The Mulligans

CHAPTER 1:
Game Night

When you move to Los Angeles, the Great City of Angels, the Mayor Gabriel horn-bells the entirety of your skull, wailing the deafening sonus of self-esteem from brain out through your anus. What’s left in its wake is the Assumption of Ego to fertilize in your raisining womb of self-confidence; however, unlike the Famous Virgin, you have to go through a series of absolute fuckings to get it.

One of these such fuckings is to befriend the odd, the people that are desirably more fucked-up than you could ever be.

I was guilty of it. So, was Wifey. So, were the hordes of all of our human friends. All of us had a subconscience clique of self-esteem booster buddies.  Each one of them traded and shared like duplicates from a Topps package in support of one another's fetaling egos.

Wifey and I scored a husband and wife team called: The Mulligans.

Joyce Christine and Robert Mulligan.  She insisted that she be addressed by both names, he the entirety of his first name (even though he wasn't gay).

The Mulligans were a collective of arrogance and cluelessness tiered into two horrible people connected at the wedding band.

And we were friends with them.

Actively.

Twice a weekend.

Once we were invited to "Game Night" at their apartment, a 400 square foot 1-bedroom kidnapper's den, patterned in upside down milk crates with several copies Milton Bradley’s Game of Life a top of every crate.  Each one huddled-over by middle-aged, overweighters nerding out because none of them, clearly, had a life of their own...  because...  as I peered inside the door... I noticed everyone adorned in...  Renaissance clothes.

Not costumes.

Clothes.

Clothing.

Renaissance clothing!

And, damn, these folks looked authentic.  Like someone had opened a time portal and let these revelers play a jousting round of modern boarded merriments, then sent them back into the portal of plagues and pestilence once "Go" had been passed.

We weren’t typicals from the Huzzah crowd, so I came over in a bowling shirt, Wifey in a patchwork sundress.

Joyce Christine blocked us at the door, “Prithee, where art thou attire?"

Prithee?  Who says "prithee"?

"Sorry, Joyce Christine.  We didn't know we were supposed to dress wierd," and meaning nothing by it.

“Thou dost thinketh this-ith…”

This-ith?

This-ith “fake-eth” word proved she was trying way too hard for character.  But I gave her kudos for, at least, making the word palatable and real through the stains of port wine almond ball cheddar on her lips.

“Thou dost thinketh this-ith is weird,” pointing to her overly-bustiered flapjacks sacked into a tavern keeper’s dress complete with flowing cape.  A cape that we had seen her wear out in public, giving us the impression she had deemed it appropriate to wenched-it-out even during a run to Panda Express.

Yes.

“It’s not weird,” I agreed only because crazy people will argue until thyne death.

But, man, it was.  It so fucking was.

The more I peered through the frame of the door, the more I wondered why her full-grown adult friends were playing board games in complete faire attire. And why were the board games all The Game of Life?  And why were we so eager to be part of it?!?

Creepy.  Really creepy.

“This has to be a mask for swinging,” I thought.  Has to be. “Pretty soon these fat asses will be trading wenches across milk cartons and Lose-A-Turn squares.”

Wifey's face was showing that she drew the same Chance card I had just sent to the discard pile. She wanted out. We both did.

Robert snaked away from behind his wife, informing us that without proper “theme”, there was no way we could play.

YES!!! 

But, then, he presented me with a ruffled silken swordsman shirt.

... great...  fucking fantastic… me thanks ye, goode sir...

It was bloused and feathered at the chest and crusted yellow at the pits. He insisted I wear it "hastily and without delay" because "station 7" was “all damsel” and in need of a “sire” to round off the rotation.

What by the name of the Fowler Brothers is he talking about? What is about to happen in this 400 square foot space?

“Can’t we just play Life in our regular clothes?’”

They're coming off anyway, aren't they?  You creep.

“The Game of Life,” Robert was all business.  I had said something wrong.

“What?”

“The," prounounced in the more serious intonation, "THUH", "...  Thuh GAME OF – Life. That is thee title of thee game. Its name.  Life is what you live and THUH Game of Life is what you play.”

He was talking to me like I was retarded.

