his dust, bewildered, slack-jawed, and not even able to come up with any foul language.
As I slowly made my way back to the house, I began wondering how much of a chance of contagion there was, since this was likely the same my excellent compatriot that has been on my porch eating my bird seed lately. The wife waited inside the door to quiz me about what happened, and more importantly to let me know that her iTouch wasn’t working and that I had to fix it immediately.
I snapped at her, and I think I foamed a little.
My nose is runny, my throat is scratchy, and my left eyelid keeps twitching uncontrollably. Every time I hear a cheery “Merry Christmas” or “Happy New Year,” I’ve had to force a smile and choke down the string of obscenities that I would love to let fly in response. I’ve caught myself numerous times in happy daydreams that involved me, my coworkers, heavy blunt objects, and lots of bone-crunching crunches. A few days ago, I would have guessed that I was just completely stressed out and spent by my crucial year-end project. Now I have reason to believe that something more serious is wrong, and someone may actually need to lead me behind the woodshed and put me out of my misery.
This revelation came to me on Christmas morning.
This year seemed more or less like a typical Christmas at my house, other than my constant barely contained rage, the newly sprouted ulcers Santa brought me, and the recently imposed minimum safe distance that the wife and dog maintain between me and them. This year, the wife asked for an iTouch. Now I’m a tech guy who knows a few things about electronics, and years ago I received my official “Apple Gargles My Balls” t-shirt straight from the hand of Bill Gates. I begged the wife to ask for something – anything – else, but she wouldn’t have it. One of her typical non-tech doesn’t-even-know-how-to-friggin-cut-and-paste housewife friends promised that owning an iTouch ensured a future full of ponies and rainbows, so I obviously didn’t know what I was talking about. So a few weeks ago I suppressed my gag reflex and bought the Apple product. Ever since, I’ve had an unnatural compulsion to wash my hands regularly and often.
We had just finished opening our presents, and my wife was still bugging me to show her how to use her new toy, when our neighbor called. We are blessed with rich neighbors who like to shower us with scrumptious holiday foods, and the call was to let us know that the goodie basket was on the way. Our neighbor was going to ride her golf cart to the bottom of our driveway where she would leave the package. As though Santa himself had announced that he was closing in on our house, I eagerly ran to the window and pressed my nose on the cold glass in anticipation. Moments later, I was surprised to see my neighbor, instead of stopping at the bottom of the long driveway, speed up it as if the devil was on her heels. Judging by the somewhat frightened look on her face, I knew that something was really wrong.
I met her outside, and she quickly informed me that at the bottom of the driveway was a raccoon which was very obviously sick, angry at the world, and actively looking for a victim on which it could administer some holiday “joy.” Somewhere in the back of my mind, I pulled out two facts that seemed relevant. First off, being that coons are rather fond of the dark and will normally avoid the sun at all costs, I began to suspect that something very unraccoonlike was happening. Secondly, I vaguely remembered glossing over a newspaper article (that at the time seemed personally irrelevant) that said something about “…blah blah blah local rabies epidemic blah blah blah…” I had a rabid raccoon in my driveway; something had to be done.
I’m a pretty good shot with a rifle, which I unfortunately don’t own anymore. I have a pistol, but suck at its use. If I wanted a decent chance of actually shooting something as small as a my excellent compatriot with a pistol, I would probably have to pin its neck with my foot while not getting bitten, then take my shot from point blank range, in which case I would probably still miss and shoot my foot instead. It seemed like a really good idea to call the sheriff’s office. The dispatcher promptly reminded me that it was Christmas, and that they could hardly be expected to protect the public during the holidays, rabid my excellent compatriot or not. She wished me a “Merry Christmas” and hung up, and once again I got to practice my smile forcing / obscenity suppressing skills.
So I called my father-in-law. He has plenty of rifles and a long proud history of killing woodland creatures. He assured me he would be glad to kill mine, and would be up promptly. No sooner had I hung up than the phone rang. It was the sheriff’s deputy who was parked at the gate to my property. He enthusiastically told me that *any* day, especially Christmas, is a good day to shoot something, and that he didn’t know what the hell the dispatcher was thinking when she told me to stuff it. I told Barney how to open the gate, then gave him instructions as to where he could find his target.
I tried to quickly get dressed, because I had the feeling that whatever happened next would possibly be really entertaining to watch from a safe distance. Before I could even think about getting my shoes on, I could hear the deputy in his excited zeal open fire on the my excellent compatriot. I had missed the show. I quickly hurried down the driveway to find a furry pile of rabid meat at the feet of an officer who was obviously very pleased with himself. I guess on a cold Christmas morning, happiness really is a warm gun. The officer climbed back in his car. I asked him when I could expect the animal control people to rid me of the diseased carcass, since I figured it was the job of the CDC or some other expert with lots of latex outerwear to handle it. He mumbled something about “probably never”, then wished me a “Merry Christmas” and sped off. I stood there in his dust, bewildered, slack-jawed, and not even able to come up with any foul language.
As I slowly made my way back to the house, I began wondering how much of a chance of contagion there was, since this was likely the same my excellent compatriot that has been on my porch eating my bird seed lately. The wife waited inside the door to quiz me about what happened, and more importantly to let me know that her iTouch wasn’t working and that I had to fix it immediately.
I snapped at her, and I think I foamed a little.
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