My sister did my taxes for me last night, and I am going to get a pretty sweet return. I briefly had visions of me rolling down the street with new 24k gold spinners, a 40oz beer in each hand and a Booty Ho under each arm and a big gold dollar sign hanging from a chain around my neck as I smoke a big cigar, but alas, I have to be Mr. Suburban Responsible and it's all going into my credit card debt. I suppose not worrying about bills beats out a booty ho.
My cat brought me a mouse. Around 5AM this morning I heard him thumping around my room and I just knew he was smacking something dead around. Sure enough when I flicked on the lights he was standing proudly over a dead mouse. I went and got the dustbin and scooped it up and then tossed it into my front yard. Some turkey buzzard will flap by later today and spy out the tasty treat and swoop down to gobble it up. Slurp it down headfirst so that it sucks its tail up last like a string of spaghetti. Yum.
My can of shaving cream ran out this morning. That does not sound like a particularly riveting event, however this can had lasted me an astonishingly long time. It was a can of some no-name no-frills aerosol shaving cream that I had picked up at big lots at some point in the past. The cream just kept coming and coming out of it. In fact, I had the can for so long that rust was starting to form on it. I was briefly considering that I have might have acquired a can with some sort of supernatural properties, the renowned cornucopia of the shaving cream world. It would become my fortune and my downfall as one day in the far future I am standing on the smoking ruins of a burnt and shaving cream covered city I would lift the can high in the air and scream out 'Whhyyyyy???!!!'.
But, alas, this morning as I pressed the button on the top of the can I was not rewarded with a fresh puff of shaving cream, but instead the can let out a sputtering groan that had all the glory of the death knell of a fart. A few meager un-puffed splashed of shaving cream splattered onto my palm, and then all went quiet. The can is dead. Long live the can.
2026 Update
Dialing the clock back to a February when a tax refund meant gold spinners and a cat was a furry little assassin.
Ah, 2007. A simpler kingdom, where a tax refund was a lump of magic money and a man could dream of gold spinners before surrendering to the tyranny of credit card debt. Nineteen years later, the refund is a haunted ritual performed in a glowing rectangle that asks you to upgrade to "deluxe" just to see if you owe. The cat brings a mouse? In 2026, the mouse would be livestreamed, the cat would have an Instagram, and the front-yard toss would be a neighborhood controversy on the app that replaced the fence. And that Big Lots shaving cream can that rusted before it died? Now everything is a subscription. You don't get a mystical can that lasts three years; you get a monthly delivery of "premium grooming foam" that shows up whether you have a beard or not. The cornucopia is gone, Ed. All that remains is the sputter.
“2007 Ed, when you flung that dead mouse into the front yard for a buzzard, were you genuinely picturing a turkey vulture slurping it up like spaghetti, or was that just your excuse to avoid touching the trash can?” — Beelzebubba the Third
2007 Ed: Well, Beelzebubba, I suppose it was a bit of both, really. I mean, I did not want to touch that trash can, the thing's got who-knows-what crusted on the handle, and the mouse was already dead, so why drag it through the house again? But yeah, I was also genuinely picturing the buzzard. I've seen those big ugly birds circle over the lake, and I like to think they appreciate a free meal dropped right in the front yard like some kind of sky-delivery service. The spaghetti thing just made me laugh, picturing it slurping that tail up last. It's droll, in a gross sort of way. Plus, honestly, flinging it felt more dignified than bagging it with the coffee grounds. So, yes, I was picturing it, and yes, I was dodging the chore. Both true. Take that, foul germs.