I’m retarded?!?

He was clutching a tiny yellow car token in his jouster’s-gloved hand and I’m the retarded one.

“Dude, I don’t want to wear it.”

“Why?”

"Don't wanna."

“You're not gonna wear my shirt?”

“Nope.  The pits are filthy and it looks like it smells.”

“Then, you can’t play.”

“Okay.”

“Okay, what?”

“Okay, I won’t play.”

“But we need a sire on station 7 before the rotation.”

“Dude, I don’t know what station 7 is and I’m not wearing your dirty Musketeer’s costume.”

“It’s a swordsman shirt and it’s real.  Not a costume. I got it from the Universal prop house.”

The Universal Studios prop house.  Oh, yes.  The Smithsonian of the West.

Fullname Robert; you, me and this 50/50-blend, fake, D’Artagnan pullover...?  We’re all done here.

“Robert, forget it. If they’re not going to take this seriously.”

WHAT?!? ME?!?  TURN AROUND IN YOUR OWN HOME!!!! THERE ARE TWENTY 50-YEAR OLD FAT HIPPIES DRESSED IN MEDEVIEL CLOTHES SITTING AROUND MILK CARTONS EATING TRISKETS SMEARED WITH THE CHEESE-PLANED BALLS OF PORT WINE ALMOND CHEDDAR PLAYING THE GAME OF LIFE!!!!

Wow....  there is...  there so is. I can't leave now.  This is wonderful.  Man, I really need these two to boost my plunging self-esteem.

I determined, finally, that The Mulligans were a good find.  A damn good find.  I was feeling better about myself already.

“I’m sorry, man,” as I grabbed the shirt, held my breath and pulled it over my head, "Which one is station 7?”

Wifey looked at me.  Horror.  Horror and betrayal, “Rick?”

"Sorry, babe.  Suit up.  We’re in rotation!”

Mouse Guest (part 2)

I was belly-down, ass-up on the bathroom floor, sliding the Wet-Jet back-and-forth under the sink in my underwear.

“Who… let… the… mouse… in…?”

Wifey needed to know.

“Who… let… –“

Each word had a 10 second pause between it.

“... it… in…?”

He let himself in!

“Not sure. Could have got in anywhere?”

“Are… there… rat… turds… all… over… the… place?”

Oh, my GOD! For the Sweet Snoring Melodies of Sonos… wake up if you’re going to have this conversation with me…

I’m having a conversation with a coma.

“No.”

“No… what?”

“No there aren’t rat turds all over the place.”

“Are… you… sure?”

“No.”

No. I wasn’t sure there weren’t turds all over the place. Not ALL over the place, at least. I hadn't checked for turds, yet. I was still trying to catch the fucking mouse with the Swifter Wet-Jet.

But, if you have to know…, “There is a small stack of them dead center of living room.”

“OHMYGOD!!! Clean it up! Mice are filthy! Their shits carry disease.”

Her house is suddenly dirty... so... now... she’s awake.

Officially.

My house was falling apart. Imploding into convex vortex of micro-mouse-feces that were hilled up on the living room rug.

The dog was no help. My, usually delightful, lady was up in flames over the possible pestilence scattered across the floor. And I had to figure out a way to excise the remnants of my mus musculus from the carpet.

“I'll vacuum them in a second!”

“NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

“No?!?”

“Not with the Dyson,” she panicked from deep against her pillow.

“Then with what shall I suck up the shits?”

A straw?!?

“Please, don't use the Dustbuster. I clean the beds with that.”

“Okay…?”

“And , please, don’t use the Swivel Sweeper... please... don't...”

Okay. First of all, why are there this many fucking vacuum cleaners in my house?!?

“You determine which sucking machine I’m supposed to eat these shits up with, meanwhile, please, keep it down. I’m trying to coax this fucking mouse out from under the sink so I can kill it.”

With the Wet-Jet.

Which she didn't know I was using and as long as she didn't, I knew I was going to be okay.

“Kill what,” it was Tiny. All groggy… and awake, "Daddy's killing something."

Great. Now she thinks I kill shit while she's sleeping.

“It's a mouse.”

“A real one?”

