Tuesday, 28 October 2008

• This Stain's Not Coming Out

  Twas the morning before work, when all through the house
  Not an asshole was stirring, not even The Louse.
  The stockings were white (with green stripes), the dirty floor treaded with care,
  In hopes that I could leave the house without getting covered in cat hair.
  
  The animals were crated all snug in their cages,
  While visions of Snausages danced in their heads.
  And J in his suit, and I in my coat,
  Had just settled our dispute over would get to drive the Batmobile.
  
  When outside the extra bedroom there arose such a smell,
  I sprang from the hallway to see what the hell.
  Away to the doorframe I backed up like a rightfully disgusted woman,
  Tore open a roll of toilet paper and threw up a little in my mouth.
  
  The moon on the breast of the newly-cleaned carpet
  Gave the appearance of marbles on leather to objects on it.
  When, what to my sleep-groggy eyes should appear,
  But four solidified turds, and a ball of cat hair.
  
  With a wicked rancid odor, so deathly and malovolent,
  I knew in a moment, This room I must vent.
  More rapid than Black Friday shoppers the dogs and cats scattered away,
  And I quaked, and shouted, and called them mean names!
  
  "Now Gizmo! now, Sullivan! now, Felix and Chief!
  Oh, Assholes! Oh, Dumbasses! oh, oh, Morons and Imbeciles!
  To the top of the stairs! to the end of the hall!
  Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"
  

  ---

  So yeah, I stepped on some shit this morning, while wearing my favorite socks. Luckily it wasn't of the sizzling, steaming crater variety left by Sullivan.
  

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