So it was once again a fairly fucking “weird” week. At a certain point, I will simply have to begin calling these “normal” weeks if the “weird” weeks keep occurring with such frequency. Of course, that could raise the bar too high and make any future “weird” weeks seem like a William S. Burroughs novel, so maybe not, either way. Yeah, I’m also confused. Let’s get it on.
THE SET-UP
As you may be aware, probably not, it’s been pretty much Wild Fucking Kingdom over at our house lately. Birds, snakes, and opossums have either met their demise, or in the case of the opossum, pretended they did. It seems like enough already … but of course it isn’t.
On Wednesday night I went to bed early, mostly because I wasn’t drinking and any sort of lucid thought just exhausts me. I fell asleep quickly because I read about a sentence and a half of Infinite Jest. (Note: I long for the day I finally quit trying to read this novel once a year). I got about a half hour of slumber when I began hearing strange noises.
It was initially a whimper, then some sort of yelping. As with most situations when I’m sleeping, I tried to ignore it the best I could. It eventually became a piercing, shrill calling out of my name. I pulled on some shorts and a t-shirt with Daffy Duck dressed as Batman on the front. This was apparently foreshadowing. I opened the hallway door and was quickly instructed to shut it by my wife, who was inexplicably lying on the living room floor in a ball with her arms over her head. I fought my first inclination to go back to bed.
Through the door, my wife informed me (with her outside voice) that, “A fucking bat is in the goddamned house and is about to kill me.” Of course, I questioned, “Really? A bat?” I was promptly informed that a) Yes, really a fucking bat, and b) I was a fucking idiot. I snuck through the hallway door and got very low, the kind of low people get when boarding an old helicopter. I even fought the instinct to crabwalk right out the backdoor for a smoke and a pee while I thought of a plan.
Instead, I opened all the doors and windows and quietly accepted that all of my blood was about to be sucked from my body and possibly my soul. I never officially saw the bat, but I did kind of feel it whip by me as it flew in the bathroom. I quickly closed the door behind it. I can only assume it chose the bathroom because it had to poop and also wanted to soil my toothbrush. Either way, it was trapped and I needed time and some shut-eye to formulate a plan, a terrible, terrible plan.
THE PLAN
I had no plan, though I suddenly felt like I should go rent Zero Dark Thirty first, partly because I would probably enjoy it and secondly because my “bat plan” would need to be at least that intricate. This is why I hate Redbox. My story would have been so fun to explain to an actual clerk. Instead, I called my friend, Matt, for three reasons:
- To see if he had seen Zero Dark Thirty
- To see if he wanted to get drunk and catch a bat
- To see if he had some sort of heat-seeking eyewear to confirm that there was only one bat or target.
It turns out that:
- He had not seen Zero Dark Thirty
- He neither wanted to get drunk nor catch a bat
- He had no heat-seeking goggles. I had wasted a lot of valuable time.
I called my friend, Eddie, but he had no plan either. He only offered to bring over a tennis racquet and to capture video of whatever happened. I had already considered the racquet/killing option, but had decided to be just a tiny bit better than that. I also toyed with the “shotgun” option, but was concerned about the aftermath since I’m not that strong of a drywaller.
I went to the garage and quickly became Wile E. Coyote. Well, I never use that hacksaw. Could that work? What is that, an air compressor? That has to be something, right? Obviously, the seldom-used Weed Eater could be a solution. It’s just that that particular solution would be far worse than the initial problem. I settled on a bucket and then went to the kitchen to see if we have any extra spatulas.
My plan was brewing. Now I only needed a hockey mask, an empty refrigerator box, and a codpiece made of gold and sapphires. Obviously, I wasn’t ready to go in just yet, especially since making a useable codpiece is a lot harder than it looks on Xena: Warrior Princess. I decided to go to work and initiate my plan in the bright afternoon, when the bat least expected it. This would also give me time to do some push-ups.
THE RAID
It turns out that my wife and her friend, Melissa, just went to the house over their lunch hour and Melissa took the bat from our house with some sort of magazine. It flew away, and possibly waved goodbye and smiled as it headed for darker pastures. My plan was good. Her plan was effective. Whatever. I bet she didn’t even enjoy it all that much. I abandoned my previous plan and came up with a new plan, which was to buy drinks for my wife and her friend later that day. I sort of felt like a candyass, but at least I was alive … and also still able to drink.
END NOTE
If I have, quite unintentionally, broken any sort of weird fucking “bat laws” by not properly disposing of the creature, then this story is a work of, um, fiction. Yeah, fiction.
EXTRAS
So, Hawaii has basically had one terrible day since its existence?
I hope Peter Case sings, “A Million Miles Away” on Friday at Highdive. I bet he does. If he doesn’t, I will beat the shit out of him.
The gray dog needs to stop crapping on the side of the house. I should probably do that, as well.
Buona sera, senorina, kiss me goodnight.