After an evening speaking engagement, I stopped at a gas station and bought the drink pictured above. During the short drive home, I drank about half of it. Parked the van in the garage and left the beverage in the cupholder. The next day I was up early to speak at a local school. When I finished doing two presentations I was a tad dry, so just as I was about to drive off I reached down for the drink and took an absentminded swig. The weight of the bottle shifted oddly as I lowered it. I looked, and was surprised to see a used tea bag suspended in the liquid. My wife and daughters sometimes take tea for the drive to school, but it still seemed an odd thing to do.
Then I looked closer. Yah. That’s a drowned mouse.
I bailed out of the van. Aware that I was in full view of a school full of impressionable children, I ducked down beside the back bumper and blew that mouthful of bad pop all over the blacktop. Even as I was spitting like a mad cat with a mouthful of stinkbugs, I was offering prayers of gratitude that I had discovered the mouse before I swallowed. As discreetly as I could, I got back in the van, found a mouseless bottle of water and commenced to swish and spit like I was in some sort of dental appointment Olympics.
I also looked more closely at the contaminated bottle. Yah. Not one, but two mice.
If you wanna, I got closeups after the break. (more…)
A moment of silence, if you will, for Great-Grandma’s 7 iron, which outlived her for a decade, but succumbed tonight during a vigorous round of clodhopper apple golf. Our loss was tempered by the delighted laughter of an 8-year-old member of the matrilineal line, who just loves it when we play this game with a purpose, delivering airborne applesauce to the chickens from about 30 yards out.
NOTE: Logging is deadly dangerous and has even taken a life in our extended family. The note below is intended to have fun at the expense of one specific writer, not make light of real danger.
When writers pretend to be loggers… Saw it coming, stood there anyway. My one good decision? Safety glasses. Got off light, nothing my daughter’s makeup can’t fix. At least when my brother–a real logger–gets hurt on the job, he has the decency to wind up in intensive care (twice). It’s called professionalism.
The first factual “oops!” (that I’m aware of) in the fictional Jesus Cow: an attentive Catholic reader points out that on p. 40 I refer to the Twelve Stations of the Cross, when in fact there are Fourteen. No idea how I muffed that one (might I have overlooked a pink Post-It appended by my dear devout neighbor Ginny?). I’d like to blame it on bad math, but in fact I think I just brain-cramped. A special thanks to the reader, who submitted the correction in good humor and kind tones. Blessed are the gentle.
As is the policy here at Sneezing Cow, when I mess up I tag the post “oops!” so my stumbles and fumbles are available to the public in chronological order of their discovery.