I discovered this plastered on my front door in bold, red type. It was large enough so that you could clearly read it from the Goddamned road. Actually, it was my wife who discovered it when she came home from work. She snatched it off the door then brought it to me, shaking it in my face. Seems she was embarrassed that perhaps the whole of the neighborhood had seen it.
“Why in the hell would you put this on the door?!”
Despite the colossal font that was used to create it I had a difficult time recognizing that it was a sign at all, what with the way she was swinging it around. A few moments of careful study (I was doped up pretty good due to a back injury) and I was reasonably certain that it did not belong to me and I had not written it. For one thing, I knew how to spell ‘catheter’. You learn how to spell thingswhen theyget jammed down your pee hole.
“I didn’t,” I said giving a little shrug. “That’s not even my handwriting.”
I mean, it’s not like the sign was inaccurate or anything. I did have a catheter in my root. Yet unlike the mysterious,officious, spelling-deficientauthor of this miniature billboard, I didn’t feel like that should have been a public service announcement or anything. Sometimes, when there’s a catheter in your root,you just don’t think of things like advertisement,that’s my take on it.
“So, who did it?” She asked.
“How the hell should I know? I mean damn babe, how many centimeters is your asshole?”
She gave me that same look my mother always gave me when she caught me at defining moments during my formative years. Whether it was sexual encounters with toy cement mixers, the flaming kitty fiasco, the things you can do with your colon and a lighter shortly after having 3 bean burritos, the day I realized that a dog will lick peanut butter off of any body part you smear it on, any body part. Yeah, I’ve seen that look a time or two.
She took a deep breath, I could see she was having a difficult time preventing herself from beating me to death with the mysterious ‘cathiter’ sign. But she managed, and frankly, her strong sense of self control was one of the reasons why I married her. Or perhaps she couldn’t bring herself to commit the shameful act of bludgeoning an already crippled man. Any normal woman would have, and one abnormal one already tried, but you’ve already read about her.
“Well here’s an idea,” she said calmly. “Since you’ve got nothing else to do for the next week but lay in bed and rest your back, how about using some of that radioactive walnut you call a brain and figure it out. There’s no telling how long that thing has been on the door. What if my mother had come by?” I started to comment on the possibility, but I detected that I had used up most of my smartass allowance for the day, so I kept it to myself. “Get busy inspector. I’m going to make dinner.”
Without reserve, it was plain to see that I needed the distraction. I had run out of things to do. I had already plowed through Asimov’s Chronology of The World, Demon-Haunted World (twice), Ender’s Game, Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors (another great Sagan read), several back issues of Deconstructionist Philosophist Monthly (Ha! just checkin’ to see if you were still paying attention) and was most of the way through The Panda’s Thumb when my wife assigned me to the case. There’s always a stack of books on my side of the bed and my bride takes great pleasure in demonstrating her contempt for my ‘weird’ tastes in literature, just before rolling over to her side of the bed and thumbing to her bookmark in whatever part of the Left Behind Series she happens to be working on. But about this she was correct. Whoever this nefarious character was he/she was about to match wits with genius personified. Prepare to meet the next Sherlock Holmes, you scheming bastard!
Actually with all the drugs I was taking, it would be more like a low rent version of Roscoe P. Coltrane’s brother Slappy, who has a bad thyroid and worked construction up until he took a crane hook to the temple while demonstrating how to pick up a lot lizard at the local truck stop to a coworker using two halves of a Velveeta and SPAM burger like puppets to represent the ‘dude’ and the ‘dudette’, but I was still going to be more than a match for some ass-rag who couldn’t spell ‘catheter’. All I needed to get started was a suspect list. I went to work immediately.
With pen hovering over paper I asked myself the first question, “Who do I know personally that has motive to do something like this to me?” The names began swimming to the front of my brain where I awaited them with my shrimp net. As understanding began to dawn above the horizon and cast its light across the surface of the ocean of my mind like a slant, narrow lane into heaven I looked down at my legal pad and understood one thing to be certain:
I was going to need more legal pads.
This wall of humanity hit me like a half-eaten mustard sandwich thrown from the nose bleed section of a Monster Truck Rally. Everyone I knew was capable of doing something like this! I had played practical jokes by the thousands. My friends had suffered terrible injustices at my very capable hands. As it turns out I was deserving of far more than this. By the time I made it to the bottom of the third page I had nearly resigned myself to just letting it go. I was a bastard, and if this was all I was getting in return then so be it! Let it go! All things considered, I was getting off easy.
But I couldn’t let it go. Whether I was an asshole or not didn’t change the fact that I had been poked. Assholes don’t take kindly to being poked. They just don’t have that kind of functionali–
You know what, forget it, let’s just skim the list, take a sampling from the first page and go from there:
Suspect 16: The Ex-Girlfriend - You all know her. She’s the world class cock-socket that inspired me to wax hatred and disgust in this thread. The things she did to me, hell the things we did to each other go so far beyond the scope of this post and the English language that I honestly don’t believe it possible to capture it all anymore. Also, I had to scratch her off the list immediately as poster board antics simply aren’t her style. Had she known I had a catheter (impossible) or if she had an inkling that I may have been stuck in bed with a back injury or was in any way incapacitated, or just unable to adequately defend myself, she wouldn’t have done anything as merciful as putting a sign on my door. She was more of the
kick-my-door-in, hook-a-chain-to-the-catheter-tube, hook-the-other-end-to-her-car, kick-me-in-the-nuts-so-hard-that-my-cock-spot-welds-to-her-shoe-and-my-balls-explode-against-the-back-of-my-teeth,
Since I still had all of my vital organs inside of me it didn’t take a degree in Quantum Mechanics to figure out that she had no idea I was down, and thus, was not guilty.
