The Foxinator

The Adaptive Curmudgeon has cooler stories than I do. Or at least funnier.

“Right between the eyes? Perfect!”

Hmm… This seemed to bear attention. More words from the other end. Mrs. Curmudgeon replied excitedly.

“You dropped him where? … What? …. Near the kitchen?”

I thought for a second. Nah. Couldn’t be anything I was imagining. I sipped my beer and tried hard not to hear another damn thing.

“But the ground is frozen. How will you dispose of the body?”

I really wish I hadn’t heard that.

About Joel

You shouldn't ask these questions of a paranoid recluse, you know.
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4 Responses to The Foxinator

  1. MamaLiberty says:

    Oh, this is so funny. Sure wish he’d tell us what actually happened, but I had a lot of fun imagining. LOL

  2. MamaLiberty says:

    A little story to go with it, actually. I was asked to work overtime one day and called home to let my pre-teen sons know that I’d be a little late. Their father didn’t get home until an hour or so after I did, so they’d have to be alone for a while. Usually, no problem.

    That day my youngest son answered the phone and cheerfully told me, “That’s OK, Mom. The firemen are here now and we got the fire out already.” CLICK

    I tried to call back and got no answer. Pealed out of the hospital parking lot and broke every speed limit getting home. Big fans were pulling smoke out of both exterior doors and the kitchen window. Two fire trucks, a police car and a news reporter were all milling around in my trashed, filthy kitchen.

    Thank GOD that was more than 40 years ago. I’d be in jail now if that happened today.

    What burned? We had to light our stove burners with a match. The spent match was supposed to go into a little galvanized bucket on the counter. The younger boy “forgot” and tossed it into the trash can, and it ignited. Took months to get all the soot off the walls, ceiling and cabinets.

    Good thing kids are so cute and lovable. Otherwise, a great many of them would never reach puberty…

  3. MamaLiberty says:

    Two fire trucks, a police car and a news reporter were all milling around in my trashed, filthy kitchen.

    Well, that got garbled good.

    The vehicles were in the drive way, and their occupants were in the kitchen. It was a small kitchen. And I was not amused at the newspaper story either. GRUMBLE

  4. Joel says:

    🙂 Ah, the stories we don’t tell our parents. I remember sweating whether my dad would ever ask me what happened to those kitchen curtains…

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