Have you ever almost stepped on a cockroach and then it runs over your bare foot?
I hate it when that happens! Sheesh!
Took some trash out to the garage where I’d stashed a big garbage bag with trash three days ago (ahem . . . my wife is traveling and, like the typical male, I’d don’t clean until a couple of hours before she returns — I’m frantically running around trying to put things in order. That is the reason for the garbage stashed in the garage).
I nonchalantly picked the bag up to dump stuff into it. That was when it happened!
Big as a tom cat! Black as a jaguar! It leaped at me like a lion attacking a zebra . . . ferocious, growling, fangs bared. Like any self-respecting hunk of a man, I screamed and ran, on my tippy toes, into the house. I had to shudder several times until the hibbygibbies left me. Cracking the door to peer into the garage, the beast was nowhere to be seen.
Horror of horrors! I’d dropped the bag and garbage was everywhere! Now I’d have to venture out into the garage to pick it all up. Cockroach fodder! That’s what I’d be! I can just see it now . . . my wife returns home to find her beloved hubby stripped to the bone by the vicious, flesh-eating monsters.
But, with the other option looming in the background — trash all over the garage when my wife returns — I have no choice. I have to venture into the venomous creature’s lair.
If you don’t hear from me in the next 24 hours, please call the SWAT team . . .