Dangerspouse Rides Again

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Garage - Track

Apr. 03, 2004 - 8:15 a.m.

I've been away for a few days, sorry. There was a death in NewWifey(tm)'s family, so we had to fly out to Kansas City.

Turns out it was a houseplant that had died.

They're very attached to their hydrangeas out there apparently. I was left with in a bit of a quandry though: what do you bring to a plant's funeral? A wreath of dead flowers? I decided just to make a donation to the Atkins Center. "Save a plant. Eat meat."

But I'm back now. At least til the next frost decimates their roses.


Poolagirl does not know that this is called a "queef". Go and make fun of her for that, and for calling it a "vagina fart" instead of the more politically correct "pussy fart".


I need to complete yesterday's story, at the request of the always adorable hcatty. I didn't include this portion the other day because it was already an hour past my ridiculously early bedtime.

To recap:

Whilst preparing Eggplant Dip, I bypassed the crucial step of piercing the skins of the purple bastards before placing them in the oven. The resulting explosion not only soiled walls and utensils, but almost necessitated a trip to the Burn Unit for your humble narrator.

What I neglected to mention was my dog, the rapacious Welsh Corgi. He played a small but important role in the procedings.

See, immediately following the blast I knew I was going to have to take steps to avoid infection. If there's one advantage to subscribing to Al Jazeera satellite TV, it's becoming familiar with the effects Arab bombs have on Western skin. Now I'm not saying that my GE stove was the sight of a terrorist attack...but let's face it. Babbaghanoush IS an Arab dish, and GE is a major US defense contractor. I decided to call Tom Ridge, just in case.

But first I needed to tend to the wounded: me. From years of racing motorcycles poorly, I recognised the signs of tissue death from burns right away. After the initial thrill of pain, an odd numbness spreads along the entire limb. After a minute or so, it actually starts to feel cool as heat sensing nerves turn to ash. This was now what I was experiencing on both my forearms, exposed areas of chest around my Mercedes Benz medallion bling, and the right side of my face. Getting antibiotics to the affected area was Priority One until the full extent of the damage was determined.

I long ago learned the value of keeping a comprehensively stocked First Aid Kit in the house. When you race motorcycles, cook with vats of boiling oil, and marry Irish broads, injuries are ineveitable. The path to the medicine cabinet was a well trod one, and I started down it once again as soon as I staggered to my feet.

Have you ever smelled a burning Italian? Anthropologists researching primitive cultures in places like the Trobriand Islands and Papua New Guinea sometimes gave back to the societies they were studying by becomming food for them. One of the Rockefeller kids fell prey to cannibal hunters while on a research sabbatical in the South Pacific, as a matter of fact. As a result of these walking CARE packages, later anthropologists came to discover that they were being referred to by locals as "Long-Pig" in the native tongue. Because that's what they tasted like. WE are the Other White Meat. I can only imagine how comfortable you must feel standing in the middle of a jungle surrounded by chronically malnourished pygmies armed to their stretched lower lips with curare tipped arrows, all of whom are mentally sizing up what size iron pot they'll need. You asess your odds of sucessfully fending them off with your clipboard and #2 pencil, and frown.

I have now applied 450 degree molten eggplant to my face, chest and arms, and I see what the appeal was for those cannibals. I smelled like an Easter Ham.

My dog LOVES ham.

It's only 30 or so feet from my kitchen to the bathroom medicine cabinet, but I didn't think I was gonna make it. At the familiar sound of fat sizzling, Casey the Corgi came bounding in expecting a tossed scrap. He didn't see me holding anything, but he sure could smell roasting pork. He was not to be denied.

Corgis are small dogs, but strong as hell and tenacious. When Casey realized that I wasn't gonna share the 55 pound ham I was obviously carrying, he decided to block my way until I changed my mind. Half blind and numb from the elbows down, I found my every step blocked by a furry 30 pound bowling ball. I had to get my antibiotic cream, but a tailless herding dog wouldn't let me!

Really, this was an act of true desperation. I figured I had about 5 minutes before irreparable damage from neglect set in, as well as scarring. I picked up the frothing Corgi and jammed him into the microwave oven.

Now we have a pretty big microwave, which is really ridiculous in our house because it's only used to make Instant S'mores once a week. But it was on sale, and even though it's so big that it hangs two inches over each side of the counter...well, it was on sale!

And now I'm glad we have it. The engineers at Kenmore obviously prepare Corgi Cassarole at home, because Casey fit perfectly. He yapped as best he could with his face pressed up against the glass, but more at frustration over not getting my ham rather than from confinement. A brief impulse to hit the "On" button was squelched when NewWifey(tm) marched into the kitchen, trailing the other two wives.

"What in the world is the dog going so nuts......




....honey, why is the dog in the microwave?"

The ladies next to her started to edge backwards away from me. NewWifey(tm), all too used to scenes like this, just stood with her arms folded waiting for an explanation. It wasn't long coming - I couldn't waste time with an elaborate lie; I still had to get to the medicine cabinet!

"Sweetie, I know it looks bad, but I wasn't going to cook the dog for our guests, honest. I was making Babbaghanoush and the eggplants exploded. Now I'm burned and have to get to the Triple Antibiotic cream in the bathroom, but the dog won't let me. He thinks I'm carrying ham. The only way I could get him out of the way was to put him in the microwave. I WASN'T GOING TO COOK HIM! NOW GET OUT OF MY WAY!"

NewWifey(tm) gave a snort of either derision or disbelief, but she stepped aside. Good thing, or she would have joined the Corgi. The other two ladies were already pressed up flat against the back wall, pale and trembling. I sprinted down the hall and FINALLY reached the healing ointment.

I think NewWifey(tm) realized I wasn't just making another lame excuse after being caught doing something stupid. My Ferrari Red arms, chest and face may have convinced her, or maybe the smell. Whatever it was, she showed up in the bathroom after calming her friends down and offered to help. I already had two full tubes smeared onto me - I looked like Diana Nyad after she coated herself with Crisco before jumping into the English channel - but her help winding sterile gauze around me was very welcome. She even managed a small joke while she worked.

"You know, that garlic and olive oil you live on kinda adds something to your normal BO when your skin crisps up. I like it - I may even be convinced to eat some Italian Ham later, waddaya say?"

When we wrapped up wrapping me up, she went to free Casey and attend to her guests. I painfully worked my way down to the basement and the other husbands. Typical guys - they laughed at the bandages and opened me a beer. I felt right at home. But like I said, I got my ass handed to me at foosball.

Anyway, so here I am. The bandages are off, some cheery new pink skin covers the burns, and I can type again. And I'm hungry. So if you'll excuse me, I'm off to make lunch.

Long Pig!

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