Cuniculture

As my time in this corner of the land of the free refills draws to a close I've been forced to wave a tearful goodbye to my delightful rented cave with screaming baby soundsystem and move into various temporary lodgings. This is partly why I've been too busy to write, a veritable boon for lovers of great literature everywhere.

Mustering my considerable guile and years of experience, I managed to plan my first move for a stunningly hot day. Consequently Sometimes Almost Always Friend and now Girlfriend and I nearly died by drowning in our own sweat as we walked to the U-haul depot.

For those of you unfamiliar with U-haul (i.e. foreigns and other communists), it is a cunningly named truck and van rental franchise for 'self-moves'. Usually U-haul trucks are found at gas stations or other automotive concerns, where the leasing of said vehicles is a profitable supplement to the main business. However neither the type of venues nor the supplementary nature are strict rules. It turned out that the particular size of vehicle I'd requested (the smallest but in fact still an enormous van) was only available from a location on the edge of town, in a dusty lot near the highway. The first thing we noticed on arrival was the self proclaimed 'family restaurant' that shared the building. A dark foyer that resembled an airlock and the chain smoking ogre, of sex known only to god and the foremost geneticists of our generation, sat on the bench outside, discouraged us from further investigating this possible culinary gem.

Entering the rental location, we were delighted to discover that it was a hunting store. A cheerful air of decay hung over everything, except for an area near the counter. There a woman was buying an unnerving number of vacuum packed sausages from a grey bearded man who sat behind a new Dell computer. While we waited for this doubtless vital transaction to reach its gripping conclusion we used the time to admire our surroundings.

From their honorary positions high on the walls, Bambi and his extended family, interspersed with the occasional stuffed fish, gazed back at us through glass eyes. Turning a full 180 degrees I discovered the best half of a bobcat leering at us from above the entrance. Dusty cases contained pistols dating back as far as the civil war. A fridge on the far side of the room contained nothing but a squeezy ketchup bottle (full). Behind us more fridges loomed, dark and foreboding.

"What's in those?" asked S.A.A.F.A.N.G., backing away from the objects in question.

Courageously, I edged closer.

"Cans of soda" I said, relieved, before a closer look led me to add, "oh, and nightcrawlers". In case you weren't aware, nightcrawlers are a common fishing bait, similar to earthworms.

With the sausage related deal finally over we went to collect the keys for the van. While the affable storekeeper typed our details into his pc, S.A.A.F.A.N.G. decided to open up a new front. No doubt inspired by the large stock of bait, rods and reels and by the zeppelin-like fish decor she asked, "Do you sell fishing licenses?".

A puzzled expression crept across the man's features. "Fishing licenses?" he repeated in disbelief, "Oh no, we don't sell those."

With that move over I spent a month housesitting and rabbit-wrangling for a colleague before moving in with S.A.A.F.A.N.G.. Of course your personal experience of me means that you all envy her this blissful and incomparable existence. There is only one problem: her neighbour.

The problem first came to my attention before moving in, when S.A.A.F.A.N.G. had returned from a business trip during which I had been feeding her cats, Fatboy and Vomit.
While relaxing in the garden, we were approached by the neighbour.
"Oh it was terrible while you were gone", she informed S.A.A.F.A.N.G., "it was so warm and humid." Then pointing to me she practically purred, "He cycled over every day to feed the cats, and he was all hot and sweaty". It is perhaps needless to say that this wasn't popular with S.A.A.F.A.N.G., and I was told to take all possible precautions to avoid contact with the neighbour from then on. I tried.

While in the garden, using a jug of water to clean the remanants of an ant's nest out of S.A.A.F.A.N.G.'s recycling box, the neighbour snuck up on me.
"Oh, would you like to use my hose for that?" she offered. Certainly it would make my life easier, so I accepted.
"My sister bought it for me for Christmas," she informed me, "it's a really good one". I limited myself to polite affirmatives. Placing the hose in my hands she detailed the many different spray settings before terrifyingly adding, "See the quality of the hose? So strong and supple."
Immediately I turned the spray selector to jet and used the roar of the water to drown out anything else she might say.

Some people here in Freedom actually read this crap, and one of the unlucky few recently and possibly drunkenly asked me to mention them in it. Not wanting to start a worrying habit of singling out individuals for special accolades, I would just say that he is of course a god among men, and that he was once startled by a girl, causing him to throw her beer all over my shoes and S.A.A.F.A.N.G.'s.

I finish on an important question: should I trust a Doctor whose waiting room is littered with pictures of angels? I am already concerned that the 'laying on of hands' has gone a bit far, but maybe he's just a pervert.