I hot-stepped it out of the house at 9:00 AM, rushing to make it to work for 8:30 AM, feeling absolutely fabulous and groovy. My car was nice and shiny from the wash and polish the day before, and I took a moment to admire the sheen before I opened the door, and plopped by backside on the seat before distractedly closing the car door.
Then, I felt it. A splat of moisture running across my face, down my clothes, as I looked around in puzzlement wondering what the hell had just happened. Then, my peripheral vision caught a movement from the corner of the car door.
There was now a pair of slimy, scrawny, Kermit-esque amphibian legs protruding from the door, squished to a pulp during my distracted morning musings. I had slammed a frog to its death with the door.
Now, mind you, I have always been a vocal and passionate advocate for the death and dismemberment of all things amphibian, but never in the general proximity of my person whereby the blood spatter (my CSI term) and what may have been frog piss could catch me in its cross hairs. I am after all, an innocent victim in this war that I have declared against their kind.
My body eventually summarized what my mind was now telling me, as my fight or flee instincts went into overdrive. Having dived headfirst across the centre console, cutting a great gaping hole in my neck with my still fastened seatbelt (for I am a law abiding citizen), managing to open the passenger door to crawl hands first, bawling as if the frogs of hell were chasing me as I made the escape from Kermit’s dead relative, I now look back on the entire episode with a great sense of ‘ick’, general nastiness, disgust and other like synonyms. I am now convinced that the sons of bitches are stalking me and want to see me dead.
I relive the scene every morning, noon or night that I should close my car door. Never again will I have that naïve feeling of fabulousness, distracted and lost in my morning musings. I now have a sense of hatred and disgust for my car, who aided and abetted my trauma. Doors are now cautiously opened every morning, I now petrified of what I may find waiting for me.
There was a morning when there was a family of four nesting comfortably within the inner recesses of the door jamb, ready to wreak their havoc on my nerves, as my brother was summarily summoned to dispatch them with vicious haste.
He and I almost resorted to fisticuffs when my bellowed demands from the house that he “Kill the [*expletive*] rat bastards!” were ignominiously ignored, he choosing to release them into the ‘wild’ for they were ‘just babies’ and ‘would not do me anything’. He looking on in embarrassed resignation as I took bleach from the house and splashed it indiscriminately into the general vicinity of the area where he released the sons of bitches; I killing the surrounding flora in the hopes of capturing a certain kind of fauna within the widely cast net of my killing spree, all whilst cussin’ him for his [*expletive*] PETA antics, and tellin’ him that West Indian people don’t behave so, and how he does be watching too much North American TV, for he obviously don’t remember how the spider did come back for the man in Arachnophobia, and how he was being a friggin’ namby pamby wimp, and how I don’t ask him to do nuttin’ fi me but to kill four measly frogs, and not even that he cudda do propa!
Anyhow, I digress.
Now, I am relegated to spraying the door jamb of the car with bleach each night before I retire. Car advocates have advised that this will ‘ruin the paint’, as they obviously give no care to the fact that should a frog jump on me whilst I am driving, that may ruin mine or another persons life, for I would surely crash and dead, if not from the accident, then from the trauma. They never seem to see my point when I break it down for them so. And I know that the stinkin’ amphibian would just hop away from the stinkin’ scene to go forth and create more flickin’ tadpoles, and seek to ruin someone else’s life.
Death to them all, I say. Screw that circle of life bullshit!
And on that anti-ecological note, I shall now exit.
Then, I felt it. A splat of moisture running across my face, down my clothes, as I looked around in puzzlement wondering what the hell had just happened. Then, my peripheral vision caught a movement from the corner of the car door.
There was now a pair of slimy, scrawny, Kermit-esque amphibian legs protruding from the door, squished to a pulp during my distracted morning musings. I had slammed a frog to its death with the door.
Now, mind you, I have always been a vocal and passionate advocate for the death and dismemberment of all things amphibian, but never in the general proximity of my person whereby the blood spatter (my CSI term) and what may have been frog piss could catch me in its cross hairs. I am after all, an innocent victim in this war that I have declared against their kind.
My body eventually summarized what my mind was now telling me, as my fight or flee instincts went into overdrive. Having dived headfirst across the centre console, cutting a great gaping hole in my neck with my still fastened seatbelt (for I am a law abiding citizen), managing to open the passenger door to crawl hands first, bawling as if the frogs of hell were chasing me as I made the escape from Kermit’s dead relative, I now look back on the entire episode with a great sense of ‘ick’, general nastiness, disgust and other like synonyms. I am now convinced that the sons of bitches are stalking me and want to see me dead.
