Ramblings from the Desert

The man who trades freedom for security does not deserve nor will he ever receive either. ~Benjamin Franklin

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Location: New Mexico

Author of the urban fantasy novel, The Music of Chaos, and the paranormal romance, The Canvas Thief.

Monday, April 17, 2006

The Easter Bunny Is Dead

I keelt heem. He ess decomposing in my closet.

Any morning people out there?

Hate you.

Morning cracks in the Kirby household like a rotten egg splurking into pristine cake batter. Neither one of the two-legs greet the morning with any glee. I find rising before sunrise so deplorable that each morning I literally spend a few minutes contemplating suicide. Except, since it's morning, I don't have the required energy to complete the task. That is followed by cursing the powers that be for making me a working stiff.

This morning's psychotic anti-morning rumination: contemplating shaving my head because drying my hair takes too bloody long. All that hair drying time--the bulk of the beauty routine--could then be allocated to more sleeping time.

One of the worst things about mornings are morning people, especially the syrupy types who want to chatter about your weekend at 7 AM before a proper dosage of caffeine.

Chirpy McBubbles: "Was the Easter Bunny good to you?"

ME: [Rubs tummy] Oh, yeah. Real good, just like chicken.

Chirpy McBubbles: "Oh. I have to be...someplace...bye."

Fortunately, morning people don't do dark humour and can be frightened away. More irritating is the Mover and Shaker type who shows up in your workspace and starts going through the list of things that need doing, today's meetings, etc. And then he looks annoyed when you blink owlishly at him, as if everyone should have their head shoved as far up management's butt as he does.

The crown for Most Irritating Morning Life Form in the Morning (or any time of day) went to a guy I worked with several years ago. Among his many non-charms, was the propensity to play "whatever you have, mine is better" game. Since he was pauchy ex-rocker with a mullet haircut, clinging to past high school glory, his superiority existed only in his head.

The cherry on top of his tedious nature was his sports obsession. Everyone in that damn office lived for sports. I, on the other hand, when confronted with sports talk, switch off my ears and start writing gay porn. Typical scenario:

CoWorker: "Hey. Did you see that pass Johnson made last night?"
ME: [Click. Ears off.] Cue Boom-chicka porn music. Meaty guy in football uniform walks into locker rooms. Second meaty guy says, "Get out of my dreams and into my pants, hot stuff."

SportsGuy took it a step farther, thinking he could crush my ego by telling me every time his college team--The Lobos--beat mine--the Aggies. A futile effort because, A) I didn't care about Aggie sports when I was in school, and B) because this was my usual reaction:

SportsGuy: Hey Pat. Did you see the Lobo vs Aggie game last night? It was sweet. The Lobos laid a can of whoop ass on the Aggies. [makes whistling noise]
ME: [porno music starts to play] Eh? What sport? [honestly don't know]. [Meanwhile, in my head, two sexy elf-men are getting ready to go at it.]
SportsGuy: [slightly deflated] Football.
ME: Huh? Really? It's football season?
SportGuy: [stupidly persistent] Yeah. And Cortez threw a forty yard pass.
ME: Cortez? Who does he play for?
SportGuy: The Lobos. [smirks] Meanwhile, Coach Hardy is in hot water for recruitment bribes.
ME: Recruitment? Like the Army?
SportGuy: No, no. Recruiting new players.
ME: And Hardy is the...Lobos' coach?
SportGuy: No. The Aggie coach. [sighs. fiddles with mullet. slinks away.]
ME: [sexy elf-men jeer at his back and commence The Sex.]
On a side note, we found a dead cottontail rabbit on the property yesterday. Apparent cause of death unknown. I insisted that the J-Man--here's where I pull the girl card and refuse to deal with Ewy Dead Thing--bury it to curtail carrion smells. J-Man noted that Peter had been dead for some time as the corpse was "crunchy." So if your children went short a few Easter treats, it's because Mr. Death paid the Easter Bunny a call.

Double Ewy.



Graphics and Content Copyright © Patricia Kirby 2005