The Possum Story

26 Apr

April 26, 2016

I live in the city. That’s all you need to know: the city. Not the country. Not trees and streams but buildings and pavement. This isn’t Wild Kingdom.

Specifically, I live in a thankfully non-hipster part of Brooklyn South. This means it’s:
A- still pretty nice
B- impossible to find mustache wax
C- becoming very Chinese. But that’s a different story.

So I was driving home last night and the last thing I expected to see in my car’s headlights was a giant possum.

Possums are nothing but fur and pure evil

Possums are nothing but fur and pure evil

It’s a residential area, albeit a busy one. Someday it will be nothing but big condos and no parking, but for now it is still mostly medium-sized houses and homes, albeit with no parking. And I wasn’t kidding about condos. They are knocking down the houses left and right and replacing them with condominiums, giving no thought to where all the new residents will park. Some nights I drive around for three hours (or more!) until I find a parking spot. No joke.

But on this night I had only been looking for a spot for a few minutes when, as I drove down a one-way street, an animal sauntered in front of the car. It didn’t run, it didn’t trot, it didn’t even walk fast. It just moseyed out from between two parked cars like it didn’t give a damn who or what was coming down the street. It swaggered!

At first I thought it was a cat. There are lots of them in this area. But then I saw the long, rat-like tail and at this point the creature stopped as my headlights hit it, and I stopped so I actually wouldn’t hit it. It looked at me- not at the car, I am sure it looked right at me, in the driver’s seat, right into my very soul- and I saw that it was no cat and certainly not a rat. It was as long as a large cat (not counting the tail) but much heavier and more thickly furred. It was a big, really big, possum. After only about two seconds the possum decided that it didn’t care at all about me or my car, and with what I am sure was a possum version of giving me the middle finger, continued across the street, still swaggering with confidence. I drove on.

And found a parking spot just a few houses up the block. Yes!

But almost no. I parked but I had to walk back down the block to get home.

Past the possum.

Sure, I could have gone a different way, but let’s face it, I’m rather lazy, and if it came down to walking a half a block out of my way or taking my chances with a possum from Hell, I’d take my chances. As big as that animal was, I was bigger. Not as rabid, I hope, but definitely bigger.

As I walked back, my thoughts were “where does something that big live around here?” and “is it under that car? I swear I just saw something move under that car, oh shit, is it the possum? Oh my god what if it comes after me?”

Dear Reader, I made it home alive. But I still have no idea where a possum that size could call home around here. I also worry about what it’s eating to get so big.

 

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I Was A Passenger On The Burp Bus

18 Apr

April 18, 2016
This post is all credit to and copyright Saarah, and you’ll soon see why.

Long-time readers of this blog, of which I’ve heard that a few survive, may recall my attempts at coining a new phrase. I was sure that, with some time and effort, I could make the world fall in love with the term blog-slinging, as in I’ve had a busy day, blog-slinging this latest post about Donald Trump’s hair for you to enjoy. Well, it didn’t happen. If anything, the world has violently rejected that phrase, and I have the hate mail to prove it. (Watch out, Edna Furlitzer of Fort Wayne, Indiana. I’ve turned those letters over the police.)

But I am not one to give up so easily. Well, actually, I do give up easily, laughably easily. But this time I’ve got nothing better to do, so I’m going to try again, this time with an all-new, all-ha-ha-hilarious turn of phrase.

But you’ll have to sit through a short story first. See why so few of my long-time readers survive?

Recently, I took a trip to my ancestral home, Salem, Massachusetts. To be honest, Salem is not my ancestral home. Not a single ancestor lived there. Sure, a man named Ebenezer Tepid Ride was hung there as a witch in the 17th century, but that’s just a coincidence. Salem is my ancestral home in spirit.

I love witches and black cats, Halloween and ghosts. Most of all I love a good, juvenile belch, and that’s what this story is about.

I had spent a couple of days in Salem with Saarah, and it was great. The Witch Museum, the House of the Seven Gables, the vegan bakery that was closed every time we went there, it was all awesome. A total blast. And a blast was exactly what Saarah was letting out on the ride home. It is certainly not my intent to embarrass her, no, not at all, but I have to be honest. She was burping more than Curly after Moe and Larry forced him to eat soap.

curly burp 1

So there we were, in the car, she in the passenger seat, slightly dozing and occasionally loudly burping, me in the driver’s seat, slightly dozing too driving home and occasionally rolling down my window depending on how pungent her burps were.

NOTE TO SAARAH: Please don’t kill me.
NOTE TO READERS: It’s all a joke. Saarah has only ever burped once in her life, in 2010, and even that time it was a medical necessity.
NOTE TO SAARAH: Happy now?

Well, Saarah was a little embarrassed and said the she was burping more than a truck driver. She said it again the next time she burped too. And the time after that, etc etc etc. Yes, she burped a lot on that trip.

As the drive went on (it’s about a four hour trip from Salem) she got tired, and though the burps didn’t stop, her expressions got better and better. “Burping more than a truck driver” soon became “burping more than a bus driver,” which eventually became “burping more than the driver of the bus.”

Now we’re getting somewhere.

“Burping more than the driver of the bus” became, as Saarah got more and more tired (but no less full of gas) “burping more than the driver of the burp.” That would have been funny enough had it ended there, but it took a slight regression to “burping more than the driver of the burp bus,” and finally settled on “driving the burp bus.”

So I may have been driving the car, but over in the passenger seat, Saarah was driving the burp bus.

And that is the new phrase I am coining and forcing on you today: Driving the burp bus (copyright Saarah).

If only one person uses it, it will already be more successful then blog-slinging.

 

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