I mean – fortunately – it’s less of a deal as fall’s cooler weather approaches, but still.

The one in the house comes on and starts strong, then just peters out until it’s recycling the same old air, warmer and warmer. And this is the new(er) one that replaced the one that was completely broken.

We had to get out the backup air conditioners out of the storage shed. Yes, I said “backup air conditioners,” because this is Tennessee and it’s 155,000 degrees in the shade during the summer. So, yes, we have backup air conditioners. (That were, incidentally, purchased during the Great Meltdown of the Other Air Conditioner 2011 I mentioned earlier.)

Feeling sympathetic, my car’s AC started misbehaving. At first, I thought I was imagining it. But, surely enough, occasionally and for no reason at all, the compressor just quits running. Brilliant.

Frankly, I don’t know how I’ll get a window unit in this car.

Ms. Idiotbags: “Hi there, just following up to see if you sent me that file yesterday.”

Me: “Yes, while we were on the phone yesterday. Didn’t you get it?”

“Oh, okay, good. So about what time was that?”

“Well, I can’t tell, because I’m talking on the phone I sent it from. It was whenever you called yesterday.”

“Okay, I’ll check and see if it came in.”

“Wait. This is the second time you’ve called to confirm I sent something without first checking to see if it came in. Not trying to tell you how to do your job, but it’s less annoying to check first, then call if it doesn’t come.”

I mean… I wonder — do other people have to deal with such an obnoxious level of incompetence?!?

“It’s going to be a great day,” I declared to no one.

Removing the old filter from the coffeemaker, I spilled grounds all over the counter. Upon cleaning them, I set out my mug, retrieved the carafe, and promptly spilled brewed coffee all over the freshly-cleaned surface.

“Well, fuck.”

Sipping my drink, I looked at my to-do list, which included cleaning the cat box. Steeling myself for the dreaded task, I grabbed the bathroom garbage bag and set to work.

And here’s where things went seriously wrong.

My cat has the luxury of a tiny room dedicated to his needs. It’s a small closet off the hallway with a giant litterbox on the floor. I fit it with liners, which are basically rectangular sheets of plastic – you can pull the 4 corners together, making a “bag” of sorts, then dispose of the whole thing. The catch is that I have to kneel in the doorway and lean awkwardly off-balance into it, leveraging myself against the back wall, to pull the liner full of used litter and poop and pee-cakes out and into a waiting receptacle. Which, this morning, turned out to be a wee bit smaller than necessary.

I lurched backward with the  poopsack, turning with a practiced motion and dropping it into the wastebasket, which, on this particular morning, was approximately 15% too small. The liner opened on one side as I did this, sending desiccated poop and litter all over the closet. This is the part where a sensible person might have stopped.

But I was determined.

I stood, mashing the plastic together, trying to hold the heaping litter in the inadequate can with the relative clean of the liner’s outside. As I stood to carry it, one of the sides came loose. And, upon taking my first step towards the outside garbage, the liner released, dumping approximately a cup and a half of used litter and its accompaniment into the open neck of my robe.

I stood paralyzed with shock, grains of litter trickling down my bare torso inside the robe, my mouth agape. A sensible person might now have decided to devise a new method, but not this guy. Resolved, I walked purposefully towards the kitchen, litter and dried cat turds falling to the floor with each step. Litter made its way, swiftly, down my body and into my slippers, making the formerly fluffy insides feel more akin to strolling on the beach.

“I’ll just put this in the kitchen garbage, and carry it all out,” I said, gritting my teeth. I finally got to the kitchen and opened the trash can, dumping the remaining contents into it. The litter then – amazingly – shifted and lurched forward, and spilled all over the kitchen floor. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Incensed, I grabbed the kitchen bag and pulled it from the receptacle, but it wasn’t done. The bag split down the side, and the remaining litter that I had actually managed to get in the trash skittered out onto the tile. I gathered up the sides and gingerly walked it to the outside garbage, leaving a trail of litter and kitchen trash behind me.

Finally back inside the house, a huge cleaning task lay before me: four severely soiled rooms and I still had to put new litter in the box. I grudgingly broke out the vacuum and bleach and set to work, methodically cleaning from room to room until everything was sparkling again.

