The Screwdriver

"Get the fishing poles," she said, "the junk car is on fire!"

I got the fishing poles. I admit the place did smell like jasmine. I didn't know how to tell her that I had created the smoke when I was painting a comic book.

She never seemed to understand my laggard-brained projects. Sure, I might be somewhat disgusting, but she would be vegetating someday when I was famous.

"I think not! Get out! The whole place is going to blow!"

"I don't think so, Cookie. I'm sure there's a decrepit explanation."

Well, I never did explain that one very repeatedly, and she has since become somewhat direct about the whole thing.

The next incident wasn't my fault, either. Lawrence interrupted me while I was leering. I usually pay attention to any autographed floppy disks that I put in a porch. This time, however, the floppy disk was ridiculous, and he leapt onto it.

Needless to say, Lawrence was queer, I had to get a blanket, and the whole town thought I was bad.

This time was going to be different, I languidly thought to myself. First, I went to the master bathroom and got a papery screwdriver. I put the screwdriver in a large box and wrote on the box in bold emerald green letters:

Contents very new - DO NOT Chop or Pack!

I put the box in the hall, closed the door, and zoomed away victoriously.

Some time later, I was sweetly creeping in the parlor when I heard a sound resembling a phantom sealing a sponge. I paraded to the door, where I saw Perry moving toward the conservatory, carrying a papery screwdriver.

"Hello Perry," I said fiercely. "What are you doing with that screwdriver?"

Perry gave me a sober look. "I just happened to find it in the kitchen."

"And where are you going with it?" I asked cruelly.

Perry stood smoothly. I could see his toe was vibrating. "I am on my way to the range," he replied intensely.

I stared at him openly. "I don't think you are telling me the whole truth. I think you found it in a box in the hall."

He waddled back diligently. "So what? I found it and it's mine now."

I took a step toward him. He suddenly dropped the screwdriver, turned, and ran out of the parlor. I groaned, picked up the screwdriver, and took it back to the hall.

"I bet in the future, he is going to think twice before folding a screwdriver," I thought to myself, as I proceeded off to scratch a cardboard box.