Clotho dove under the awning, escaping the sheets of horizontal rain pelting the fairground. He panted and shook drops from his over-sized boat shoes. This was not a gentle, whispering rain. It thundered down so viciously that every raindrop shattered through the canvas into mist. Lightning slashed down against the coaster and an ear-splitting roar echoed through the darkness. This savage wasn’t taking prisoners.
Rubbing his hands against his sodden and drooping puffed sleeves, Clotho yearned only for warmth and comfort. That’s all he’d ever really wanted. The lost days wasted sleeping off hangovers, all of the boisterous, bright circus evenings and intoxicated, empty nights. He never sought fame or fortune, just a little simple kindness.
“Is that too much to ask, damn you?” Clotho the Clown shook his white-gloved fist at the uncaring clouds.
Wiping away his tears, he wobbled unsteadily through the rain toward his tent. The rapacious storm pounced eagerly with an actinic flash.
Okay, for today’s embarrassing moment, I have a silly bit of general clumsiness (and tragic loss) to share.
This silly little thing:
Which appears to be officially titled a “mixing ball” comes with smoothie jugs, drinking bottles, etc.—to help stir up whatever you’re shaking in the container. Probably only marginally useful, I suppose.
But anyway, it’s made of springy stainless steel. And belongs to Annie. I was washing dishes, and tossed it rather carelessly into the drying rack.
Sproing. It took (of course) the worst possible bounce, right over the end of the counter and back behind the fridge.
When a couple of big guys with a dolly pull the fridge out in some-odd years, I’m sure they’ll scratch their heads and wonder what this dusty, rusty thing is doing back there.
And I run a husband-point deficit for the day, whatever few points I may have squeaked out of doing the dishes is more than lost. Can’t cost more than a buck or two, but lord ::eyeroll:: what fools these mortals be. One of them, anyway.
And that’s the inaugural issue of Derp of the Day! Fascinating, right? See you next time I feel stupid enough to share!
Additional embarrassment <–I always wanna spell that with only one “r”.
Soon it will be my fifty-fourth birthday. Most of you kids can’t conceptually grasp reaching that landmark. I once vowed never to pass thirty, but life makes liars out of many of us. Every moment that remains after the stroke is gravy.
“Pizza anyone?” The crowd answered with an enthusiastic roar, and I ducked a tankard as it flew past my ear.
My name is Collen, and I schlep pies for Cosmic Stan’s Any Time Any Place Pizza and Catering. (Here, have a menu.)
We mean what it says. With Cosmic Stan’s, you’re guaranteed fresh, hot pizzas delivered anywhere in space-time, for any size party. Causation and Entropy are optional; if we don’t deliver half an hour before you place the order, your pizza is free.
This party is a big one. Open field, hundreds of big dudes (hairy biker types) already partying, busty waitresses deftly dodging ass-pinches and delivering frothy mugs for the boys.
The invoice calls for six thousand pies. (I’ll be duplicated pretty heavily to cover that many.)
Some event called “Ragnarok.” There are special order notes: “Ask for Wotan,” “Beware of Dog,” and “Leave early.”