Saturday, February 9, 2013

I Tried My Best

Oh, crap. I only have fifteen minutes left to get my story posted for Nicky and Mike's 30-2 Days of Writing Almost Marathon. I've been putting off writing this post all day long. Now it's bedtime and I have nothing. I've threatened myself. No post, no beddy bye. I really want to crawl into bed and watch tv, but I can't until I fulfill my duty to God and country. Wait, that's not right. Fulfill my duty to Nicky, Mike, Canada and cheese.

So I have fifteen minutes. I can do this.

Did I mention that Sweetie has diarrhea? Have you ever cleaned up from a 130 pound dog with diarrhea? 
"Sweetie! Sweetie! Not there. Awww, damn, Sweetie."

So I have fourteen minutes. Not a problem.

My cell phone is ringing. Bummer.  
"Hello. Yes. Speaking. Okay, thank you."
"Lurch, your Propecia is ready to be picked up at CVS."

So I have thirteen minutes. Easy!

"What is that, Lurch? You need a refill on your drink?"
 "Do you have two legs, Lurch?" 
"No, no, I didn't say anything, Lurch.  You must be hearing things."

So I have twelve minutes. I guess it can be a short story.

Hold on. Somebody is knocking at the door. It's the pizza delivery man. 
"Did you order a pizza, Lurch?" 
"You did? Do you remember about the doctor putting you on that diet?"
"Really?  You are going to talk to me like that in front of the pizza guy?" 
"Well, you can kiss my ass, too."

So I have eleven minutes. Eleven grueling minutes.

Where did I put my glasses?
"Have you seen my glasses, Lurch?"
"Well, that's embarrassing. They've been on my head all along?"

So I have ten minutes. Hope springs eternal.

"What, Lurch? Why do I need to bring you towels to the bathroom?"
"Why do I need to hurry?"
"Yes, I did flush the dog poop paper towels down the toilet. Why?"
"Grab the plunger! Grab the plunger!"

So I have nine minutes. And I have plunger hands.

I think I need a drink.
Let me run downstairs and get one.

Eight minutes is better than nothing.

That drink was just what the doctor ordered. I need another.
I think I'll make this one a double.

Seven minutes and who gives a shit?

Who keeps messaging me on FaceBook?
"Michael Whitman-Jones, what do you want?"
"You are sad and your face has fallen off?"
"Oh, no, let me make a drink."

Six minutes, I think. Not sure. Let me squint my eyes. Yep, six minutes.

Look at my toes.
Who knew that my toes are so...

Oh, shit!
I must have dozed off. What time is it? What? My fifteen minutes are up?
Tell me it ain't so! I really wanted to post a good story today, but rules are rules.

Nightie night, y'all.

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