Category: Funny Business

A while back we were doing some purging and downsizing, so it seemed like a good time to donate items to a local thrift store. This particular organization was in need of everything from clothes to working appliances to household furnishings, and among other things we had shirts, dresses and a decent toaster to pass along.

The big-ticket items, though, were a couple of area rugs we decided to part with.

Both were in good shape – although we’d had them for a few years – but in our current domicile they simply didn’t fit. So, we rolled them up and left them out for pickup along with the more traditional donations.

Well, the clothes and toaster were picked up immediately, but the rugs were left behind.

Not only that, there was a note attached to them: “We are unable to use these as there are signs of animal activity.”

I found this message rather cryptic. I mean, what kind of activities do they think my animals have been engaging in?

Are these activities specific to the rugs?

Should I be concerned?

As you might know we have two dogs (Charlie and Steve) and two cats (Bane and Thor), and more often than not they’re in the same room with us. But when we sleep, we don’t know with any degree of certainty what they might be doing, so this is probably when they were engaging in activities on the rug.

What were they doing, I wondered?

They enjoy playing 5 Card Stud, but that’s usually done at the dining room table. I can’t count the times I’ve had to get up in the middle of the night and tell Steve to put his cigar out.

Maybe they were using the Ouija Board. Both Bane and Thor have a fascination with the occult – it’s a cat thing – and there have been several times they’ve roped Charlie into playing with them.

Ever since they held a séance and scared him, though, he’s pretty much stayed away from the dark arts.

Twister? Yeah, a rug is probably a good place to put down the Twister mat, especially since it would probably slide around on the hardwood floors.

But we don’t have a Twister game in the house and the only animal that could’ve bought one is Steve. However, once we found out he’d subscribed to a pair of Chihuahua swinger sites, we took his credit card away. (He’s six now and old enough to make his own decisions, but not with our money).

Frankly, we were at a loss until we studied the note a bit closer. It did say there were “signs” of animal activity.

Did the signs come in the form of a vision?

Had they been foretold in quatrains written by Nostradamus … or in this case, Nostradogus?

A canine eats new food

Yet his stomach hits a snag

An ingredient causes stress

Now his itchy butt will drag

Perhaps one or more of our critters had left a coded message that the thrift shop workers could see but we could not. I suppose they might have one of those ultraviolet light instruments that are used during crime scene investigations. Although invisible to the naked eye, they shine it on the rug and reveal such phrases as, “This is where Bane peed,” “This is where Charlie pooped,” “This is where Thor barfed,” and “This is where Steve spilled his high gravity beer.”

Truth is, we might never really know what kind of activity was so egregious that our used (yet still quite functional) rugs were passed over.

However, there is a bright side.

I have since moved the rugs to the large storage area attached to our garage, where they now have new life decorating the floor. And considering our animals have never been to that area of our property, then the area rugs should be free from their activity going forward.

Unless, of course, Steve learns the code to the garage door opener.

Then all bets are off.

When I was a kid, summer was absolutely glorious.

Once the dismissal bell rang on the last day of school, it was as though the sun had personally invited me to a three-month party – a party that included lots of swimming, a little bat-and-ball action, and creek adventures that started right after breakfast and ended just before dusk.

If I lean back now and close my eyes, I can almost smell the freshly cut grass. I can also smell the tanning lotion covering the beautiful neighbor while she lounged by the pool. And before you think I was a little creep, no, I didn’t stare at her while hiding behind a bush next to the chain-link fence that separated our property.

And even if I did, you can’t prove it.

But those sometimes crazy and oftentimes lazy days of childhood summers are long past, and have since been replaced by the oppressive, unbearable heat and humidity of this dreadful time of year.

Mary has much more tolerance for the heat than I do, and when I complain about it she’ll say, “It’s Alabama in June. What do you expect?”

She’s right. While climate change has certainly made things much worse, it’s not like it wasn’t hot during the summers of my youth. It was … I guess I was just too distracted by fun and frivolity to care.

In the era before video games, kids like me spent most of our days outside if it wasn’t raining. That’s where all the entertainment was found.

You’d play ball, swim, then just run around doing generic kid things until it was time for lunch. After you ate, you’d rinse and repeat until dinner. After dinner, well, the drill was the same.

I’m sure I got hot and I’m sure I sweated, but I don’t recall ever complaining about it.

But boy, do I complain about it now.

Even when I start a 5 a.m. walk, the heat slaps me in the face the minute I open the door. Most mornings the air is completely still, and after I’ve gone a mile, I’m already drenched in sweat.

And if there is a breeze it not only doesn’t help, it often makes things worse. It feels like how I imagine it would feel if a fire-breathing dragon burped on me.

I mean, summer breezes might have made Jim Seals and Dash Crofts feel fine, but that’s probably because they both had low metabolic rates.

By the time my daily summertime walking is complete, I’m utterly exhausted, ornery, smelly and look like I just emerged from a swamp. And when the sun rises and goes into full bake mode (thus triggering all dumpsters within a five-mile radius to activate their repulsive odors), I dread having to venture back out in it.

