On Saturday, after an arduous day trying to entertain two small crotch parasites, I sat down, at long last, to a nice egg white omelet (pointless aside: don’t you HATE it when people call food “nice?” Like I could have been eating a MEAN egg white omelet or something).

After devouring approximately half of it, I realized what this Prankster needed: MOAR CAKE. (also: moar cowbell and moar vodka, but again, something that’s neither here nor there)

Happily, I remembered that just last weekend, The Guy On My Couch, Ben, had, upon my pathetic request, made me cake. It was especially delicious cake and I nearly bounded in to the kitchen to cut myself a piece.

Hrms, I thought to myself, that cake looks a little bit…soggy. Oh well, I thought, it’s probably soggy with MOAR delicious.

Overcome with my brilliant idear, I cut myself a piece, licking the frosting from my finger. Hrms, I thought, as Daver and Ben talked about something incredibly boring like life on Mars in the other room, that tastes a little, well, FUNNY. It’s probably my broken taste buds, right? I mean, you can’t chug hot sauce day in and day out without having something rot. Like my taste buds.

Not-quite-soothed, I stood there, trying to connect two misfiring synapses, a conclusion elusive. Something wasn’t quite…right.

But…what? I rolled the piece of frosting around in my mouth, thinking.

After several minutes, standing in the kitchen, blinking stupidly, I leaned down to smell the cake.


It was rotten.

I spat out the piece of frosting and immediately guzzled antibacterial hand gel. Ugh. I was probably going to die from poisoned cake. What an inelegant way to go.

So I did what any potentially dying person would do: I went to Target. Figured my family would want to some food in the house as they mourned my untimely death. I waited for the bright light, the singing of angels, the fiery pit of hell to open and swallow me whole in Aisle 6. Nothing. Nada. Zip.

I had, thankfully, eluded Death’s cold embrace.

The following day, I woke up to no wracking stomach pains, no feverish death bed, a little disappointed. I had, after all, eaten poisoned cake. I should’ve at least ran a fever so I could mope about the house, bitterly bemoaning my fate, shrieking WHY GOD WHY? at random intervals. But…nothing.

Eventually, I got bored and decided that what this Prankster needed was MOAR MOVIE. I don’t typically like movies, but once in a blue moon, I’m all MUST.SEE.MOVIE. So we rented the last two Harry Potter movies and prepared the big television downstairs for our invasion.

As Daver was hooking up the DVD thingy, I realized that what stood in front of me, what had to be moved, was a lamp. You probably own this very same lamp.

I call it the Boob Lamp.

Many, many years ago, I lifted the Boob Lamp, attempting to move it, and slammed it into the ceiling of the basement, where it lived. That shattered the boob, into a ton of plastic bits, but, rather than dump the thing like I should’ve, it remained in the basement, a lone, sad lightbulb shining blindingly.

Last night, when I was all IT’S MOVIE TIME, Y’ALL, I stupidly ignored my self-imposed “don’t touch stuff” rule, grabbed the boob lamp, and lifted it. Not taking into consideration the height of the basement ceiling. Or, really, my propensity toward breaking shit.

I stood there, thinking about delicious cake, and deliberately smashed the lamp into the ceiling. For the second time.

This time, however, there was no boob to protect me.

The cake long-forgotten, I stood there, now bathed in the shards of a broken lightbulb. I stood there dumbly, blinking shards of glass into my eyes, as Daver and Ben ran around, getting vacuums and cleaning up after me.

(insert blinded by the light joke here)

I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to be dead by now. If you need me, I’ll be hiding in a hole somewhere, trying to evade Death.



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