We have a stray cat. It is grey and black and likes to come up and hang out on our porch. My wife took to feeding it, and now it expects it. I have named him Scuttlebutt, after my great uncle Scuttlebutt. That isn't true.
Anywho, a week or so ago, Scuttlebutt, who is particularly skittish comes up onto my porch to eat, only we haven't put the food out yet. Now, it is important to know that my wife loves "cute and fuzzies", cats and the like. We already have two. So, Scuttle is on the porch, and my wife grabs some food to go out and feed it. She opens the door, and my less than intelligent cat Jingles (I know), goes darting out of the house, sending Scuttlebutt into a state of nothing less than pure un-adulterated terror. Scuttlebutt leaps off of the porch like it is made of rabid dogs and runs smack into a ceramic fairy that is sitting on my porch that means quite a bit to my wife. The fairy topples, Scuttlebutt darts into the ether, and Jingles rolls around in the dirt in front of my porch, cat-grinning like the idiot he is.
The ceramic fairy is broken into three parts.
I go inside to look for the Gorilla Glue to fix it but, I can't find it. My wife looks for it, but can't find it. We decide to put it on top of the fridge (the safe haven for all things), until we can find the damned glue.
The week passes. My wife (who happens to be a very enthusiastic fan of the Harry Potter series), decides that we are going to go see the newest movie, the night it premiers. We do. It's good, a good Part One. I haven't read the books, but I enjoy the last four movies or so.
We return home, and I am looking at the fairy...
I have to fix the poor girl.
I go searching for the Gorilla Glue. It's not in the art supplies. It's not in the magic crap drawer under the microwave. Then I remember! It's in the back room! I dash into the backroom, see it, grab it, and after a few minutes...
I FIXED THE FAIRY!
Excellent. I stroke my beard in a congratulatory manner, and then pause.
Crap, I think. I just smeared Gorilla Glue into my beard. Yes, this whole story has been leading to that. You can relax now.
I thought "Maybe I can shave it and feel bad." Then I thought "No."
I, with the determination of westward bound settlers, scrubbed my face until I thought it might be clean. I went to bed, woke up, and scrubbed again. And again, and again. Finally, after scrub number 17 (or thereabouts):
Success.
Now, while I have your attention, shortly after that sigh of story-finishing relief you just let out, allow me to remind you that the only reason you got that three minutes worth of entertainment is because I am trying to do some good here, by asking you to please consider donating some time or money to a wonderful cause. Human rights. It's simple, and overtime, surely could be achieved. Please, donate.