I relive the scene every morning, noon or night that I should close my car door. Never again will I have that naïve feeling of fabulousness, distracted and lost in my morning musings. I now have a sense of hatred and disgust for my car, who aided and abetted my trauma. Doors are now cautiously opened every morning, I now petrified of what I may find waiting for me.
There was a morning when there was a family of four nesting comfortably within the inner recesses of the door jamb, ready to wreak their havoc on my nerves, as my brother was summarily summoned to dispatch them with vicious haste.
He and I almost resorted to fisticuffs when my bellowed demands from the house that he “Kill the [*expletive*] rat bastards!” were ignominiously ignored, he choosing to release them into the ‘wild’ for they were ‘just babies’ and ‘would not do me anything’. He looking on in embarrassed resignation as I took bleach from the house and splashed it indiscriminately into the general vicinity of the area where he released the sons of bitches; I killing the surrounding flora in the hopes of capturing a certain kind of fauna within the widely cast net of my killing spree, all whilst cussin’ him for his [*expletive*] PETA antics, and tellin’ him that West Indian people don’t behave so, and how he does be watching too much North American TV, for he obviously don’t remember how the spider did come back for the man in Arachnophobia, and how he was being a friggin’ namby pamby wimp, and how I don’t ask him to do nuttin’ fi me but to kill four measly frogs, and not even that he cudda do propa!
Anyhow, I digress.
Now, I am relegated to spraying the door jamb of the car with bleach each night before I retire. Car advocates have advised that this will ‘ruin the paint’, as they obviously give no care to the fact that should a frog jump on me whilst I am driving, that may ruin mine or another persons life, for I would surely crash and dead, if not from the accident, then from the trauma. They never seem to see my point when I break it down for them so. And I know that the stinkin’ amphibian would just hop away from the stinkin’ scene to go forth and create more flickin’ tadpoles, and seek to ruin someone else’s life.
Death to them all, I say. Screw that circle of life bullshit!
And on that anti-ecological note, I shall now exit.
Ta ta...
'Fro.
10 comments:
erm... you could, potentially, be destroying your prince you know... try kissing all the frogs you see instead of letting your mrs. hyde instinct take over... you may be surprised... what if the juices that splattered you were really the luuurve juices of your mr. right??? oh my god... OH MY GOD AFRO CHICK!!! YOU MIGHT BE PREGNANT WITH A MUTANT FROG PRINCE BABY!!!
i dislike small animals and insects. Just the thought of the crushed frog eeewww! Bleach away!
I dislike frogs so I cannot find any sympathy for the squashed one:)
SMH... Will is just as crazy.
That frog 'blood spatter' musta been awful: ack! But by no means allow that to spoil your feelings of fabulousness. I mean, if you resign yourself to paranoi - erm, I mean, if you relinquish your right to regular feelings of fabulousness, then the frogs are winning... and we dont want that, now do we?
My sympathies on the cold-blooded trauma you were recently subjected to Fro. I can only imagine the shock and horror it induced. But I concur with Ruthibelle - Keep “doing your thing” – the fabulous vibe you exude comes through in the caliber of your literary voice, and we would all suffer if that were compromised in any way : )
I feel you family to George Bush. you is an innocent victim of a war you declare on the poor frogs? cuhdear
Actually I see the whole episode in another light. I feel that was a frog suicide terrorist that ya squish. He willingly gave up his life to fill you with terror and fear against his kind. Before ya was killing frogs indiscriminately now he got ya worried and seeing frogs out the corner of ya eyes.
Only one solution. find Froghanistan an invade. Find Frogama bin jumpin and murder him rass. This frog thing will not be tolerated. Open a frog version of Guantanao, detain, torture, juk, maim, bleach, kill. Time to ramp up the war on Frogger.
ps: your brother might be ona dem democratic liberal types that soft on terror. run im through security check make sure he aint on the take.
Hello
It has a nice blog.
Sorry not write more, but my English is bad writing.
A hug from my country, Portugal
@ Will & Jdid ... you guys are just too funny
LOL! That must have been a gross experience. I don't think you should be using bleach on your car. You must find another less detrimental way to wage your war against these amphibians though. I used to see squashed little frogs in the house door jam when I used to live at my parents house in Portland.
There should be a warning at the top of this post to not read at work because I'm sure people were looking and wondering what the heck I was laughing at. Priceless.
Post a Comment