Stuck to a glue trap
Caucused on May 4, 2025.
I spent Tuesday admiring my growing collection of empty coffee cans, cottage cheese containers, and even sour cream containers. For dozens of years now, whenever I use up one of these items, the empty container is carefully washed and dried and then lovingly stacked in one of the multitude of spare rooms that my palatial abode sports. I’m slowly running out of spare rooms but I can always build more should the need arise.
Someday, my collection will be complete. I will have saved every coffee can, cottage cheese container, and even sour cream container ever made. Who knows when you might need 22,157 coffee cans all at once? (I sure don’t. But it could happen!)
At least these stacks don’t threaten to topple over and kill everyone in a ten-foot radius, unlike my massive basement tzompantli did last week. (Poor Nurdlebutt!)
On Wednesday, I realized I actually did find a use for all 22,157 coffee cans I had collected—all at once! But after hours of searching my spare rooms, I could only find 22,153 lids! Drat and double-drat! Seeing no solution to this quandary, I forlornly re-stacked all 22,157 cans back in my spare rooms. Then I did my best to forget about the whole debacle (the alternative being to curl into a fetal position and bawl my eyes out until I died of corneal dehydration).
Monday was the worst day of the week (notwithstanding the other six). That it came after Wednesday this week made it even worse—and wholly unexpected!
Thursday? With my massive basement skull rack on my mind (itself resting placidly inside its own skull), I resolved to excavate my erstwhile basement mancave. It had been buried in concrete for months now and, despite my efforts to will and hope all that cement out of existence, the massive block of it was still stubbornly existent and taking up my entire mancave—every cubic millimeter of it.
Friday? I thought I had the perfect use for 81,818 sour cream containers but then realized I needed a bicycle pump and a pair of battery clamps instead. Drat and triple-drat! I returned the containers to my spare room and re-stacked them.
The grog frog came calling ribbitting on Saturday. What was his plan? To dog us in Saugus? About the caucus in Secaucus? Did it involve bamboo from the Bahamas? Or basalt from Biafra? My buttocks still smarted from the bamboo caning I had suffered after I escaped from the barrel Becasue stuffed me into. But that was neither here nor there now. What was here was the grog frog, ominously ribbitting about sclatherhydreal bustermust—clorggendinual enstopolopathies—and—quasomniparetic discalcigloomphing.
I tried to run my ceiling calendar backwards but the mid-sentence aneurysm I just had was already stubbornly set in stone. It would remain part of this blog forever.
I spent Sunday stuck to a glue trap I had put out for the mice that keep getting into my cupboards and clapboards. (They’re really big glue traps.)