Sunday, January 29, 2012

From the Archive: The Foundlings

Deacon the Milkman and I have been hosting a couple of exchange students from Tierra del Fuego. Their original host-family had them working in a sweatshop and calling it “vocational school” as they were learning how to sew in 36-hour stints. We rescued them and they came into our lives with nothing but the homemade clothes on their backs and various “tickle-me Elmo” limbs stuffed in their pockets. They said they were going to trade them for cat food. Evidently, there’s a huge market for bootleg Elmo parts. Anyway, they’ve been shacking up in my office for the past week. If you saw the look on their little faces when we told them they were having Hamburger Helper for dinner with Oatmeal substituted for meat…well there just aren’t any words.

Deacon found them jobs as bologna gatherers at our local slaughterhouse. Pick’n up the parts, dust'n ‘em off, throw’n them in the bin…I know they’re thanking their lucky stars. Every night, we hear them crying themselves to sleep with tears of joy. Occasionally, we have to shake a can full of pennies at them in order to keep them off the furniture or urinating in the refrigerator, but I’m sure you know exactly how these sorts of things go.

Two nights ago, I was crawling into bed and found a full bull’s bladder sitting on my pillow. The skin was taut, round, almost bursting with urine. The way it gleamed in the light it almost looked like if you so much as breathed on it, it would go off. The workmanship! Those little scamps had sewn all the openings shut and put in our bed to make sure we’d find it, not unlike the cat who kills something and leaves it in front of the coffee maker for you to find. It was so sweet. It was also very delicate, must have taken them hours to prepare it. Deacon grabbed one end of it and I the other, and we headed downstairs to give it back to them. Because our hands were full, we had to kick open the door and then hurl it at their shared twin cot. Sure, in hindsight, we could have gently set the bloated orb outside their door and tip-toed back up the stairs, but we wanted them to share in our excitement and give it back to them immediately. The look of shock in combination with unbridled tear-streaked, urine-bathed joy was an image I shall take with me throughout the rest of my days…I love our new foundlings.

*Here’s the translation
We’ve got neighbors whose a/c went out. They’ve been with us for most of the week. In Houston no A/C really does mean Hell's crotch.
Unfortunately there’s no such urine-bomb experience that I can relate to you in truth…I just sorta made that up…
They were exemplary guests…

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