Monday, March 8, 2010
Sometimes, I start to regret going into protection.
But then I take a nice relaxing trip to the shooting range and it recedes a bit.
Last week, however, there was a bit of a complication. After Madame President blew up her secondary office (there is no way they actually let her use the Oval Office) with the exploding earrings of mine that she NEVER GAVE BACK TO ME, she was forced to tag along to my office, which is a glorified garage with a couch.
It was the couch that started it all.
See, Madame President has this thing for couches. They have to be really comfortable, really big, and/or really bounce. Mine was none of the above. And as such, Madame President just HAD to make it her new personal quest to make my couch 'better'.
Let me say this right now: I like my couch. It is uncomfortable and smells like squirrels and decaf, yes, but it is my couch. So I told her NO. This, however, did not seem to deter her from rummaging around my 'terrorist drawer' (as SHE calls it, not me) for some metal parts to 'alter' my couch.
I tried to ignore her as I cleaned my Browning Automatic, but when she came up with wire cutters, a six-inch screw, a socket-wrench, and a screwdriver, I figured I should probably intervene.
"Madame President, what are you doing?" I inquired.
"Improving your living conditions," she replied, putting on a welding helmet and firing up a drill.
In the next three seconds, she proceeded to trip and fall onto a wheeled back-board, roll three feet and turn on my blowtorch, which then lit my couch on fire. MY couch. MINE. ON FIRE.
Ten seconds after that, the couch was covered in chemical fire-suppressant foam, the blowtorch was off, and Madame President was stuck head-first in a metal oil drum.
See, this is why I don't let her come to my apartment; there would be nothing left. God only knows how she became the president in the first place.
So, to work off my frustration, I took a nice trip to the shooting range.
Guess what building was closed for 'remodeling' due to a 'suspicious' explosion...
The shooting range.
Something/one is going to die, and at this point I don't care if it's a terrorist or a tetherball. I'm getting out my P-90.