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March 14, 2013 8:36 am

MY LOUSY WORLD: A new epiphany every day

Written by Doug Blough

Today, I’m not gonna say a lot about much, but I will say a little about a lot. So let me now say this about that:

• You seldom hear of people hitting their funny, or “crazy” bone anymore. When I was growing up, it was a common sight to see someone jumping around, holding their elbow, howling, “Ahh! My funny bone!” I haven’t hit my crazy bone in decades. I wonder if it got on Prozac and now it’s just another well-adjusted, ordinary bone.

• You also don’t hear anything about the Walton kids. What ever happened to them all after coming down from Walton’s Mountain? Except for a few John-boy — who I couldn’t stand — sightings about 20 years ago, I’ve never heard or seen hide nor hair. It just goes to show: All that clean living and wholesomeness leads to a dead end.

Now, Pee Wee Herman, Gilbert Godfried and Andrew Dice Clay … them, we still hear about. Take note, young people.

• I actually pick the lighter-colored morsels from my recently-widowed dog Trina’s Purina One food, because I’ve noticed she eats around those. If Trina could talk, I bet she’d sing, “If that ain’t loving me … then all I’ve got to say … is God didn’t make little green apples, and it don’t rain in Indianapolis, in the summertime…”

But she just looks lovingly at me as I put my finger to her lips, whisper, “Shhh,” and sing, “You say it best … when you say nothing at aaaall.”

• I was peeling an orange one day, much like I’ve done 10,000 times before, and as usual, my gnawed fingernails were clumsily slipping over the peel. The acidic juices were seeping into my roofer’s gouged fingertips and burning like “all get out,” while chunks of that white, fleshy residue remained clinging to the fruit.

And then it hit me: “Use your big front teeth, dummy!” And it works like a charm. My beaver teeth lathe consistent chunks of peeling until the entire orange, juices sealed, is naked and waiting to be eaten. That my friends, is what you call a true epiphany.

• On a sadder note, my worst fear has been realized. It began after church with something my friend Jere said after I asked, “Could you smell my cologne again today?”

Jere, albeit with a giggle, signifying possibly she was joking, answered, “No, but I think I mighta smelled your house.”

Yikes! Granted, I have five cats, several of which bypass the basement litter boxes entirely on occasion, lifting a tail to furniture right before my very eyes. It’s disgustingly, unbelievably rude. And little Trina is still somewhat incontinent from getting run over three years ago. So in a nutshell, my bachelor townhouse probably does reek. But could that smell actually be following me?

This week, another friend needed me to swing by her house, ASAP. No time for a shower, I sheepishly asked her and her daughter, Kyra, “Can you guys smell me?” They both said no, so I asked DeAnna, “Do you ever smell cats when I’m here?”

“Yep,” she answered without blinking an eye (either one). “How often, would you say?” I asked. The brutally-honest blonde bomber replied, “More often than not.” Double Yikes!

Obviously, it’s never encouraging, or uplifting to be told one stinks. It’s not an epiphany to write home about. But what are ya gonna do? I’m sure not gonna kill my beloved cats. I can’t move my washer/dryer from the dank, unfinished basement where they sit in close proximity to the five litter boxes.  

As a stopgap, I will stop leaving my freshly-laundered clothing hang from the basement ceiling beam for days. And I’ll start scooping the litter boxes daily instead of weekly. But something tells me it’s too little too late; the “Musty Manor,” or “House of 1,000 Stains,” has just absorbed too much over 30 years. From now on, I guess you can just call me, “Ol’ Shtinky.”

• I’ve developed “lintaphobia” – an irrational fear of a clothes dryer starting a fire that burns down the entire house, realizing my neighbors’ greatest fear: all my littered, unread newspapers going up in flames, taking the adjoining townhouses with it.

Actually, that’s not so irrational, since I’ve seen two separate newscasts in a month about the frequency of dryer fires, caused by excess, hidden lint. I truly am scared now to do laundry — running down to check for fire every 10 minutes. It’s not just losing my home I fear, but just imagine that smell. Oh, the humanity!

• BTW, what the heck is a get-out? “She was cuter than all get-out; it was windier than all get-out …” Now, a “Come-along” makes sense; it’s used to move a heavy object, which comes along. But what the Sam Hill is a get-out, much less all-get-out?

Ol’ Shtinky … signing off for now.

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