I threw down the newspaper and chortled.
"Lookit this!" I said to the wife.
"Bedbugs infest posh New York City Hotels."
She didn't respond.
"All those rich people, itching and scratching"
I said in high glee. "Serves 'em right!"
She came over to me, grim-faced.
"Lookit this!" she said bitterly.
She had a squashed bug in her hand.
"I found it in our bed!"
"Is it . . . ?" I began.
"Yeah" she said. "It's a bedbug!"
"Oy vey!" I moaned. "Bedbugs here in
Muscatine Iowa!"
Just then the doorbell rang.
It was a special delivery letter
addressed to me. I ripped it open.
"Hey!" I said. "My Uncle Harry passed
away and left us forty million dollars!"
"Let's get out of this bug-infested burg!"
urged the wife.
So we did.
We burned every stick of furniture and every
bit of clothing and started over.
We moved to the Big Apple. New York City.
We bought a mansion on Fifth Avenue.
We had a Swedish mattress so expensive that
three security guards escorted it up into our
bedroom.
And it had bedbugs!
They bit us until we were scratching
our welts and bleeding on the expensive
furniture. Made of teakwood, most of it.
So we moved out. Sold the place at a loss.
Went to San Francisco. Found a townhouse
on a hill painted in pastels.
Our new mattress was made of magnetic
fiberglass -- guaranteed to kill any and all
vermin.
But then CNN ran a series of reports saying
that magnetic fiberglass causes cancer.
And attracts bedbugs.
We had the townhouse demolished.
We fled to Canberra in Australia to collect
heritage sheep fleeces.
It's a well-known fact that kangaroos
eat bedbugs, so they don't have very many
in the country.
That's when we discovered the joys
of hosting sheep lice.
So I divorced my first wife and married
a centipede. Our eggs are many. We
hide them in warm dark moist places.
No comments:
Post a Comment