Sic Transit Gloria...

This post was going to be fucking awesome.

It was going to be titled "A Tale of Two Weekends," and it was going to be full of humorous analogies, as well as high-fallutin' literary allusions.

I was going to begin it with a hack, "it was the best of weekends, it was the worst of weekends" intro, and I didn't plan on letting up.

I was going to drive home a ton of ham-fisted Dickens references, to the point where you'd remark "from that first line, I expected Suck Factor Seven, but, you know what, that was better than I expected..."

And, naturally, it would have been written with scientifically verifiable levels of 100% pure adrenaline.


Or your money fucking back.

I was going to compare and/or contrast last weekend, which was a delightful plunge into a spiritual crisis that many have noted, "probably wouldn't have happened if you left the fucking apartment at least once in four days," with this past weekend, which was, on average, delightful.

I was going to pen this masterpiece last night. After, of course, making dinner for Niki and helping out with the laundry first. It was a delightful little plan that couldn't fail.

Until I got caught up yesterday afternoon, watching football at my local version of Purgatory...


So, instead of trotting home merrily with fresh vegetables in tow, I got home a wee later than expected, cut my head shaving (which, for some reason, was of paramount importance at 10pm) and then waited until there were three centimeters of water on the bathroom floor before thinking, "maybe this ain't right..."

After that, I had to plunge a toilet, sop up the bathroom floor and burn the bottoms of my feet of with bleach to purge them.

Niki was psyched.

Why is it, when Andy Capp does it, he's just being a lovable English drunk?


When I do it, someone always feels like they have to "intervene..."

So, needless to say, while I was simultaneously battling an overflowing toilet and a gushing flow of blood from the knick on my dome, I was not trolling the web for obscure literary criticism.

I did miss Finchy, though, for some strange reason.

Standing there, feet soaked in toilet water, I could practically see him again, looking down at me from twelve feet up, head cocked, occasionally trying to cry out for help from the wrong side of our skylight.

A lot of people have asked me, "what actually happened to Finchy?" and I still don't know.

Our landlord's English is about as good as my Spanish, which means, even if I did ask, and he told me, there's a pretty good chance I'd still have no clue.

And I blame myself, because I took Spanish years ago. I had a knack for it.

Hell, I was good enough at the language to get into and out of trouble in Spain, and I can still rattle off "da me un abogado, yo soy estadosunidiense..." when I need it.


Now I can't even muster enough Spanish to figure out what happened to Finchy. The mystery is killing me!

Things are looking up, though.

Niki's first Spanish class is this Thursday.

I feel relatively confident when I say, "the Case of the Disappearing Roommate is about to be closed."

Until then, I still don't know what happened to you, my fine feathered friend, but I like to believe that, wherever you are, it is a far, far better thing that you do, than you have ever done; that it is a far, far better rest that you've gone to than you have ever known.

In the meantime, I've said it before, and I'll say it again: ave atque vale, Finchy!