Email me your top three choices at brosam (at) gmail (dot) com. Thanks again to everyone who entered. We ended up massacring a bunch of cliches!
Actual Blog Post
I went to sis-in-law E’s house for dinner, and there was one extra guest.
A rooster. I asked E about it, and she said her daughter (Niece E) had been asked to a dance with the rooster.
She opened her door, and on the porch, under a box, where three roosters. Two of them have since flown away.
Apparently, the note read, “Don’t be a chicken, and go with me to the dance.”
I don’t want to be the one to actually tell the boy that the bird was, in fact, a rooster.
Anyway, so the boy leaves the birds at my sis-in-law’s house. Can you believe that? He probably found them on Craigslist or something:
3 FREE CHICKENS (OR ROOSTERS). TAKE THEM. PLEASE. JUST TO SILENCE THE VOICES IN MY HEAD.
So I’m making my way to the backyard to say hi to the Rooster, when my other sis-in-law says, “Brodi, come check out this spider. I think it’s a Hobo.”
My feet freeze. I literally can’t move. I say, “I’m coming,” but I’m really just standing there.
You see, my fear of spiders is not wholly unfounded. When Sam and I were first married, I was up one morning, around 3 am, playing Halo. (I have since found a more productive outlet to insomnia, but back then, it was Castlevania and Halo.)
So, I’m up playing Halo, and out of the side of my vision, I see a thinnish brown rope, sliding along the carpet near the door.
I know what you’re thinking… Alien tentacles.
But it’s not an alien tentacle. It’s even worse. It’s a long line of Hobo spiders, making their way from a hole in the carpet near the door, across the living room to the kitchen. Never ending. Did you ever see that scene in Arachnophobia, where the spiders pour out of the sink drain? It was like that.
Only they were in a straight line. Probably autistic.
I didn’t have any spider repellent at the time, so I grabbed the closest aerosol can I could find.
Because spiders are made of hair.
To make a long story short (too late) I froze that line of Hobo’s right in their tracks. Then I lit a match at one end.
Totally kidding about the match. But I did drown them in hairspray.
Turns out there was a giant nest of Hobo’s just outside our basement apartment’s door.
So, back to sis-in-law M. She grabbed a glass jar and captured the Hobo. We all examined the spider, and I said, “Yep. It’s a Hobo. You can tell by the Chevron markings on its back.”
And then my bro-in-law D came outside, and examined the spider, and said, “Yep. It’s Hobo. You can tell by the Chevron markings on its back.”
Apparently, we read the same tutorial on “How to Identify the Hobo, and then Run for your Frakkin’ Life.”
Bro-in-law D looked at me, and then I fessed up. I have no idea what Chevron markings are.
Meanwhile, the Hobo twisted and turned, as if to illustrate where exactly the Chevron markings could be found on his body. Okay, he was really just suffocating to death.
So, in my lifetime, I have killed Hobo spiders with hairspray and with lack of oxygen. If I had my druthers (what the heck are druthers, anyway?) I would choose death by hairspray. (The spider’s death, not mine.) Next time, though, I might try the match thing. Make it a blowtorch event.
So, back to the chickens. (Bet you didn’t think this story could come full circle, did you? Goes to show it’s not only good stories that come full circle.)
I think Niece E’s plan is to answer the boy with a whole raw chicken, and say something like, “The other two were delicious. Thank you.”
Personally, I think she should answer him with a bill from the vet for rooster euthanasia.
Anyone have good spider stories? Or chicken stories?
No chickens or roosters were harmed in the making of this blog. One hobo was harmed. And it wasn’t pretty.