As I was stabbing around with my broom in corners today, wondering why someone as glam as I should be sweeping, the hatred for dust bunnies was multipling (ironic, huh?)
They glide around like a third Wright brother in all their glory - teasing and tormenting. Then they turn the tables and get groodie, sticking to the broom and I have to use my fingers.
I'm stabbing and stabbing, lamenting loudly, "What did I ever do to you?" A contradiction, I know. But it doesn't matter - 'cause they won't "die for Pete's sake." Who is Pete, anyway?
You can't drown 'em - they get really nasty then - snarling teeth, spitting furballs, growing.
You can't kill 'em, I've proved that, and you can't eat 'em. So . . .
If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.
From this moment on I will gently remove the ones in plain sight while cooing, "Heeeeere Bunny, here Bunny," and I'll give the hidden ones their privacy to pro-create.
Mind you, this is all for the sake of my sanity - don't judge me lest you be judged.
What did they ever do to me, anyway? A little embarrassment here and there, a little coughing, sneezing, hacking. A little trouble breathing. I can live with that.
So, if 'ya come a Sunday visitin', be sure to wear a hat. The little
Clean the ceiling fan? Heavens, no. It's not in plain sight. Just don't look up.
Chris from the Stewart Six speaks Maxster. To infinity and beyond. It probably didn't hurt that he is his uncle and an overgrown boy.
Y'all come back next week for What a Word? Wednesday. 'Ya hear?