Jeffrey and Charlie Meet the Cleavers

And now back to things that are completely different.

They never feel the prick of insertion. Too small they say. I will show them all.

I hobble back into the house, weighed down by a bag of food in one arm and the stumbling, peroxide blonde in the other. She jerks at the scene that greets us, but not very far. To be fair, I stumble too. What happened here. Something is wrong.

Dave is frozen mid strut with his face thrust forward in a cluck of challenge. He is covered in honey-mustard and feathers. He looms over the plucked carcass of last week's dinner. Dave has the worst luck, so we all know he is going to lose. Everything is normal there.

The blue flannel covering the futon is coated with yogurt, some of it crusting and flaking at the edges. Like the world's first G rated bukake. Tom is sprawled out in the middle of the makeshift bed. He wears a ring, having married the futon. The mattress wears no ring. It is not that willing to display its commitment. I know them to be wed however. I performed the ceremony myself. Nothing out of place there.

Carl balances precariously on two blades of the ceiling fan portion of the chandelier. The dog stands on the slat directly opposite of Carl. The canine stands in trot position, as Carl is obviously attempting to push himself upright, so he can run the animal down. The fan slowly spins, making the contest that much more epic. Just like I left them.

Cleetus sits at the dining room table. He holds a butcher knife in his right hand and a cleaver in the left. His hands are raised, poised to start pounding them and demanding food. He wears a grin on his face and a look of anticipation in his glassy eyes. Also right as rain.

So what is out of place?

I settle my nerves and let the uneasy feeling pass. No need for performance anxiety.

Most people would miss the tense fishing line holding everyone but Tom in place. My date doesn't miss it. I think it is the reason she tries to run. Too bad she missed the prick. So she stumbles.

A few minutes later, I am stitching up the gash in her throat, until it is an almost unseen scar. I promised Cleetus a girlfriend. One as pretty as his mother, with all of her teeth, who would never leave him. Cleetus is a demanding ass, so I could not hit her in the mouth.

When I reach for the formaldehyde I realize what is wrong. It is not where I put it. Have the feds been invading my privacy again?

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