I have had enough of this.  I am doing my homework, which involves
solving rational expressions, and let me tell you - there is nothing
rational about it.  I have been cooped up in my room listening to CNN
and doing math for the last two hours, all in the comfort of my boxers.
I've done five whole problems so far.  I am a genius to the negative
second power.
 
I've already let two cups of tea go cold.  I rationally decide that I
need two hot cups, if I am to get anything done this evening.  While
it makes no real sense, logically, I feel somewhat rational about it.
Hardee har har.  Alright, it's a bad pun.  Making tea won't help me do
my homework, but it will give me a ten-minute break.  Good enough.  I
go to the kitchen and start the water boiling.  Dusty and Jaws meet me
in the kitchen and follow me around.  I have about five minutes to kill.
I decide I'll use the bathroom, since I'll probably be in siege with my
homework for the next two hours.
 
I head for the bathroom, and Dusty follows me in.  Jaws, the smart one,
heads elsewhere.  One or more ferrets usually notice that I'm heading for
the bathroom.  It's no use to try to keep them out.  I have tried to keep
them out, but it's like being the goalie in a game of ferret soccer.
They have the better team.  If you manage to keep them out, they scratch
on the door the entire time you're in there, just to be annoying.  It's
easier to leave the door open.  It is only my wife and I, after all.  No
need to be modest.
 
I drop my boxers and take a seat.  I have not sat down for twenty
seconds, when Dusty starts crawling through my boxers.  Dusty always
takes the opportunity to use my boxers as some sort of portable hammock.
He and the others have done this so long that it doesn't even faze me.
I used to shoo them away, and even pull my boxers to my knees, but to no
avail.  I just let them have at it.  It's much like the bathroom door
situation.  They know that eventually I'll give up.
 
I have taken my math book into the bathroom with me.  Maybe I can figure
this stuff out.  I immerse myself in intermediate algebra.  I feel
tugging and jostling sensations around my ankles as Dusty makes himself
comfortable in my boxers, but I pay no mind.  I am in deep concentration.
Eventually the jostling stops.  I start to reach a Zen-like algebraic
trance, multiplying polynomials by factors of one in my head to cancel
out the fractions, thereby simplifying the equation.  Eighteen, huh?  So
that's how you do it.  Take out the (x + 2)'s and solve for x.  Simple.
Maybe I should do my homework in here.  Almost attaining mathematical Zen
mastery, I attempt an even harder problem...
 
Suddenly, the teakettle sounds off.  The bathroom is only a few feet
away from the kitchen, and the loudness of the whistle is startling!
This is where it all falls apart.  Previously distracted by algebraic
immersion, my reflexes cause me to spring up and simultaneously flush
the toilet, still holding onto my math book.  It is an amazing display
of coordination.  As I spring up, my boxers tighten between my ankles.
Dusty is still comfortably curled up inside of them.  What was once a
comfortable hammock has now become a slingshot.  Dusty flips around and
flies six inches into the air, coming down to bounce off my boxers as
though they were a miniature trampoline.  He lands on the plush bathroom
rug, wide-eyed and stunned, but unhurt.
 
I stumble in a panic, trying to figure out where Dusty has landed so I
can step around him, but I lose my balance.  I fall towards the sink,
which is on my right, forcing me to use my right hand to break the fall.
Unfortunately, my right hand is also the one holding my math book.  I am
forced to drop it.  I helplessly watch as my math book bounces off the
ledge of the sink and falls directly into the toilet.  Horrors!  I
instantaneously reach to grab my book from the swirling water, but doing
so puts me into the direct path of the resulting splash.  Dusty and I are
now doused with semi-polluted toilet water!  Mortified, I regain my
balance and pluck my book from the toilet bowl.  I am thankful that as a
child I was taught to flush each and every time.  Toilet water drips off
my eyebrows and chin.  My boxers, still around my ankles, are now soaked
in spots.  Dusty is no happy camper, himself.  He dries himself off by
scooting on the bathroom rug.
 
I don't know why it comes to me, but I realize that I can no longer hear
the teakettle.  Well, that was worth it.  I pull up my boxers and head
towards the kitchen.  There is nothing worse than cold, wet boxers.  In
the melee, my wife has calmly fixed my tea.  She looks at me as I come
into the kitchen; my hair and face are still wet, and I am carrying a
soggy math book.  She doesn't say a word.  I follow the wisdom of her
silence.  Dusty follows me into the kitchen.  The kitchen is hardly the
place we should be in our unsterilized condition.  After partially drying
my math book with some paper towels, I grab Dusty and we head to the
shower.
 
First, I take the soiled bathroom rug and throw it into the hamper.  I
then use a dirty towel to dry the floor.  Dusty and I take a lukewarm
shower.  With soap.  Anti-bacterial soap.  Dusty complains.  Hey, you
little jackball, I didn't tell you to sleep there.  Just stop squiggling,
would you?  OK, hang on, alreadyë you're almost done.  I put Dusty in a
towel and roll him around in it.  I take him out of the towel and put him
on the floor.  He shivers a bit, shakes himself, then scampers off
indignantly as if this was all MY fault.
 
I bring my teapot back to my room.  My homework is still sitting on the
table, half done.  That's how it's going to stay, too.  I have irrational
expressions I could make about rational expressions, but I refrain.  When
I go to school tomorrow, I am going to tell my teacher that the ferrets
ate my homework.  If he asks me about my math book, I'll tell him that
they ate that, too.  I will offer no further explanation.  I wouldn't
know how.
 
I put on fresh boxers and sit down to watch New Orleans on CNN.  They are
doing a segment on Plaquemines Parish.  Some poor gentleman is showing
CNN his home, still flooded after all this time.  He goes from room to
room, wading through the disgusting water to give the reporter a tour of
what used to be his home.  I pour myself a cup of hot tea and raise it up
to him in an impromptu toast.  Here's to you, sir.  I don't know anything
about hurricanes or failed levees, but I do know a bit about mishaps with
contaminated water.  Cheers.
 
Roary
Albuquerque, NM
blog - http://ferretphilosophy.blogspot.com
[Posted in FML issue 5015]