Gut Rumbles
 

February 04, 2008

Lower production

Originally published June 23, 2003

Blogging may be curtailed for the next couple of days. I had a debauched weekend. I fell in with bad companions who corrupted me. We raided Randall's liquor store for buttershot schnapps and tequila, then went out to eat at the Sea Grill Friday night, then ordered a delivery of pizza, hot wings and breadsticks for breakfast on Saturday afternoon, after my guests finally strugged out of bed.

I was awake and blogging at 4:30 that morning. I blogged for a while, drank a couple of Bloody Marys, then shut down the computer and crawled back into bed to catch up with my friends. I was fortunate to have a domestic goddess here, who took one look at my kitchen and said, "EWWWWW! I can't STAND THIS MESS!" and cleaned it up for me.

While she was being a domestic goddess in the kitchen, I was holding weighty political discussions with her husband. We were solving all the problems of the world when I heard a shriek.

"Goddam it, Smith! What is THIS SHIT?" I scurried to see what she had found.

"Uh... that's my laundry room." She had the door open and was shooting me lightning bolts from her eyes.

"What's all that shit on the floor?"

"Uh... that would be my laundry," I explained.

"That's not a LAUNDRY-ROOM!" she replied. "It's a SHIT-HOLE! How do you live like this?"

I attempted to explain how I really didn't give a shit what my laundry room looked like as long as I had clean clothes to wear to work, and how I was really going to clean the place up some day, and how I pulled clothes out of the dryer and let the ones I didn't need at the time drop to the floor, where I left them, because I didn't need to wear them and that pile just kept getting bigger and bigger and...

"Smith, GO AWAY! You REALLY need a woman to take care of you. Do you know that? You are DISGUSTING!"

I went away. She cleaned up my laundry room and redid all the wrinkled clothes on the floor and hung them on hangers in my closet. She went to my bedroom for about 30 minutes and said, "SMITH! COME HERE!" I obeyed.

"You now have UNDERWEAR in this drawer, SOCKS in this drawer, T-SHIRTS in this drawer and WORK SHIRTS on hangers in THAT CLOSET. All your blue jeans are washed and folded in THAT CLOSET. Don't you EVER make me do this again."

"Will you vacuum my carpet now?" I asked.

I don't know what she threw at me but I dodged it and ran. I heard a lot of muttering about "shithead" and "swine" coming from the bedroom, but she eventually emerged saying, "Smith, you REALLY SUCK sometimes."

I responded, "Well, I guess a blowjob is out of the question, isn't it?"

I had to leave my own home for a while after that, while all kinds of Donald Duck squawking came from inside. But I got a lot accomplished. I changed the oil in my truck, trimmed my driveway and worked on my bronze-god suntan. I finally worked up the nerve to stick my head back in my own front door and ask, "Is it safe?"

Several snorts of buttershot had mellowed my housekeeper to the point where she hurled only threats and NOT hard, solid objects at my head. Boy, she is a sensitive one.

My house looks pretty good right now. I am PROUD of what I accomplished this weekend.

But I have an appointment with my urologist tomorrow at 5:00 and I have a complete plant shutdown to handle on Wednesday. I need to be at work around 0430 Wednesday morning. If I blog tomorrow, it will be brief. If I blog anything on Wednesday evening it'll be because the shutdown went as planned, which it never does.

I may just have to refer you to my archives or my blogroll. SMITH is going to be busy for the next two days.

But the Crackerbox looks damned good.

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