Suspect 3: The Best Friend - A strong suspect. I met him on the first day of my fifth grade year. It was his second time around. He insists it was his mother that held him back because the teacher told her that although he would pass, she had ‘concerns’. One of the best friends that you could ever hope to have, yet he is in his thirties and still a virgin, has never actually had a job, and never got around to getting a driver’s license. Yeah, there’s a phobia categorization for people who are deathly afraid of embarrassing themselves around people and he is a textbook example. He quit school in the ninth grade after accidentally letting one rip in computer class. Apparently Sphincter-Security was on the fritz and an otherwise silent, omnidirectional stinker became a resounding, blue-screening sys-dump in his BVDs, reverberating out from that hollow part of his desk beneath him designed to store your books. Carla, the school’s ultra-hot cheerleader sitting behind him, screamed, “Oh my God!” and got up and moved. So he got up and walked out of class. He never went back. He’s a good looking guy who keeps himself in good physical shape. He just has that thing about being around people. It’s probably a good thing that he is still a virgin, because the guy is packing a rod longer than a three-balled Himalayan yak, and when he finally does get laid someone is going to have to build a handicap ramp right up to the poor woman’s front door because all of that sexual pressure behind a human battering ram and she’s going to be a cunt-plegic when the dust settles, bet your fur on that.
Suspect 9: The Next Bestest Friend - Another in a sea of possibilities. Met him several years ago at the hospital where we work on the night shift. Night shift at a hospital is described as ten minutes of work followed by thirty minutes of smoke breaks, depending which department you work in. I met him in the smoking section and we started talking about playing guitar and music in general. He mentioned that his cousin sat in regularly on bass for an 80’s band that he was now too ashamed to name. He said they had a hit called, Everybody Wants to Rule The World.
“Yeah, Tears for Fears,” I said. “They wrote that other song too…what was it… Swallowing the Seeds of Love, or something?”
He nearly soiled himself laughing at that, and to this day I have no idea why. Anyway, we were immediate friends from then on. As I’ve mentioned before, this is the same guy who declared war on a company that didn’t really exist, The White Van Speaker Brigade. This war lasted a couple of years and nearly destroyed our home town and the surrounding areas. it became ground zero for zeroes. He dedicated himself to the annihilation of the phantom company then adopted a scorched earth policy to dissuade them from coming back at him legally. He pushed his troops across the Rubicon and burned the bridges. Speaker salesmen went missing. swamp justice, they call it. Whenever mothers saw my friend coming up the street they’d snatch up their walleyed children and dart into their homes, snapping the deadbolt so hard that the sound of it would parrot around the room long after. In the end my friend located and bested his opponents and had somehow gotten his money back. The town got back to normal, and pregnant women no longer had premature labor pains when he was walking up the same side of the street. If you ever meet him, it’s best not to mention white vans and discount speakers. There’s actually a city ordinance against it. That’s my next bestest friend. Catheter-in-root signs are certainly something I wouldn’t put past him, but somehow it just didn’t feel right. I put his name down anyway, frig it.
Suspect 13: The Gay Friend - I don’t know. I just. Don’t. Know. It’s not like he hasn’t played practical jokes on me or anything. I mean, he knew I had the hots for the mail chick, so the fucker sends me a postcard from New York with two naked men holding each other in a gettin’-ready-to-crank-you-down-like-somebody-just-cured-AIDS** pose on the front and a short little note on the back that said, ‘God, how I wish you were here!’. Sure as shit, she slapped it firmly in my hand on top of the rest of the mail as if to say,
“If you’re as gay as this post card clearly indicates, why do you keep standing by the mailbox every day making small talk about zip codes while you skeeve me the hell out, peppering your played-out-ass lines with that knowing wink as I paper cut myself with the Cooper’s junk mail in an attempt to hide my discomfort from the fact that you’re wearing a two-sizes-too-small terry cloth bath robe and your breath smells oddly like edible underwear and Hot Pockets?”
You know, maybe I do have the fashion sense of Napoleon Dynamite on four bottles of Nyquil and as far as suave goes I make Crispen Glover look like Remington Steele, and it’s clear that I don’t exactly live at The Poon Palace or anything, and the only reason I even get invitations to parties anymore is so they can make me dance by shooting pellet guns at my feet, but dammit, I almost had her eating out of my hand, Gay Friend! Is it too much too ask that you stop cock blocking for someone you never even met?
Then there was the time that he left that message on my answering machine knowing full well that I was out of town and my mother was checking on the house for me:
"Hey Euth, I uh, just wanted to let you know that uh, if you need to stay at one of the local hotels any time soon, stay away from that Ramada over on Community Rd. You know the one next to the Auto Zone? Anyway, just steer right clear of that place for a while. You might get the room I was just in, and right now it looks like a cum bomb went off in there! They’re thinking of changing the name of the place to the Jerk-n-Slurp. Just letting you know. By the way, did you get that mole on your ass checked out? You better, ‘cause the last time I was churnin’ the old butter it looked like it had some color-change thing going on, and they say that’s one of the signs that it could be cancer. So, I mean it’s probably nothing, but why take the risk, you know? anyway, later."
Obviously Gay Friend cannot be counted out, but he’s highly intelligent, and I know he knows how to spell ‘catheter’ so my instincts say it’s not him. That is unless he spelled it wrong intentionally to throw me off the trail, which means…
To be continued…
** The author implores you not to take offense to this obviously insensitive remark, designed solely to augment the humor of the author’s sad existence contained within the context of the post entire.