Monday, August 29, 2005

Deidrebane, Deidrebane, Deidrebane. My sweet, dear paranoid Deidrebane. I don’t know through which orifice crawled in these latest musings that torture your fevered imagination, but I assure you, beyond the wispiest shadow of a doubt, that the Feds are most certainly not on to us.

No, my Deidrebane, not The Fuzz either. Not the pigs, the rookers, Johnny Law, The Man, or the Blue Meanies. None of them, Deidrebane. Not one. The flower delivery man yesterday? Just delivering flowers. No secret camera in his oversized belt-buckle, my dear. I think the young man was just from Texas. I understand that kind of thing is a point of pride down there. I don’t know, my dear, perhaps he won a rodeo. Or some kind of pro wrestling title. Regardless, he was not initiating a sophisticated electronic scan of our home’s interior, for the purpose of compiling a detailed 3-D holographic model of our home to aid the S.W.A.T. team or armed DEA agents in a raid of our mansion. No, not the ATF either. And I don’t think the CTU is a real organization, my dear.

Yes, my dearest Deidrebane, that really was the cable guy. And I don’t know why he had that cast on his arm. Perhaps he fell out of a tree. Yes they do, adults fall out of trees all the time. Remember when I fell out of that Sequoia on our vacation last year? I did not think I could fly, Deidrebane, I thought we’d already dispelled that ugly rumor. Fine, I suppose you’ve never woken up hungry for an owl-egg omelet. Lucky you, my dear.

And no, Deidrebane, it is not possible to bug a toilet. I don’t even know where you got that idea. And even if you could, why would you want to? Yes, I suppose it would be an impressive engineering feat. That still doesn’t answer my question. I don’t think the Federal government does things like that just to prove that they can. Look, I can’t stop you from using our neighbor’s restroom, but I can’t guarantee they’re going to be thrilled about the idea. Ever since I ran over the Chunderbuns’ doghouse, those people have had a serious case of the holier-than-thous. Yes, Deidrebane, I realize it was full of dogs at the time. I don’t remember shouting anything about how the wood was barking. That sounds exactly like the kind of thing you would make up after a few cocktails.

Have you been watching the movies again? I suspect you have, you always get like this after one of your movie nights. Remember back when you saw E.T. and became convinced there was an alien locked in our pantry? I don’t think our son ever really recovered from that broom attack, my dear. And he was practically diabetic after you’d pushed all those Reese’s pieces underneath the door. No, I don’t remember his name either. I think he played tennis. Perhaps shuffleboard. He definitely did something outdoors. Might have been a fireman.

And no, I don’t think it’s a good idea to get rid of my drug stash in case the feds come bursting through the windows in rappelling equipment, firing German shepherds in from the lawn by catapult. Do you have any idea what that would entail, my dear? I suspect that part of this house may have been constructed from illegal narcotics; I can’t vouch for my state of mind at the time that I was drawing up the plans. That reminds me; if the house ever catches on fire, stay away from the upstairs bathroom. I don’t think a single human being was ever meant to smoke an entire bathtub made from tar heroin.

No my dear, when the S.W.A.T. team comes, they won’t ring the doorbell, and they won’t be disguised as gardeners or insurance salesmen or ninjas. I don’t think they have a budget commensurate to those Mission Impossible films you love so. Okay, they might have a battering ram. Would that make you happy? I swear, Deidrebane, you’re starting to alarm the children. Send them outside to play with the gardeners before you give these children a complex. Yes, my dear, the gardeners have always had walkie-talkies. I swear, Deidrebane, sometimes you’re like the Joan of Arc of paranoia.

Don’t Be Absurd My Dear, That’s Obviously Not My Shit
Deidrebane, my dear, I tire of your ceaseless accusations. I swear this is all I’ve heard about all week since you found that softball-sized rock of crack cocaine in the sofa cushions. For the googleth time, darling, that’s clearly not my shit. Do you see my initials monogrammed anywhere on the rock? I think not. So let’s put this silly controversy to bed before I miss another moment of the Ultimate Fighting Challenge.

My Dear, Your New Children Have Become a Nuisance
I can only assume these children were adopted by you on one of your recent humanitarian skylarkings, some time while my attention was turned elsewhere, say to the televised gladiatorial matches or to Bolivian chicken racing, whose season is now thrillingly underway. I know you claim the children to be the fruits of your loom, or loins, whatever it is you have down there nowadays, but needless to say, I find this to be horrifyingly implausible.

I Promised to Stop Smoking Crack
It’s just like you to twist my words around. I think I’d remember, in the midst of all that automobile wreckage, whilst the paramedics were sweeping the windshield glass out of your eyes and the neighborhood was awash in a sea of swirling lights and sirens, if I had promised to stop using crack entirely. Please, that doesn’t even sound like me.