With two dogs that require multiple outdoor business trips I can’t avoid it, but I try to take them someplace where there’s shade for them and me. And to encourage a quick evacuation process, I’ll often sing soft, soothing tunes that are proven to promote regularity. (I’ve found that Escape: The Piña Colada Song triggers copious poopage).

The only positive to the hellish heat is walking back inside, where I’m treated to central air conditioning, whirring ceiling fans and even a box fan when I feel like running up the score.

“But, Scott,” you ask. “Surely you like going to the beach … enjoying the sand, surf and ocean breeze?”

Yeah, about that …

There was a time in my late teens and early 20s when beach trips were at the top of my list, mainly because of the nightlife. But again, those days are over.

I like looking at the ocean, but I like doing it from the comfort of the hotel balcony.

I don’t enjoy being on the beach because sand gets in my crevices, and I don’t like getting in the ocean because of sharks, jellyfish and things that want to hurt and/or eat me.

Looking at things positively, though, every day of summer that passes means we’re a day closer to fall. And even though Deep South falls now have muted colors and last only 30 minutes or so, they’re still a great relief from being trapped in Mother Nature’s oven.

Not to put too fine a point on it, but summer can kiss my ass.

You often hear stories about people who experience “road rage,” thereby turning a frustrating driving situation into something scary and dangerous. I sometimes get aggravated and angry when I’m behind the wheel, too, but usually after screaming, “rectum!” and speeding away, I’m fine.

What I wonder, though, is why there aren’t more incidents of “frozen food aisle rage.” In my experience – and I’ve been charting this for a while – customers who peruse this part of a supermarket are often the rudest of them all. And that can make customers like me rather … well … testy.

Sure, there’ll be traffic jams on any aisle, especially during busy times of the day. And I understand we sometimes have a tough decision to make between Kraft Easy Mac Noodle and Kraft Original Macaroni & Cheese.

Apparently, though, frozen foods lead to frozen brains.

Yesterday, for example, I decided I wanted some waffles. (I’d just seen Stranger Things 4 and there was a scene where a delicious plate of Eggos had been prepared). So, after loading up my cart with non-perishables, I made my way to frozen foods.

As is often the case, there was someone standing right where I needed to be. That’s fine … like me, the dude was getting waffles, so it really shouldn’t have taken long.

Shouldn’t, but did.

I realize there are different flavors of Eggo, and there are also different size boxes. (Personally, I always go for the 24-pack of homestyle). This guy, though … he’s holding the door open with his right hand and rubbing his chin with his left. Is he trying to decide between homestyle and buttermilk?

Could he be looking at another brand, maybe one of those gluten-free healthier choices that includes freeze-dried blueberries?

Then again, maybe he’s decided to just live like he’s dying and buy some of those big-ass Belgian waffles.

But you know what? You should have all this settled before you ever get to Waffleville. I mean, you’re just buying some frozen enriched flour – you’re not purchasing a car.

By now I’m standing behind him, waiting for him to move just a smidge so I can grab my Eggos and get the hell out of there. Then he starts shifting from side-to-side, making it impossible to go around him without infringing on his and my personal space.

The longer it took, the madder I got.

My first thought was to shove him into the freezer and close the door.

Then I imagined moving all the way to the other end of the aisle and charging toward him with my buggy, crashing into him with such force he goes airborne and flies into one of the registers.

My hatred for this wanker was deep – and growing deeper by the second..

Fortunately for him, he eventually grabbed a 24-pack of Eggo buttermilk, threw them in his cart, and wandered away as I muttered obscenities under my breath. I then made a note to pass on to the store manager suggesting that anyone who lingers in front of frozen waffles for longer than 90 seconds should be banned from the store.

Anyway, I got my supply of homestyle but then remembered I needed to pick up a bag of frozen mixed vegetables because we use those in our soup.

As I neared the destination, there was an older women parked in front of the veggies. And when I say older, I mean ancient – possibly born before time as we know it even existed. It’s not hyperbole to say she looked like a mummy wearing a bucket hat. And she didn’t move … she just kinda gazed through the freezer door.

I’ve always prided myself on showing respect for my elders, and back in my younger days I would’ve stood back patiently while she contemplated the frozen okra versus frozen broccoli conundrum. And when it was done, I’d even help her back into her tomb.

But I knew exactly where the mixed vegetables were, and fearing she might have actually died standing in place, I just slid between her and the veggies, reached in and snatched the bag, and took off.

I’m old now, too, so I feel I’ve earned the right.

Of course, these are hardly isolated incidents. You’ll often find people staring – mouth agape – right in front of the ice cream case.

And folks trying to make the proper call on a frozen dinner never appear to be in much of a rush, either.

About the only crowd-free place at my supermarket is the area that features the veggie dogs and plant-based foods. As a vegetarian it serves as my happy place, and allows me to tamp down my frozen food aisle rage while I stand alone in the land of soy.

Yes, it’s ridiculous to lose my cool because of the indecision of fellow shoppers. There are far more important things to get upset about in this world. Still, sometimes it just builds up.

So, if you ever go in search of frozen food and see some short guy with glasses running through the store holding a box of waffles and screaming, “rectum!” chances are it’s me.