Primordial tail tale

The scene was my dark, dank basement, morning time. Setting up shelving, squatted down over a box of useless computer crap. Rats once patrolled here, two of them, leaving rat drops everywhere. I cleaned and cleaned, but you can’t clean everything. So I’m squatted over this box figuring out how best to throw all of it out when a feeling grips me with the urgency of a bad Sarah Palin comment, rings me to the core, forces a leg-clenching I’ve not before experienced. I wonder as I am running up the damned dusty stairs in this awkward-asscheek-clenching manner: WTF caused this? ‘The green tea, coffee and chocolate’ my racing mind answers, swearing never again. Last time I saw anyone bolt to the bothroom like this was a crooked plumber, involved in a strange twist of fate, who deserved such badness. So I made it to the bathroom, but gripped by a fear of residual ratness on my hands being anywhere near my rectal orifice, I commenced washing them, thinking I should find my reading glasses so I could read on the can because I hate wasting time, but ever aware of the primordial tail parting my reluctant ass cheeks, and praying it did not touch the morning’s fresh long underwear. Forget the book. Barely dried my hands in time to slam my pants down to the floor and release the basterd into its rightful resting pool of waiting water, thankful for the killer timing of everything.

[Editor's note: This would not have made the cut were it not for the close proximity of rat droppings, Sarah Palin, and poo.]