August 22, 2004

Genoa's Nectars

Chris awoke at the crack of dawn today to the sounds of "Tie me Kangaroo Down" on the radio. Since Chris didn’t awake right away after the song came on, some images from the song, which Chris knows quite well, found their way into his dreams. The main one being the disturbing image of his own hide being tanned by his family and friends and then hung on a shed, all to the otherworldly tunes of a didgeridoo. This, understandably, made Chris awake a bit startled. He immediately called the few friends and family he has, waking them all up at that ungodly hour, and made then swear they'd never tan his hide when he died. Only one of them, his brother, said he could not make such a promise.

In the bathroom, as Chris debated whether or not his current underwear smelled too funky to go a second round, he looked into the mirror and saw a tiny post-it note stuck there. The note read, in remarkably small and terribly sloppy handwriting:

We is mighty. You defeat is near.

Chris looked over the note and groggily tried to figure out who could have left it and why. I tried to use my psychic powers to do the same but, strangely, I came up with nothing. It was as if a cloud moved in over my brain whenever I tried to think about it.

With a shrug, Chris decided that the note must have been left by the exterminator who was at the apartment yesterday taking care of a nasty ant infestation in the kitchen (And thank God for that. I was getting sick and tired of those filthy ants and their annoying marching songs). The bug man had asked to use the bathroom to wash his hands, so it was a feasible theory. As to why he left the note and what it meant, Chris, in his mild paranoia, decided that the exterminators of the world must be up to something and that it would be wise to monitor the many exterminator websites and message boards for troubling chatter.

While hazy on this matter, my powers tell me that Chris is probably mistaken in his theory. But only time will tell.

Chris spent the rest of the day watching the History channel, monitoring the aforementioned global exterminator chatter, and making minor revisions to the Poof! manuscript. The highlight of the day was the brilliant construction of his lunchtime sandwich. It was an inspired combination of cracked-pepper turkey, stone-ground mustard, bacon, manchego cheese, and sourdough bread, all toasted to perfection in the oven a la Quizno's and their deformed, zombie-like, mariachi singing, mice mascots.

The skin secretions of this meal that finally made their way through Chris' pours, about six hours later, more than lived up to the hype. I even stored a few precious drops of this holy gravy in a neighboring eyelash follicle for later consumption. And if I could bottle the stuff, smack a label on it that read "Genoa's Nectars," and develop a catchy national marketing campaign, believe me, I would.

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