Sometimes at the start of a movie they’ll say, “The following movie is based on real events.” Yeah – right. What they are plainly saying is that someone took a real event and then wrote a script that has nothing to do with the real events. The idea of the script was merely based on real events and based is the keyword here. It’s fine. I mean writers do this all the time, don’t they? Isn’t everything based on real events? A more honest opening would be “The following is a pack of embellished lies pulled from the writer’s overactive imagination.”

Well boys and girls, the following story isn’t based on real events. It was a real event and it really happened. Now, to set the stage… This story took place over a decade ago. My wife and I hadn’t been married all that many years and my two step-kids were still teens. On this particular night, the boy was at home and the girl was spending the night somewhere. (The girl spending the night is probably a lie but I can’t prove it, so, we’ll just go with that. Who knows what the hell she was really doing. Pagan rituals, satanic sacrifices, overthrowing third-world nations, we’ll never know.)

So there I was, sitting peacefully reading in the library minding my own business, not bothering anybody. Just so we’re clear on this, library is a euphemism for bathroom and it’s called the library because of the paperback books and magazines kept in there – not that you care. So, while I was sitting and reading I heard a huge commotion from the front of the house. You know, yelling, screaming, furniture being thrown – the works. Naturally, I was concerned but I wasn’t exactly in any position to just get up and go have a look, was I? I was in the library after all!

At this point in time, my wife begins screaming out my name and making it clear that I need to get to where she is – RIGHT NOW! As she’s yelling, I’m picturing in my head that a group of armed thugs have kicked in the door and are in fact that this very moment beginning to viciously beat my family to within an inch of their lives. I was actually planning a run straight for my pistol and a possible gunfight. However, soon enough the reason for this life and death struggle going on in the other room was finally revealed, as my wife again screamed at me to come out and kill a centipede.

I was a bit relieved to learn that armed thugs weren’t in fact taking over my house and there was no need to run for my pistol. So, I yelled back to my wife that I was “In the library.” This bit of information wasn’t nearly as critical to her as it was to me however. I selfishly decided my current situation was more important to me than her own plight; therefore, I stayed in the library despite her frequent pleas and outright demands that I get out. I told her to get the boy to help her while I “finished with my reading.”

Having abruptly finished, I walked to the front of the pandemonium-filled house expecting to see a 5-foot tall, mustached centipede replete with a sombrero, poncho, and bandoleer wielding a brace of pistols in a fight to the death with the cat. I expected to see this because my wife was yelling excitedly at the cat to get away from the centipede. What I found instead was my wife standing on the couch, my son standing on the loveseat clutching a broom, and the cat searching the wall of the bar counter between the living room and kitchen.

Naturally, the first question I asked was, “Where is it?” This was a foolish question on my part because nobody saw where it went other than the cat, whose vocabulary is limited to “Meow.” Apparently, making eye contact with a centipede is not a good idea; apparently, it angers them. I started looking near the wall where the cat was searching while my loving wife berated me for not getting out of the library fast enough and allowing it to escape. I asked my broom-wielding son on the loveseat why he didn’t kill it which got me the classic reply of a shoulder shrug. I took the broom from the brave young lad and asked how he’d planned to kill the centipede from the opposite side of the room. He smiled and laughed, then shrugged his shoulders again before retreating to his bedroom in his newly found nonchalance.

I went back to searching the counter inside and out; hammering my fist on the wall and counter top hoping to scare that damn thing out while the cat helped me look, and my wife stood watch from the couch. It was gone, just gone. This of course was completely my fault and I know this because my scared/angry couch-hopping wife told me so. Apparently, my “I was in the library” defense wasn’t really all that strong of an argument. I thought it was a damned good excuse myself, in case you’re wondering.

I finally had to say because even the cat had given up looking at this point in time, “Well honey, it’s gone. Hell it could be over at the neighbor’s house by now. What do you want me to do?”

“Get me some pillows and blankets. I’m sleeping in the van.” She flatly stated.

“Honey, it’s gone. It’s not like it has a personal vendetta against you.” I quipped back.

“You didn’t find it and I’m not sleeping in this house just so that creepy thing can crawl on me!”

Jokingly I offered, “Well, I don’t know what you want me to do. I could get some gasoline and burn the house down if you want.” Thinking the idea was so preposterous she’d see the humor in it.

My wife hopped down from the couch and said, “Okay” as she headed for the bedroom to get her pillows and blankets while steering well clear of the kitchen counter.

So, there you have. That was the day I got my wife’s blessing to burn the house to the ground. After one lightening fire, a flood from a broken pipe, several septic tank problems, a bad electrical circuit in the bedroom, etc… Maybe I should have done it. Oh well, hindsight is twenty-twenty, right? As I said at the beginning, it’s all true, no embellishment at all. Sometimes life is funny enough just as it is. Just say’n.

Pancho Villa © by -Chupacabras-

Jack Sass

Jack “Sass” Masters is a cynical 44 year who’s been married to the same vicious broad for the past 17 years. He spends his time eating, drinking, watching TV and religiously avoiding work. He occasionally writes following the philosophy that anything worth doing is worth doing half-assed.

Tags: Jack Sass, reality, stupid