Blog Loot

I won a box of internet loot in a caption contest at Judith’s blog a while back. The treasure chest traveled thousands of miles across the ocean, from Ireland all the way to Texas, arriving at a post office no more than a few miles from our house.
I have more than one address, in fact, I have several. There’s the business address and the home address and also a post office box. I have packages sent to the P.O. Box because our postman gets bent out of shape over having to get out of his little postman-mobile when boxes show up. I installed a larger mailbox, the biggest I could find, still not big enough.
Long story short, I was terrified of giving Judith the wrong address, international shipping after all, so I was very careful when I emailed the info. So careful in fact that I screwed up the zip code. The post office promptly sent my winnings all the way back to Ireland. I am known as a very meticulous person, anal in fact, and yet still prone to bouts of buffoonery.

Judith re-sent the package and it arrived here a few days ago, tattered and obviously opened and resealed, possibly three or four times judging by the layers of different kinds of tape. Those postal handlers are a curious breed.



The first item is a she-demon riding a banana. She’s holding her decapitated head in her lap and seems overly excited to be doing so. Naturally, I scoured Deuteronomy and Leviticus in an effort to put a name to the beast, but I had no luck at all. This seemed more than a little odd to me because, while Leviticus might occasionally fall short as a spiritual “search engine” of sorts, Deuteronomy never lets me down. Hmmm.

The second item is a bottle of what is described in the fine print as “Brown Sauce.” I checked and the contents are in fact brown. All appeared perfectly innocent at this point except for the name on the front label, “HP.”
As many of you are aware, I was recently victimized by a treacherous band of thieves and liars. Through several blog posts, I described how I had been driven to the brink of technicidal rage and ultimately screwed out of a sizeable sum of money by a name-brand computer manufacturer. Month after month, they plowed deeper into my pocket. Time after time, they thrust their faulty equipment into my office. I begged for mercy, they responded by flipping me over and toasting the backside. I threatened them with legal action; they transferred me to an operative who called himself “Merle Ricardo.” His job was to wear me down through stuttering miscommunication and when the time was right, to throw sand in my crack in preparation for corporate sodomy. Time and time again, they plundered my village and now, with my wounds still fresh and reeking of burnt wiring and extruded polycarbonate, I get a suspicious package in the mail containing a bottle of “HP” sauce and a voodoo doll in blood-red shoes armed with a banana.
Judith, if that is your real name, I never mentioned the name of the computer manufacturer, how could you have known? And what about this, Merle Ricardo is the only person who has ever threatened to “banana me with egg salad service.” I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about, but it is all becoming clear to me now.

For those of you unconvinced by the evidence presented thus far, consider the remaining contents of the box.
A cigarette smoking nun! A nun that is smoking a cigarette! When you add the words nun and cigarette together phonetically, drop the “nun” then join the new word with Merle, you get “Merle Re-gar-te.” That’s right, Merle Ricardo!

A butt plug, carved from a single piece of bone, human bone in my estimate, or wood maybe. Either way, it is certainly designed to inflict pain and not pleasure as the ribbed surface might otherwise suggest. Once again, it all seems innocent enough until you consider that I had on numerous occasions told Merle Ricardo that he should shove all manner of things up his ass. I am certain one of my suggestions included a block of wood. I’m usually not a rude person but I assumed he couldn’t understand most of what I was saying anyway.

And last, but not least, a bar of “Dairy Milk” chocolate. Judith, or whatever they call you at corporate headquarters, I finally understand Merle Ricardo’s bizarre directive that I “put dairy milk bars in Henry’s chicken spleen.” You can tell your overlords that I’m on to their scheme. Tell them that I ate the chocolate, stowed the banana riding she-devil in a well secured box of Christmas ornaments, taped the nun to the top of my monitor, sanded the corners off the plug and they can say adios to the HP sauce.
It turns out that your so-called “brown sauce” has nothing at all to do with feces. Who could fault me for thinking “brown sauce” was a euphemism. Nope, brown sauce is what we in this part of the world call “bar-b-que” sauce. I rebottled it, added garlic and a couple of fresh jalapeños from the garden and I will be putting it to use on the grill next weekend. We will be having bar-b-qued chicken spleens, but I’m sure your sources have already informed you of that.