I got the magic stick.

I knew it would eventually happen. I just thought I had a few more years to go. untitledson has unearthed my little friend — the battery-operated one I keep in my bedside table. It happened after our new dog (yeah, we just got a new miniature Dachshund about a month ago) holed up underneath our bed to drop a load. It’s a king-size bed and the defiant little beast knew just what to do. He busted out his abacus and determined the one four inch by four inch spot that would place him out of our reach.

“No! NO NO NO! No poopie!” I screamed as he assumed the position. How could something with ears as cute as his do something so heinous? Pooping under our bed. On MY side of the bed, no less. For a moment, I considered pooping in his kennel just to teach him a lesson.

So there we layed — helpless, heads to the floor, watching untitleddog pinch off a steaming fatty on our new cream-colored shag carpet. After he skulked away, I took my Pier One bamboo back scratcher (recently dubbed the poop stick, due to its new functionality) out from my bedside table and pulled the turdlet towards me, being oh-so-careful not to create a trail of crumbs in its wake. Given untitleddog’s fondness for defacating in the most unreachable of places, my dexterity at this task has gotten quite good — enough so that I wonder if I didn’t miss my calling in the sport of curling. Once within grabbing distance, I swathed the poop in a thick mass of wadded up toilet paper and wisked it away to the toilet.

Following this ordeal, I scrubbed my hands like a surgeon and retreated to my easy chair so I could finish reading my book. I am deep into chapter seven when I notice untitledson standing at my side, holding my vibrator. I must take a moment here to clarify that this isn’t a big old Hong Kong jelly dong. I mean, what kind of girl do you take me for? I had to drink two glasses of wine and watch three episodes of “Sex and the City” just to muster the courage to order it from the Adam and Eve web site. It is truly the Janet Reno of vibrators — austere and hardworking, just there to do its job, ma’am. It has three settings — low, medium and annihilate. One could easily pass it off as a back massager, and I’m sure there is a 76 year-old nun somewhere that uses it as such (that is, when she’s not using it to scramble her eggs).

“Give me that!” I squawked, horrified by the convergence of my two lives — that of loving mother and filthy street whore.

“I’m I’m I’m… using it to scare away the POOPS!” said untitledson, obviously taken back by my panicked tone. If only it were that easy. I envisioned myself using it in the backyard. Instead of pooper scooping, I’d point my buzzing wand at the turds and watch them dissappear in a poof of sparklies and fairy dust. The neighbors would marvel at my ingenuity before embarking upon a search of their own at Home Depot.

I took the device back to my bedroom and placed it in the bedside table, assuming untitledson would forget where he found Pandora’s box… or that which Pandora puts in her box. Oh, how I underestimate his curiosity. I have since found untitledson back there on several occasions, peering into the drawer with silent awe. He knows he should not be there, but yet he cannot look away. When he’s 14, he’ll remember all this and the puzzle pieces will snap together. Only then will he know his mother for the nasty slut she truly is.

Comments are closed.