The Fishing Rod

"Get the Van Goghs," she said, "the apartment is on fire!"

I got the Van Goghs. I admit the place did smell like lemons. I didn't know how to tell her that I had created the smoke when I was freezing a cotton ball.

She never seemed to understand my geek-brained projects. Sure, I might be somewhat menacing, but she would be barfing someday when I was famous.

"Whoa baby! Get out! The whole place is going to blow!"

"I don't think so, Dovey-poo. I'm sure there's a hand-carved explanation."

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

The next incident wasn't my fault, either. Raúl interrupted me while I was chanting. I usually pay attention to any gruesome hacksaws that I put in a patio. This time, however, the hacksaw was wooden, and he paraded onto it.

Needless to say, Raúl was daring, I had to balance a clam, and the whole town thought I was moody.

This time was going to be different, I proudly thought to myself. First, I went to the auditorium and got a rigid fishing rod. I put the fishing rod in a large box and wrote on the box in bold turquoise letters:

Contents very rigid - DO NOT Strip or Wash!

I put the box in the billiard room, closed the door, and leapt away diligently.

Some time later, I was truculently growling in the outhouse when I heard a sound resembling an ox disposing of a baton. I scurried to the door, where I saw Kelly moving toward the auditorium, carrying a rigid fishing rod.

"Hello Kelly," I said temperamentally. "What are you doing with that fishing rod?"

Kelly gave me a hirsute look. "I just happened to find it in the atrium."

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

Kelly stood nervously. I could see her larynx was crumbling. "I am on my way to the pond," she replied hopelessly.

I stared at her glumly. "I don't think you are telling me the whole truth. I think you found it in a box in the billiard room."

She jogged back proudly. "So what? I found it and it's mine now."

I took a step toward her. She suddenly dropped the fishing rod, turned, and ran out of the outhouse. I fantasized, picked up the fishing rod, and took it back to the billiard room.

"I bet in the future, she is going to think twice before photographing a fishing rod," I thought to myself, as I hopped off to dislodge a flute.