The problem with February was that it produced a lot of October babies.
And in the month of October there would be a drought to take care of these damn social-vampires. In addition to the drought most of the kids turned out to be a Scorpio, a group of anti-social, selfish creatures. That was why in 1997 Mayor Thurber asked the supreme court to remove Valentine’s day from their calendar. Confused how his plight past the past the appellate courts, the supreme court unanimously ruled it unconstitutional, with Rick Stanford delivering the dissenting view: “Are you mad ‘cause you aren’t getting any?”
The truth was that Mayor Thurber was getting plenty of everything, especially on Valentine’s day, when his wife would ask him to “reboot” in an hour. He’d be lucky if her favorite show would come on at two o’clock, so he could have an hour and a half.
The issue fell onto the citizens of Savon Rouge. There was one couple who diligently continued to write to Mayor Thurber to deal with the water shortage. In vain the couple was unsuccessful.
One afternoon the couple was dealing with one of their Scorpio childs. With five kids who all had Christian names, it was hard to remember the youngest one. Also they felt bad scolding their because of the holy tones in their names. In this case they would just call him Judas. That afternoon Judas was crying in the father’s lap. As atrocious as the odor, he found the source deep in the diaper. The diaper was so loaded with dung that some it fell onto his lap and into his favorite chair, a brown philosopher’s chair sewn with microfiber. “Damn, Scorpios,” he muttered to himself.
He took the child to the bathroom, removed the diapers and threw it in the trashcan. He ran the tap water to remove the initial dung from his bottom. His wife came into the bathroom to remind him that there was a water shortage, so he began to fill up the bathtub with warm water. He also remembered that the child stained the cushion of his favorite chair. He went back to get and let it also soak in the water. Because it was part of something divine, something like his chair, he let both the Judas and the seat be together in the water.
Tired, he sat beside the bathtub to fill up. His wife came into the room offering assistance. He quickly obliged, said thank you, kissed her, and remembered that was the magic of being in a loving marriage. He couldn’t sleep in the bedroom because the bed was already fresh, so instead he slept beside the hollow skeleton of the chair. An hour later he woke up to the bad breath of Judas on his chest. Pressing him against his chest, a sudden fear struck his heart. Where was the cushion? He ran to the bathroom to find that the water had been drained. He ran around the house, shouting his wife’s name, which reverberated through all the wooden corridors. He found her hanging his laundry on the silver clothes line, pinning them down with colorful plastic clothes pin.
“Honey, have you seen my chair?”
“Yes, it’s in the living room liked how you always had it.”
“No, I had cushions soaking in the bathtub.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about?”
“Because little Scorpio pooed on it, I was cleaning it.”
“Do you mean the bath toy that you left with our son in hot water.”
“Yeah, that thing.”
“I threw it away,” she said. “It was going to get moldy if I hadn’t.”
“Why?” He stormed back into the house and beeline for the house phone. “It’ll take weeks if I order a new one today.”
“Sorry, we’ll get a new one,” she called from afar. “I really didn’t want to.”
She wanted it thrown away the whole time, though.
Moral of the story: It’s okay to throw the child away, but not his favorite chair…unless you really want to.