Alceste:
And...there is no more smoking in bars. You need to file a suit on
conventioneers behalf. We just passed that law in BR as well. tsk
tsk. I am free as the wind, just trying to clean up the shit in my
bathroom before the maid is stuck with it. Call me when you are
available.
OneNoteSolo:
You clean up for the maid but not CocoaNoGoGo? The trail of shit stains you
left at his house was epic.... Be careful and do not tape dollar bills to your
fur as a trusting wookieI know once did....
Alceste:
The sad thing is that I did clean up in Chicago--it is just that the job
was so immense. On a similar note,I shit myself last week on I55 in
Mississippi. I was between exits, and the guts were rumbling. I
squeezed and squeezed, and, luckily, made it to an exit. There was an
Exxon a mile down the road, but it was boarded shut. I began to panic, and
tried to go down the other way---bad mistake. My bowels exploded and the
runny brown liquid oozed out everywhere, soiling the seat of kristin's new
Altima with a brown paste. I drove to the back of a church and found an
fence-enclosed air conditioning area. The fence was short, but I had no
choice. I stripped down and attempted to clean myself with a new pack of
Hanes undershirts. It was simply too much poo. Then, a pickup truck
pulled into the lot, but it went to the front of the building. I put on
some other shorts, but the brown evil paste was still everywhere. I put
down one ofHunter's blankets over the shit in the car, and I made it to Taco
Bell and cleaned up in the bathroom, then returned to the church to retrieve my
shit coated clothing. I couldn't leave that for the ac repairman to
discover. I found a convenience store and bought a roll of paper towels
and some Orange Clean. It worked like a charm. Later that evening, I
rinsed the crap-laden clothing out in the hotel tub, but the drain was slow, and
I couldn't get things to flow south. I checked out in the morning, leaving
the stained undershirts in the trash of the hotel room. I felt bad for the
lady who would have to clean the shit up, and feel bad for this lady as well
here in Madison. However, I suppose that is the cost of doing business with a
pig like myself.
Alceste:
Everyone--in an unbelievable sequence of actions, I blasted mud in
the shower this morning, coating the walls and clogging, once again, the
drain. I have been traveling for two weeks, and the food is killing
me.
Now, what could have happened on that famed evening of Wookies and Grizzly bears sleeping in the poopy hotel? Which of the large, furry creatures crapped the floor in this scatological mystery? And left their respective paw prints in the doo? The fact that both had traipsed through the evidence, casually unaware, makes the mystery even more difficult to solve. And, to add insult to injury, Grizzly blames Wookie, and Wookie diplomatically states he can't imagine who could have broken into the room just to do that, force them both to stride through the mess, break the mirror, and steal the towels.
The image of a Grizzly squatting down behind an air-conditioning fence trying to clean liquid turd off his fur is suspicious, thought-provoking, nauseating, yet somehow hysterical. Who can crack the code? This case is sure to go cold.
6 comments:
Another possible clue.
On Saturday (the day after the incident), I spent the night at OneEar's house along with Alceste.
In the the morning when I awoke and stumbled off to the shower, my bed was bone dry. When I returned from the shower, the bed was wet and the wetness was in a configuration that was consitent with peeing. At the time, I blamed it on OneEar's dog who had returned from the outside rain. But now I am not so sure.
OneEar and Alsceste had left for the airport moments before my shower. Is it possible that one of them circled back to urinate in my bed? Or are we being haunted by a phantom excreter.
Or is this possibly the work of
Mookie?
Coco - My wife's sister found in the trash your note which read "I did not pee in my bed. It was your dog."
She thought this strange - both that you would write such a note and that there would be any question about whether you pissed yourself.
When you start putting these clues together, your phantom excreter theory becomes more appealing. The alternative is rather disgusting.
This mystery has caused me to learn about an art form of which I previously was unaware. Those were the days.
Why was your wife's sister digging through your trash? Is this something she does often? Was she under orders from your wife?
Regards,
C
Also, did your wife discover that I napped in her jacket?
"Auntie, sort the trash!"
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