[Hi gang! I don’t wanna run a whole friggin’ website anymore, all I ever wanted was to make with the fake lies, yelling, and jokes that aren’t worth the legwork for the people, to be a simple blogger. To that end, you can now find me over at The Naming Way courtesy of the truly excellent Pika, alongside such Dudes of Quality as Jason and Brenden! It’s The Bageler will stay up until my subscription runs out next year and I’ll continue to cross-post until then; thank you all for reading, and I hope to see you over at my new pad!]
Mine is a home wherein MANY MINDGAMES ARE PLAYED, and not just with the cats; fortunately, they’re all like “hee-hee-hee he’s going to open the toothbrush drawer and see there’s ALREADY A PIECE OF FLOSS PULLED OUT FOR HIM” kind, because I married the best woman, or “ha-haaaaa she’s gonna get out of the shower ONLY TO FIND THAT HER NIGHTLY CUP OF TEA IS ALREADY MADE AND WAITING FOR HER” as the case may be, that kind of thing; an ongoing war of consideration, and hostilities are unlikely to cease.
The thing we’re doing lately is sharking one another. No, not like in that Questionable Content strip (although, I mean, it—one of us—the—ANYWAY); in this context, sharking refers to bamboozling each other with this friggin’ guy:
Here’s how it works: Sharkle’s got surprisingly long arms¹ that each have one of those slap-bracelets inside², and when not being called into service he makes his home on the stem of the standing-fan in our sala.
The sharkening consists of, quite stealthily you understand, the sharker removing Sharkle from his appointed post and hiding him in a place that the other person is either definitely or probably going to look later that day but will probably not expect to see a stuffy sharkum, thereby hopefully surprising and delighting the sharkee and, in my case, releasing a completely uncontrollable shotgun-blast-laugh that scares the shit out of the sharker while she fights to finish her DuoLingo through the syrupy embrace of a gentle jazz-gummy³. We’ve been doing this for about a week, and in no particular order, Sharkle has popped up:
- In my nightstand-drawer, holding my pill-caddy like Gus on a sample-distribution run
- Keeping her toothbrush safe from sink-pirates
- Wrapped around the handle of the milk jug in the fridge
- Holding my electric shaver for me
- Encircling the lotion-bottle in her nightstand-drawer
- Clutching a tightly-rolled pair of my underoos in that drawer
- In our cabinet, cradling the jazz-gummy canister like a grinning, squamous Dr. Feelgood
- Offering me a nice stick of deoderant in this trying time
He holds things, you get it, and she’s just the most wonderful, delightful soul ever put on this planet.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go see a man about renting a full-size shark costume.
I’m gonna need a bigger toothpaste,
— C. W.
¹ Just like a real shark
² Also just like a real shark
³ “I got yer fuckin’ vosotros right here,” she slurred, trying to make a jerk-off motion but forgetting whether that goes up-down or side-to-side