Sunday, December 14, 2008


I imagine that a medieval peasant, upon returning to the smoking ruins of his village after Tamerlane and his hordes came through, raping and pillaging, would have felt much as I did early this afternoon.

The house was a shambles.

Ashtrays were piled high, overflowing with smoldering, lipstick-stained butts. The kitchen trash can was crammed with empty liquor bottles. Every horizontal surface bore drink rings. Puddles of vomit splotched the carpet; fortunately, it was almost impossible to see them thanks to the drifts of used condoms littering the floors.

Brassieres, most with unidentifiable stains, were draped over chair backs. One, notably, was stuffed into the downstairs toilet.

The Chalet Kristy after a three-day blogmeet was as clean as a freshly-fallen blanket of snow in the Canadian Rockies compared to this horror show.

Residual estrogen fumes lingered in the air, the natural consequence of having a gaggle of Vagino-Americans packed into a small space. I could feel the ol’ Twig-and-Berries shriveling under their concentrated hormonal assault. If I stayed much longer, the consequences could be serious. Man-boobs! A desire to watch “Dancing with the Stars”!

A guy like Eric may get the heebie-jeebies from thoughts of zombies, but you can take this to the bank: There is no horror to compare with the aftermath of a Baby Shower.

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