Admiring my handiwork, I went back to my now-cold coffee and decided to reward my efforts with a fresh cup. I pulled the carafe from the machine, set my mug down…

…and promptly spilled coffee all over the counter.

Damn.

I was feeling frisky that night at Kroger. I picked you up, along with that slutty tart cousin of yours, Low-fat Strawberry, and your ugly friend Brussels Sprouts. The sprouts were bitter and sulked off to the freezer, for-probably-ever, and Strawberry turned out to be too fake — what, with her flashy ace-k and sucralose and other added flavors.

But you… oh baby, you. All-natural creamy dairy goodness with a sophisticated, complex vanilla hue. Naturally endowed with crazy potassium. And you even stopped on the way to grab some vitamins A & D, just because You’re. Fucking. Awesome.

I mean, you know I’ve had other yogurts. And you’re cool with that. But it’s okay anyway baby — they meant nothing to me. Really. I never even liked any of them. You’re the one I’ve been looking for. And yeah. I just ate you, didn’t I. I fuckin’ just ate you right up and we both loved every minute of it, didn’t we. You little minx. Remember how I timidly stuck my spoon in? Then how I read on the Nutrition Facts that I could have a whole cup?

That was a good day.

Vanilla yogurt, you are what warm ivory silk-cashmere blend would taste like – if it was cold and thick and creamy and had a taste. I hope you’ll be open to a threesome – because I’m thinking you, me, and something chocolate.

With love in my heart and lust in my mouth, as usual,
Jonathan

“I saw his channel on YouTube,” he laughed, “and I immediately thought of you. I mean, if I know anyone who’s gonna get adult-onset Tourette’s and start yelling obscenities at people and find it hysterical, it’s gonna be you.”

Well, yes.

Whore.

Please stop making those “vintage coaches press conferences” commercials. They have become unbearably trite, really were not that good to begin with, and – frankly – you just aren’t trying very hard anymore.

I’m serious, guys. The one I just saw didn’t even have a point. It isn’t a good marketing idea to hope that your viewers are so drunk already that your commercial makes sense.

Or is that the whole point? Is it, like, a magic eye commercial that I can only understand when wasted on cheap domestic beer? Touche, Coors Light, touche.

Sincerely,
Jonathan

So I reported my recently-cracked windshield to Claims yesterday. Within 3 hours, the glass replacement company called to set up an appointment. Could they come tomorrow?, they asked. And as I type this, a polite gentleman from Jack Morris Auto Glass is fitting my car with a fresh new windshield.

That’s problem solved in under 24 hours, and all I had to do was fill out a 5-minute online form.

Previous claims have been met with similar concern and urgency, and for that reason, Farm Bureau has earned a customer for life. Take notes, marketers: this is what matters.

Dear Quaker Oats,

I am in possession of a box of Quaker’s Oatmeal To Go bars, which I would absolutely love these except for the weird crunchy things. What ARE these weird crunchy things? They taste like corn or something. Anyway, they mess up the oat flavor and, well, that’s sorta the point of eating an oat bar. Sadly, I can’t even eat around them because there are SO MANY OF THEM.

Quaker Oatmeal does not need to be crunchy. Don’t lower yourself by sullying perfect oatmeal with some kind of crispy grain. Frankly, it’s weird and uncalled-for.

Looking forward to seeing a box with “IMPROVED: NOW WITH NO HORRIBLE CRUNCHY THINGS” soon!

Your fan, Jonathan

I sent that message via Quaker’s online comment form, where I hope they will seriously scrutinize it and remove the weird corn-tastin’ crunchies from those otherwise yummy oat bars.

Now is the perfect time to talk about the phrase I used earlier, “bated breath,” which is profoundly different from “baited breath,” even though I see the second spelling frequently. And no, “bate” is not a common word anymore, but that’s no excuse for ignorance.

To bate something means to restrain or moderate; therefore, to bate one’s breath means to hold one’s breath. Which is almost certainly what you mean to convey: I waited so excitedly, I was unable to breathe!

If you have baited breath, you need to keep your mouth out of the tackle box, because bait is something you use to catch fish.

Great to be back, helping the world with these two problems at once.