An Untruthful Story

Here’s another trip to the well. This time from a re-post from a March 21, 2010 fan favorite. I can happily report that at least 20% of this story is fictional.

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My day started with a bang and ended with a fizzle.

Actually, that is probably not the most accurate, but that seemed like a very good line to start with. In actuality, the day, just like any other, started with a fizzle, which proceeded to a sizzle, then – remarkably – slowed to a simmer, then ended with a bang.

Again, that makes for a nice introduction, but is not necessarily truthful.

Remarkably unremarkable, my day actually began with breakfast. Molly, my beautiful bride of just over two years, woke me up to two tasty buttermilk biscuits and an deliciously fried egg. And a glass of sour orange juice. The orange juice, actually, was my fault. I had left it out on the counter overnight. It was a brand new bottle, and I guess Molly wanted to make a point. We’d recently been having arguments over her need to remind me to do certain tasks. I tried to explain to her that she has a profound attention to detail, and that – combined with her repetitive nature – could, by some, be seen as “nagging.” However, with my infinite patience, I understood it as what it truly was.

Annoying.

I kindly, generously explained to my beautiful bride that I simply did not need to be reminded of things. I know what days the garbage runs, and will always have the can to the road on time. I understand that certain outlets don’t work and will replace them soon. My teeth will always be brushed before we go into public. The dishes will be washed by the end of the day. And I PROMISE that I am not dumb enough to leave the orange juice out on the counter over night. The very idea is an insult to my intelligence!

“In fact,” I said, “I will not even dignify that comment with a response.”

“Fine, but you’re the butt-hecker that left it on the counter. And when you forget to put it away, you’ll be in the one going to Rouses to buy a new one.”

“My dear Molly, this will never happen. I will place it in the refrigerator after I finish my glass.”

“Fine, but if it is left on the counter over night, you will be the one going to Rouses to buy a new one.”

“You just said that! I get it!”

“I just want to make sure I’m being clear.”

“You are being more than clear. You are being repetitive. If you worked for a government agency, it would be the Office of the Department of Repetitiveness Office.”

“Excuse me?”

“Molly Manning, the department head for the Office of the Department of Repetitiveness Office, whose job it is to ensure that the department stays repetitive and repeats the official duties of the department. Her job description, as written, is to oversee the Office of the Department of Repetitiveness Office – which in turn documents the repetitiveness of the official duties therein.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I will pick the orange juice up.”

“Fine, but if it is left on the counter over night, you will be the one going to Rouses to buy a new one.”

“I love you, Sweetie.”

“I’m going to bed now. I love you, too.”

As Molly left the room, I took another sip of my orange juice and finished the last original episode of Battlestar Galactica. I had been having my own mini-marathon that day, which, ironically, gave me a strange craving for a glass of orange juice.

About twenty minutes into the episode, though, something strange began to happen. Though the series was fairly intriguing, my eyelids began to remind me that they had not been closed for nearly eighteen hours. They now requested that this fact be rectified.

As I stood and began to walk toward the kitchen, a strange and unfortunate series of events began to unfold.

First, my cat decided to bite me on the foot.

This happened for no real good reason other than the fact that my cat likes to randomly bite me on the foot.

Next, I shouted in pain and dropped my glass.

The glass fell to the floor, broke, and shattered.

My cat bit my other foot.

I shouted, jumped, and landed on a piece of glass.

Blood began to protrude from two cat bites and a shard of glass shoved up my tendon.

I hobbled to the sofa and ripped the shard out of my tendon. I then hobbled to the bathroom, threw the shard in the waste-basket, and bandage my feet. I sneaked quietly into my room, put on a pair of socks, went back to the kitchen and swept/mopped up the bloody, orangey, glassy mess I had created.

I then angrily logged onto Facebook and complained of my frustration with the cat.

After shutting down my computer, I went to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, and then went directly to bed, thinking for hours of many curses and other non-humane disposal methods for cats that stupidly bite feet for no apparent reason.

Many of you, at this point, quickly realize what didn’t take place.

Unfortunately, I didn’t realize until my wife lovingly woke me up, served me a plate of tasty buttermilk biscuits, a deliciously fried egg, and a glass of sour orange juice.

Needless to say, I spent a fair amount of time this morning at the local grocery store buying, not just orange juice, but many other items to make up for it – including several bouquets of flowers, a big chocolate bar, and a large “I’m Stupid” sticker that I then wore for the remainder of the day.

Now, adios. Thank you for your patronage. I must now return to bed.

Right after I pick up the milk.