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Under Pam & Meg’s

Delved under on September 9, 2007.

My freebirding finally caught up to me this Thursday when a horde of angry townspeople assaulted me with clubs and pitchforks, then burned my house down in retribution. Having nowhere else to go until the demonically possessed house reassembled itself in a few days (it always seems to do this), I begged Pam—and Meg—if I could sleep under a table in the Pam & Meg’s for a night or two.

They agreed that I could stay at the Pam & Meg’s, but insisted I crawl into a hole under the floorboards instead of flopping my carcass down in the middle of the restaurant under a table. I asked if sleeping in the oven would be acceptable; they refused, so I then proposed crawling behind the wainscoting—a suggestion they also refused—and finally lurking in the vast wine cellar beneath their establishment. Even this last proposal was rebuffed, in the buff, and I finally angered Pam so much that she withdrew her offer of a never-ending supply of cornpone stew, too! I was so upset that I started slowly bleeding to death in front of her (the lithe porcupines oozing from my pores serve both as blood and tears, dear readers), until she at last agreed to let me crawl into a hole under the floorboards. I happily agreed and mopped up all the blood with an old newspaper.

Bedding down under the floorboards of the Pam & Meg’s proved to be a lot more fun in theory than in practice. In practice, the crawlspace under the floors was loaded with cockroaches. And rats… and ants… and what I think was a large beaver, although it may have been an alligator with hair. But after all the dickering and flip-flopping I’d engaged in with Pam, Meg, and their flip-flops, I couldn’t go back now and tell them the four foot–wide hole under the floorboards was unacceptable! So, I toughened up and endured the cockroaches and rats and ants biting me and trying to devour my flesh all night long.

On Saturday, my house having mostly reassembled itself, I emerged from the spider hole under the Pam & Meg’s and returned home by slithering blithely through the front door. The gnomes, servants of Satan that they are, didn’t even notice. Pam sent me a bill for all the cockroaches and rats that I had accidentally taken with me. I sent her a picture of the “goatse man” I had printed out for just these occasions. Meg came by this morning, beat me with her flip-flops, and burned my house down again.

[Feetnote: As of this evening, my latest temporary domicile is an oversized flower pot in Mr. Wilson’s greenhouse.]