(Warning: The following story contains a cliched characterization of an American Southern–versus South American–voice that’s essentially an unflattering stereotype. Chalk it up to inbred New England snobbery.)
You ever wonder what the evolutionary advantage of clumsiness is? That’s what I’d like to know. I ain’t never read Charlie Darwin’s Oranges of Feces. Ma waff Daisy says I don’t knead to ’cause the guy who writed the Bible* says it’s a crock of shit–Darwin, I mean, not the Bible.
Still, I’m clumsier than hell on a slippery day and I sure as shit can’t understand it worth a broken umbrella. I’m always dropping things. One night Daisy, who doesn’t drink because it brings out the devil in her even more than speaking in tongues and turns her brain to dung, was nice enough to let me scamper on down to the neighborhood grocery store and buy a big bottle of beer, which I did with no lack of alacrity and brought it home like a beloved puppy and plunked it in the freezer, along with a tall glass to chill for twenty minutes so it’d be nice and cold for my ass to drink.
The only problem was that I’d deposited the bottle on the top shelf at such an angle that when I opened the freezer door to retrieve it, the sucker fell out like a bomb from a hatch and shattered on the floor right in front of me.
Needless to say, Daisy wasn’t pleased about this turn of events, especially considering the kitchen floor’s ceramic tiles are as hard as marble. Not that I took the time to count but that puppy must have bust into at least a million little pieces, to quote the discredited and distinguished mendacious memoirist Jimmy Frey (no relation to the Eagles’ Glen, thank God for both of them).
The mess took about a century to mop up with a forest’s worth of paper towels–first dry, then wet, to get rid of the stickiness. Afterwards I had to go over the whole area with the vacuum cleaner. The glass had managed to fly everywhere. I even used the vacuum to suck the nuggets out of my ears.
What’s worse is Daisy wouldn’t let me go buy another bottle of beer, even though I offered to buy a plastic one next time so it wouldn’t break when it fell out of the freezer. Besides, it would have held more beer. That’s the main thing.
She said no way, Jose, so I had to suffer in silence as usual.
I waited till the next day while she was stuck in her stupid babble studies class to buy the beer, but this time instead of the bottle falling out of the freezer, the glass did. At least it didn’t take as long to clean up.
A few days ago I dropped another glass next to the bed when Daisy startled me by calling out my name in the dark. I hadn’t realized she was awake and didn’t appreciate the fact either.
Maybe it’s just fear that makes me drop things so often. I’m like a whipped dog who’s received too many shocks from an evil scientist. She never hits me or nothing, but the sound of her voice is like a brick fired from a sling shot hitting me in the side of the head. It would keep me on my toes if I didn’t keep falling down.
‘Course, she doesn’t believe in science. Can’t say as I blame her, seeing as neither of us has evolved since the day we met, not that our being together could have anything to do with that.
Must just be a coincidence, sort of like how I keep catching her in bed with the friendliest members of the congregation. Don’t get me wrong: they’re the nicest women you can imagine–a hell of a lot nicer than Daisy is to me when they’re not around, especially when they let me join in. I’m not planning to be fruitful and multiply, but I don’t mind going through the motions to keep those creative juices flowing.
Whenever that happens, which is woefully seldom, all I can do is howl “Hallelujah!” like a happy werewolf. It’s almost enough to make me believe in Jesus (the artist formerly known as God).
Then everything reverts to normal and I remember I’m still stuck in hell.
Oh well, at least the floor’s dry, thanks to the flames.
* Over two-thousand years on the New York Times bestseller list. Soon to be yet another major motion picture–again.