small island blues

so here’s me walking home last night all nice and content looking forward to a little tv and some garlic-butter spaghetti with a glass or two of red wine.

(this ain’t no night train i’m talking about neither.  this stuff has a cork in it. a plastic cork.  top shelf.)

i’d be inclined to whistle a little if it weren’t for the fact that i can’t whistle.

(well, except for that bean thing but i’m feeling well above that kind of crudeness tonight.)

i pause for a minute at the bottom of the stairs to scratch one of the cats behind the ear (it’s amazing how easily a kittens’ ear comes off!) and walk around the corner of the deck to turn my propane tank on.

something goes terribly wrong with my vision.  all of a sudden i can’t see.

then my mind clears a little bit.  there appears to be an empty space where my propane tank used to live.

in the immortal words of a friend of mine who shall remain nameless (julio):  “you gotta be shittin’ me!”

there’s the hose, regulator still firmly attached.  the spider web is gone, though.  i hope he had time to bite the scurrilous bastard that did this dastardly deed.  if not i’ll have to kill him and get another, nastier spider.  i feed these things too much.

(note to self: try a kitten-proof enclosure next time.)

so now i’m sitting here watching battlestar galactica, munching on uncooked pasta pieces, and wondering how i’m going to open this bottle of wine.

*munch, munch*

frac!

*munch, munch*

frac!  frac!  frac!