I figured out why the housework took such a small amount of time last weekend and I apologize for not sharing this incredible bit of wisdom with you earlier.

See, I used to take a rag and dust and wipe all the surfaces, knocking the dust and other shit onto the floor. Then, I'd break out the broom and sweep up said dust and shit. Then I'd vacuum. Then, I'd go out onto the front and back patios and sweep there too.

Yeah. Tedious. Monotonous. Boring.

The solution?

Two words: LEAF BLOWER.

Normally my ass would pucker up like a first day at prison at the thought of spending 50 bucks on something that I didn't necessarily need, but Home Depot had these cordless, rechargeable answers-to-life's-inanities on the shelves by the birdseed, and temptation took me.

No longer do I moan Cinderalla-like while I sweat and grunt just to make a dent in the dirt and doghair that infests my home.

Oh, no. Now, it's *click* *VVVVUUUUUMMMMMMMMM* and I'm on my way to a happiness only a housewife knows (sans hunky, Door-to-Door, salesman, of course).

Sure, you gotta bolt some of your shit down, and most of the smaller stuff (bills, dishes, dog's food bowls, dogs, etc.) gets blown out the door with the dirt, but it's so worth it not to have to sweep mindlessly for hours.

If I could figure out a way to ratchet up the power quotient on that sucker and be able to blow all the dogshit into the neighbor's yard, I'd be a freakin' millionaire in about 8 seconds.

I'll probably have to settle for launching the dogshit over there catapult-style with a lacrosse stick for now.

---

Today, I decided I can cut a good 15 minutes off of my day if I don't shower in the morning and wait until I get to work to spend some "quality time" on the toilet. The results are varied.

My very short hair is mildly greasy, but a cap has fixed that.

As long as I never take it off.

Or touch my hair thereby letting the grease transfer to my hands.

My hands kind of smell bad too.

I should've probably washed those this morning.

If I rub my nose and then smell my finger, that smells bad as well.

It's a different kind of "bad" than just my hands.

I guess I'll add my face to the should've-washed list.

I scratched my balls earlier and, once again, my hand has a different kind of "bad" on it.

Wash balls next time - CHECK.

I haven't touched my ass though. We all know that's not a good idea even while I'm in the shower.

It could be a shower of lilac blossoms and honey, and my ass would find a way to make my hand stink. Not happenin'.

I haven't touched my feet either. I decided to forego my sandals this morning in favor of my newest shoes. K-Mart 6 dollar specials. Snappy. I figure I can't stink them up in one day.

Okay, now that I've said it, I have to test the theory.

At� 11:41 am, we have mild stinkage already.

This list is getting a little too long.

Plus, I have greasy-nasty-balls-nosecheese-footstank-not-been-washed-in-a-day hands.

Now, the keyboard is greasy and has a bit of an odor too.

Crap, I may have to go back to showering in the morning.

We'll see what tomorrow brings.

---

The not-shitting-at-home-in-the-morning makes the drive to work a little more interesting and frantic, but I don't foresee any huge problems unless I get pulled over.

I would hate to have to explain to a judge that I whacked the cop in the nuts with his ticket book and rocketed off in my truck, simply because my asscheeks were starting to wear out from the aerobic clenching exercises I'd been doing for 20 straight minutes.

I doubt that'd fly.

I did see a guy that was pulled over on the way here. The way he had his legs spread while he was up against his car being searched said to me that he shat at home this morning. Smart move, for a criminal.

That's not fair, though. Not everyone being searched by a cop is a criminal.

I got searched once when I first moved to Denver. I thought, for nothing more than driving an old ranch pickup with Montana plates, but it turns out, those plates were expired by a year or so. Fair enough.

After I dug around in the glove box for the paperwork, the two cops were gone for quite a while.

Then, another cop car pulled up in front of my truck. And another across the street.

"Wow," thought I, "six cops for li'l ol' me? Wonder if it's the bitch dog in the passenger seat they're worried about�" (Asshead was still kind of a puppy and more prone to biting).

As the head cop was walking, cautiously, up to my window, I heard the unmistakable snap of his holster. Even though I was new to the "big city," I was pretty sure that he wouldn't shoot me in front of all these other cops, but it still worried me a little bit.

ToughCop: Hands where I can see 'em, sir.

Me (with hands as far as they can reach out the window): Is there a problem, officer?

ToughCop: Do you have any firearms in your vehicle?

