Eeksy-Peeksy

augury doggerel

Sunday, June 30, 2002

Yak Hair

To my taste, the very best blogs are the ones that talk mainly about the blog � this is a blog and I don't have nuffin to say today but I cannot stop because this is so important and so this is a blog, like � or of course about pets. Or the writer's fascinating dreams. Or cute little kiddy stories. Slices of life. Or links to pictures of monkeys drinking their own pee.

Last night I had a bad dream that would please the Junior Freudian League to prattle about, so I got up and put the kettle on, but the cat, who had been pushing me out of the bed all night, woke up and started yelling to get out but then changed her mind and ran for her bowl and began yelling for food, so I started to get some food out for the cat, but then the kid started crying, so I sat on her bed and told her it was only a terrible dream and reassured her that I'm not really her father and switched the subject to what a pig that cat was being in the middle of the night, and then the woman, unaware of any of this, woke up and stuffed a cheese sandwich down her throat and began talking about the price of refrigerators. All in two minutes. It was as if a ghost had flown through the apartment and upset everyone's sleep at once. Household spiders were probably falling out of their webs.

But you want to know what the dream was, right? Or, you don't want to know, not really, but now that I've mentioned the damned dream twice, you feel it your duty to feign curiosity. That's it, isn't it? Well. My mother intentionally cut the index and middle finger off my right hand in some sort of DIY job for some purpose I had agreed to. I stood patiently through the amputation, which she somehow did remotely from the kitchen with her sewing machine while I stood in the living room and looked at the curtains, but after the fingers were gone I began to realize how foolish I had been. It wasn't the loss of the fingers that was bad, but that the job was so obviously a botched DIY job. What bothered me, I mean, was not that I was missing important fingers, but that I would be humiliated by the shoddy workmanship. Then I woke up and found that I had been sleeping on that hand and that those two fingers were numb.

So I drank a large refreshing glass of monkey urine.

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