It’s Like Clue, But With Turds
It’s all in the way you look at it, right? I’ve read enough self-help
bullshit literature to know this. The curse becomes the gift, turn the frown upside down, silverliningbrightsideblahblahblahbitemebro. Got it. And I try, I really do. For example, if I hadn’t had such a miserable, lonely childhood, I wouldn’t have turned out so goddamned hilarious and able to entertain all of you (all 3 of you). If my husband hadn’t been such a deranged, manic-depressive douche-wagon, I would never have memorized the Top 10 Signs You’re Married to a Lunatic Handbook, and let’s face it – that shit comes in handy. If I hadn’t sustained irreversible brain damage from a tiny bug bite, I would not be enjoying the lifetime privilege of Being Allowed to Forget People’s Names. See? I’m so positive. I’m like a ray of fucking sunshine.
There’s one thing, though, that no matter how hard I’ve tried, I simply haven’t been able to transmutate, re-frame, or celebrate. Shit. It’s all the goddamned shit. Every. Single. Day. Of my life. Living with a four-legged horde (including a geriatric dog who really never did prefer to shit outside anyway – too cold/hot/wet/far) has sharpened my cleaning skills and bolstered my arsenal of shit-fighting products (my favorite proclaims without irony: “For Pet AND People Accidents!” How convenient is THAT?) to Armageddon-ready. When the End-Times are upon us and everyone else is wondering how on earth they’re going to get that pesky shit stain out? I’ll be smugly buffing away. Don’t come crying to me, people.
Of course, it’s not just shit. Five (five!) house-pets are inclined to produce all manner of bodily expulsions. Nearly every day I discover something which results in either irate profanity or bewildered wonderment – “What fresh hell is this?” I might say, while examining some unidentifiable heap of maybe-ass-cache. Puke, pee, hairballs, blood, farts (I don’t really have to clean up farts, granted, but sometimes it takes awhile to get them out of the couch.) I also *find* things (like the cleanly-bitten half-a-mouse in my garage the other day; his tiny face frozen in forever-horror as what I presume to be a giant she-wolf named Karma took a dainty bite of his lower torso and decided that particular treat was not worth her trouble – sorry, bro) that I somehow know will show up later in one of the aforementioned media. I have begun to brace myself when I come down the stairs each morning, certain that some mucousy horror awaits my bare footfalls. So here is where my peculiar genius rears it shit-stained head: I’ve begun to be able to predict, to a certain degree, where and what I might find, based on sounds heard in the night, wafting aromas, what is missing from the counter, how many dead frogs/birds/mice/crappyneighbors were pried from their jaws the day before. It’s bloody brilliant. I’m like the Horatio Fucking Caine of Household Accidents. And that’s when it hit me.
Poo Clue. It’s a game. Games are fun, right? Aaaand, there it is. Your goddamned Silver Lining. Now, when I awake each morning, instead of creeping dread and a quivering uvula, I greet the day wearing my thinking-cap (in my mind, it has a propeller) and get down to the business of solving nefarious ass crimes. It works like this: First, I choose a suspect. Let’s use Bucky for this example. Next, I must determine the location of the evidence BEFORE I step in it, or else I lose. In case that wasn’t obvious. I’m thinking the Parlor. Lastly, I narrow down the weaponry. I’m gonna say…diarrhea. (On days when I’m feeling really smart, I will add a subcategory to the chosen vehicle, like “foamy” or “Jesus Christ, is that my hot pink ear-bud?” but this is risky. Not intended for rookies.) SO, class, today’s sleuthing results in….say it with me: Bucky in the Parlor (I really do have a parlor. So shut the f*ck up.) with Foamy Diarrhea. *end-zone dances to cabinet housing impressive cleaning product supply*
Other possible combinations include: Meatball in the Hallway with a Hairball, Karma in the Laundry Room with Half-Eaten Mouse Vomit (and fuck if that fluffy bitch didn’t steal my last Valium), Lizzie Borden – Geriatric Pug – on the Bed with The Biggest Shit I’ve Ever Seen In My Entire Life (seriously, I could transcribe Anna Karenina on that shit. But that would be gross.), Stevie Nicks in the Kitchen with Pee (at least I think it’s pee. Could be bile. Will have to smell to confirm.) You get the picture.
The great thing is, anyone can play! Pets, children, husbands – you can now make ALL your life’s messes just a little more fun (you’re welcome). And not to toot my own horn (toot-toot!), but if I’m not mistaken, it would appear that I have just invented the only game in the whole history of time where, literally, nobody wins.
And that? Is awesome.
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