Nothing But Love :: golf blogger

57 Channels (And Nothin' On)

Some nights, the dogs decide that they aren't comfortable and conspire to kick me and push me to a four-inch strip at the edge of the bed they allow me to claim as my own; so, I try to get comfortable, which is difficult. There are times when I can't get back to sleep, which was the case last night. I grabbed the clicker, scrolling through the hundreds of channels made available by our new video service provider. I couldn't find anything to watch -- except for "The Knife Show." Yes, "The Knife Show" was on all night long selling to the night owls all kinds of knives. And they weren't selling kitchen knives. Or little pocket knives. These were big fucking knives -- and a lot of big fucking knives. I'm just wondering if Homeland Security camps outside a buyer's door after intercepting the telephone call, waiting for the delivery to arrive.

I did fall asleep, only to be awakened by one of the dogs maybe like an hour later, at 5:30 or so; but I don't really know if that was the actual time because nobody keeps track of time at that hour of the morning. I know that most of you are saying, "Just say NO." And I've taken that advice. It didn't work with the kid -- it's not going to work with the fucking dog.

I rolled the inch-and-a-half off the bed, put on my pants, found only one fucking sock -- didn't put on the one fucking sock -- and got my boots, winter jacket, hat, and gloves on, hooked the dogs up to their leashes because when one gets up to go, the other two automatically get up. They think that there will be a day that I turn my back on them, then they can fucking attack and kill me. But that didn't happen. We went out. They did what they needed to do. We came back in.

Before taking a shower, I picked up my clothes to put them into the clothes hamper. And there was still only one sock, one of a pair with the Periodic Table on each sock, which was a real bummer, because I liked the socks. I looked all over for the other sock, but I couldn't find it. And we have all had that done to us -- a sock inexplicably disappears. Mostly, it happens in the dryer. Or the washing machine. One sock is gone -- no explanation for it. No note. Nothing.

Many have speculated about where the darned sock goes. Is it time travel? Is it a tear in the fabric of space? Gremlins? Tiny clowns hiding behind the legs of your bed? Sock heaven?

I have always been partial to the simple explanation. Wormholes. There has been no proof that wormholes exist.

Until now.

I found my other Periodic Table sock. It was precariously perched on the edge of the 55-gallon drum that the guy selling Christmas trees on the sidewalk in front of our building used to contain a fire to keep warm, which was stored down in the garage. I was slaloming through the garage between the huge 12 x 12 wood posts holding up the building, heading toward the exit door when a flash of color caught my eye -- the flash of color was my sock, obviously sucked up by a wormhole and carried to the nether reaches of the garage 13 stories below by a wormhole.

There can be no other explanation.

Posted by Bill at February 18, 2008 11:55 PM