Two Weeks Ago…
Working the night shift, I’m usually up on my days off to see the sunrise, and I’ve made it a bit of a habit to take a cup of coffee out on the patio to sit and enjoy the sunrise, with the pleasantly raucous bird chorus greeting the new day.
I’m sipping coffee, smoking my smoke, basking in the feeling of general peace and well being, when I look up into the tree limb just off of my second-story patio, and…
Yes, a used condom, hanging from a branch of the tree just off of my patio.
Judging by the height, it’s most likely from my upstairs neighbor; as if I didn’t already have reason enough to dislike the heavy-footed sumbitch.
I suppose in the meta sense I should be glad he’s taking…precautions.
Then again, I’m not the one having sex with him, and I now have to look at his used condom every time I step out onto my patio, so meta goes right out the airlock, with a firm boot in the ass from me to help it on its way.
Several remedies have come to mind, from just telling the landlord (although some problems I don’t really want to wish off on other people), to my 12 gauge (for the condom, not the neighbor, although I do admit that it’s a bit of a coin toss at the moment).
Whether I use the shotgun on the condom or the neighbor, that ain’t too neighborly, and law enforcement, from municipal to state, tends to take dim view of those sorts of solutions.
So I guess I’m just going to let the landlord know about it when he gets in.
I feel like I need a very hot shower, with lots of disinfectant soap. A few shot’s of high-proof liquor probably wouldn’t hurt none, either.
This evening (Tree Condom Must Go!)
“Tree…condom?” You ask, some slight trepidation in your voice? (If there is no trepidation…there should be; there will be!)
You scratch your head, rolling the idea of a tree condom around for a few before asking the wholly sensible question, “Okay, I maybe see the ‘how,’ but I’m kind of fuzzy on the ‘why.’ Who in the hell puts a condom on a tree?”
Yessss!! That’s (almost) exactly the same question I’ve been asking myself (and, occasionally, my landlord) for the last thirteen days and 12-some-odd hours. “Who in the hell would put a condom on a tree?”
I refer you to my previous entry, above.
“That’s a condom in a tree, you idiot!” You snap angrily. “In. Not on. In!”
Hey! This is what greets me every time I step out onto my patio, right at head height, and you want to quibble about a vowel? In. On. The fact remains that I have to stare at a used condom to enjoy the pleasantly warm/cool late spring mornings and evenings from my patio.
Existentially, the condom is definitely not in the tree; if it were, I wouldn’t see it, hidden under layers of bark and wood. The way it drapes itself arrogantly over the tiny, defiled branch, I think a solid case can be made that the condom is most definitely on the tree.
I asked my landlord that morning to do something about tree condom. His eyes bugged out of his head, thinking for sure that I was trying to put something over on him.
I showed him Tree Condom.
For the first week, my landlord, when I encountered him, looked at me strangely, smiled nervously, sidled away from me cautiously, and made hasty excuses about having business elsewhere.
For the last week, every time my landlord sees me, he shouts (safely, from a distance) about having to run on some pressing errand, pointing to the nonexistent watch that he doesn’t wear on his wrist, waving vaguely apologetically, and scurrying in the opposite direction from me as fast as his short little legs will carry him.
So the vile task now falls to me, I suppose. I have, for now, ruled out the shotgun. Although, depending upon my impending search(es) through the aisles and bins of the local hardware store for some long, stick-like item I can use to :shudder: snag tree condom from its leafy repose, revisit the idea.
After all, when I have this sitting in my gun safe, why in the name of Jeffrey Lebowski would I risk even the slightest possibility of bringing tree condom into touching proximity of my own body?
I reckon fifteen shots from the Kill-o-nator Splatblaster Gun (plus a few more from reload) should suffice to dispatch of tree condom.
With extreme !@#$%^&? prejudice! And if a few rounds should stray in the general direction of my upstairs neighbor…
Okay! I’ll play by the “civilized” rules and go buy a large stick-like thing from the hardware store!
'Cause I’m not!
Adventures In Stick Shopping
Okay, so even the big-box hardware stores don’t carry really long mechanical hands; I had to settle for an extendable pole for paintbrushes, or some such. I was looking more for reach* than anything, anyway.
However, the light is fading fast from the day, and I don’t think that this is something that should be tackled in the darkness, at least not without backup from Seal Team Six. Besides, it’s occurred to me that I might want to make additional preparations, so I’m heading back out directly to gather reinforcements:
- Gallon of bleach (it might come to two before all is said and done);
- Large bottle of scotch (ditto);
- box of Tyvek suits (full body, with hoody);
- thick, puncture-resistant rubber gloves.
I already have a decent sized household bucket for the bleach (and the excess scotch my body decides it really doesn’t want to deal with).
*Important note: when buying large-ish/long-ish items from a store, it’s helpful to know in advance whether or not they’re going to actually fit in your car. Having twenty or so feet of a twenty three foot pole sticking out of your sunroof as you drive home down the highway isn’t nearly amusing to the police as I apparently thought it would be as I was hastily concocting my “story” after having been pulled over.
At least Missouri State Highway Patrolman James McMurtree didn’t find it the least bit amusing.