So now I have a dilemma, and I don't mean regarding whether to spell that word, dilemma, incorrectly with an "mn" as 98% of the English-speaking world was taught, perhaps because a 19th century beehive-headed teacher from Oshkosh was one hump shy of an "mm" - or at least her prohibition-defying handwriting was. No, I'm speaking of whether I should continue this story from my own biased point of view, with one eye and left brain on Tetris and the other eye/hemisphere on the webcam, now working perfectly and displaying an unmoving History sleeping quietly under my sofa, yet poised to sproing upon my unwashed feet twelve nanoseconds before he perceives them.
Or should I tell you what Skeletor saw at exatly the same time, running across the top of the "Berlin wall" which separated her Foxglove and Nightshade garden from Fate and the pile of hubcaps and AMC Gremlins in Fate's back yard? Oh yes, I knew I was going to do this... I've already forgotten to mention that Fate is the inbred Pit Bull belonging to a trailer park escapee named Blanford MacIntosh Bates, or some such prissy British name, who lives the other side of Skeletor. Only the match between the name and its inbred owner is so inconceivably incongruous that in my own mind I can only call him "Mac" or "Biffo", unless I'm speaking to him directly which I avoid at all costs except in emergencies such as when Fate's teeth sink deeply enough into my flesh to threaten major arterys. Until this happened, I usually chose to ignore the pain by imagining that the drooling, snarling mass dangling from one of my limbs was a cartoon dog named Spike and I would distract my mind by trying to remember which classical music is appropriate for such cartoonish moments of bloody foaming teeth and flailing hind legs. Wagner perhaps or Stockhausen? Certainly not Strauss. On this particular day I was imagining one of the Fugues Beethoven wrote while fencepost deaf, shortly before his painful death. I clenced out a smile at Biff and grunted, "Uhhg, Lucifer's a b-bit too friendly today, eh Mr. B-Bluto.. ates errr?"
"Well now you'all looky here! Fate have gots Useless by the dad burned gonads. And ah ain't had so much fun seein' somethin' since the Hogs done et my own brother!" He takes a swig of a beer named, "Mostly Lower Alabama's Bestist" and beats the dog off with the rusty crankshaft of an AMC Matador.
You might be surprised to hear that I'm very good at distracting my mind, even when I'm not playing Tetris. Which is why I've completely forgotten to mention that it was History who was balanced upon Skeletor's wall, taunting Fate, after being chased by Fate and barked at by Fate, all the while appearing on my webcam as a monoculed cat, prepouncibly sleeping under my couch.
Now you're probably thinking to yourself, "Surely you weren't watching the webcam the entire time, History obviously slipped out while you took a break to swig Jolt cola and go to the toilet." But I didn't, not this time. In fact I was watching with such intensity that I imagined my old boss, Mr. Heston, saying "Yoos, if onwy youw hawd obsorved Mr. Taywo' wit hawf da concentwation of yo dawn Tetwis and dat dawn cat Histowy, Taywo wod stiw be hew."
You might also wonder if somehow there were two identical black monoculed cats each of which appeared exactly like History, one flickering contently on my webcam and the other precariously balanced on the Hadrian wall between Skeletor's garden and Bluto's trailer-park junkyard. You might call the other a copy cat, Skeletor would call him a Doppleganger. Only somehow the dopple is no less or more evil than the original. But again you would be mistaken. The Foxglove petals and Nightshade seeds stuck in History's fur and the nightshade berry juice he clawed into my ankle did not come from the underside of my couch.
The problem now, you see, is that I must deal with fractions in counting the number of lies I told today. I was never very good at fractions, but it seems that my total for today is 16 white lies, and 1/2 of a gray lie. And it isn't even midnight yet.