I was relaxing at home one day, feeding my piranha. That is, feeding him to the grizzly I keep in my garage. (I have a license to keep dangerous pets; I rehabilitate them and send them off as certified social workers). That’s when I heard a strange noise coming from my basement.
Now, the Morrison Man doesn’t like surprises. My parents tried to surprise me with a birthday party when I was eight. I walked in to my house, the lights went on, people shouted, and I roundhoused the entire group before anyone could get out the last syllable. (My uncle had to get a party horn surgically removed from his throat.) I reiterate: surprising me is like surprising a spitting cobra who’s had too much coffee while watching his stocks take a dive.
Anyway, I went down to investigate.
Someone was sneaking in through my basement window.
I clicked on the light and got a good look at my intruder. Blonde, about five-foot-six, with a figure that made me want to race slot cars again (think about it).
“If you’re looking for trouble,” I said, “he lives with his mom next door and drives a Hyundai to his job at Costco. Is there something I can do for you?”
She explained that she had been hanging out at a restaurant with her girlfriends discussing loop quantum gravity (I told you that so this post can pass the Bechdel test – you’re welcome), when her ex-boyfriend showed up and made a scene.
If there’s one thing a Morrison Man hates, it’s an ex who can’t move on.
I helped her down and told her to relax. I taught her some of the meditative breathing techniques I learned back in my days at the ashram, where I was personally trained by a sexy female yogi as a reward for helping her when she locked her qi in her karma, if you know what I mean. (I hope you do, because I don’t. Sometimes the Morrison Man is an enigma even to himself).
“So,” I said, “tell me about this raging weevil you used to date.”
She looked at me with terror in her eyes. “Just hope he hasn’t followed me here. You could be in great danger.”
I hadn’t laughed so hard since I saw Leo DiCaprio freeze to death in Titanic.
Once I recovered, I calmly explained to her that she had nothing to worry about. Then I moved in closer to allow her to get a whiff of my natural musk (which has been described as a cross between jet fuel and tiger fur) and she slunk into my embrace.
I was just about to give her a course in reciprocal CPR when I heard a noise coming from upstairs: An urgent pounding on my door, and an angry male voice accompanying it.
You know I hate surprises.
But not as much as I hate interruptions.
It’s just another day, I thought, as I went upstairs to answer it, stopping once to fix my appearance in the glass of the empty piranha tank. I made a mental note to get another fish, made sure I had nothing else on my agenda for the next twenty-three minutes, and then I opened my door.
Tune in next time, friends, to see how I handled it.
(Hint: Some may have opted to use transactional analysis in this situation… I didn’t.)