Me: Ahhh, no. Got a mean little dog, and a fish-scaling knife, but no firearms.

ToughCop gets me out, spread-eagles me up against the side of the truck, then tells me they're going to search the truck. He positions my hands on the truck bed and spreads my legs a little wider in order to search me while his overzealous jar-head partner scowls at me from across the truck bed. I still wasn't sure what he was talking about and was still a little scared from the whole readying-to-shoot-JuddHole bit, but I was almost positive that he wasn't getting me ready for an ass-rapin' despite the way JarHead was looking at me.

ToughCop: What firearm is the ammunition for?

Me: Ammuni� what? What ammunition?

JarHead (angrily interjecting): The ammunition we found in the glove compartment.

Me (genuinely confused): Um� what are you talking about?

JarHead: 22 caliber shells. Ammunition for a .22 caliber weapon. Where is it?

Me (thinking hard now): Hmm� I haven't had a 22 since my sophmore year of High School. I sold that gun 6 years ago. If there's 'ammunition' in there, it's probably for that gun, old, moldy, and couldn't possibly work on its best day.

JarHead: You don't have a .22 caliber firearm in that vehicle?

Me: Ah, no.

JarHead (smirking now): We'll see about that.

Two of the other cops are just standing by their car watching (there for emotional support, I'm sure), and the other two open up the truck so they can search it.

We've got 5 big, burly, weight-lifting, would-like-nothing-better-than-to-crack-JuddHole's-skull-with-shiny-nightstick cops hovering around with one female cop. To call her female is merely to clarify her actual gender, as I'm almost positive her desire to bash me was similar to the rest of them. She bore a remarkable resemblance to the other burly ones too. The first thing that I thought of when I saw her was, "this is where the phrase 'bull-dyke' comes from. I'm pretty sure she's a lesbian and she looks just like a bull."

She goes to open the passenger side of the truck and I warn her about Asshead. She asks if they need animal control down here to handle the dog while me and my vehicle are being searched. I tell her that shouldn't be necessary, she's just a little temperamental and needs a soft touch. I secretly snicker as I can't imagine that anything short of smearing herself in honeybutter and steak sauce will give her a "soft touch" with Asshead, but the snickering stops when I realize that I'll go to jail if she gets bitten.

To my complete astonishment, BullDyke begins cooing and smooching with my little brown terror and actually coaxes her out of the truck. Asshead doesn't like any strangers, much less anyone in a dark uniform, but she is licking and climbing on BullDyke like she's wearing Ode De Roadkill.

Cool. At least I won't go to jail for my stupid dog. Let's see if I'm going anyway for the approximately 27 empty beer cans and bottles that are sure to be under the seat of the truck. I silently make a vow to clean more than every 2 years as the other brawny law-enforcers throw every belonging I have out of the truck cab and into the street.

I realize now that I must've looked forlorn to passersby as my belongings were strewn about into the street as I stood, spread-out, helplessly against the side of my truck, but I was really thinking, "man, THAT's where that watch was, I haven't seen that thing in awhile� is that a ticket stub? I remember that game� Wow, I need new jumper cables, those are pretty frayed�"

ToughCop now informs me that he's going to search my "person." I snicker again thinking that this must mean I've got an actual body in the truck and he wants to search it too. I stop snickering when he starts feeling my legs and sticking his fingers into my boots.

When he works his way up to my boys, whom he searches good and thoroughly, I give a snort and say, "Whoa! Buy me dinner first!"

Bad idea.

*SMACK* Right across the back of my head.

"Shut up," ToughCop says brusquely.

"Hey, Rodney King�" I mutter as JarHead, still scowling across the truck at me reiterates loudly and firmly, "Shut your mouth."

Okay. Note to Self: No more smarting off to overzealous, easily-prone-to-violence cops.

Got it.

They finish playing with my nuts and their little JuddHole's-stuff-tossing game and� Shocker of all Shockers� no gun. Excuse me, no "firearm" to go with the "ammunition" they found. The "ammunition" being two old, moldy, rim-fire .22 short cartridges that I could toss in a campfire and wouldn't even pop.

BullDyke finishes having the time of her life playing with Asshead while the burly-5 make their way back to their respective cars. This is when ToughCop reminds me to get new registration and to clean up all the shit in the street or he'll cite me for littering.

I resisted the incredibly strong urge to remind him that THEY'RE the ones that threw all my shit into the street, but I refrained.

Mostly because the back of my head still stung a little.