No, a fucking robotic mouse. I invent rodents while the rest of you sleep?

“Yes. It’s real, baby. Go back to sleep.”

“Not alone with a mouse running around. No way!” talking all like Shirley Temple before the big dance routine.

“I don’t want him in the house at all,” Wifey echoed.

The girls were clearly bothered that there was this “thing” amok.

Wifey ping-ponged between me and the melatonus mutt on the hypo-allergenic pillow, “Who found him? The dog?”

I unfurled and flicked my index in “the dog’s” direction, “Him?”

No.

Definitely not.

He was R.E.M.ed, dreaming up a snore storm and kicking his sleeping legs like he was running through a field. A field of mice, I hope. You deserve nightmares tonight.

Pussy.

“A mouse? I don’t want a mouse in my room.”

Then Wifey appeared. Bathrobed and agenda’d: “Howdidhegetin?Weneedtocovereverythinginthecabinates.He’sinherebecausetherestoomuchshitinthedrawers.AndTinyeatsinherroomandtherearecrumbs.Doyouthinkwehavemoreorisitjusttheone?”

She panicked in no spaces. No periods. Then, finished up in a, “And he’s probably shitting everywhere.”

“Ew…”

Thanks, Tiny.

“And Daddy’s trying to get him with the Wet-Jet.”

And thanks for NOTHING, Tiny.

“Not my Wet-Jet!”

Wifey’s tools are important to her. Way important. Even when they don’t work. She’s a package buyer. If the box says it will work, she’ll buy it. But the truth is, this Swifter Wet-Jet is so shitty, I can’t even whack the mouse with it.

“I can’t find him. I can’t find him.”

“So,” Wifey looked at me for answers, “What are we supposed to do?”

“I dunno. Never caught a mouse before. I’ll do some research and figure out how to get rid of him…”

Him?

Hmm…

Nope.

As it turns out, my research showed if I got one… I got many…

Many…

Many?

“We got more than one, guys.”

“Dad, can I sleep with you guys tonight?”

“Yeah.”

And like the least brave family OF ALL TIME, we huddled together in the pine sleigh bed… with the dog at the foot of it all, protecting us from our feet… because the mice were clearly out of the protection question.

To Be Continued…

Mouse Guest (part 1)

The girls went to bed early.

10-ish.

So, I was alone in front of the cable with my trusty mutt curled up under the crook of my ass and back-knee. Both us sitting on the couch, pals, enjoying some “man’s bestest” time.

Then, through a hazed glaze of 2 Rolling Rocks and six laps around the cable box, a scurry. A full-on scurry. Behind the Payless shoe box next to the front door.

“Cee,” I nudged the pooch, “Did you just see something over there?”

He just let out a sleepy woof and nuzzled back into my left ass cheek.

Hmm. I think that was a little mouse.

Shit!

Now, I don’t fancy myself much of a siss, but I was certainly uneasy with the whole concept that an outdoor creature was now indoors… in my doors and pooping little mouse craps on my rug. So, I waited, glue-eyed, to the Payless shoe box sitting by the front door.

His little grey head peeked out from the side of the box and gave out a few sniffs. Then a body squash and second scurry under the TV stand.

No questions this time: That was a mouse. Definitely, a little-goddamn-mouse!!

Dammit, we got rodents. Now the house is all inner city. What’s next a gang shoot-out and bus routes through the computer room?

I’ll admit it. When I saw the scurry, I went a little “eek”… wanting to look all like the maid from the Tom and Jerry cartoons, ready to hightail it to a chair holding a broom, wearing a house apron, screaming for “Thomas!”

I peered over to my trusty guard dog who was comfortably resting his drooling chin on the hypo-allergenic pillow I slapped down on the couch for myself.

“Well…?”

He de-lidded one eye.

“It’s your house, too…”

He drew his tongue up over his nose and licked both eyes. It's pretty outstanding that he can clean his peepers like that. But, still, as cool as that talent is for him... it wasn’t helping me.

“Get the mouse?”

Nah. Not him. Protection. It ain’t his bag, man.

The mouse must have whiskered the dog’s fear and braved out from under the TV stand. He stood hind-up in the middle of the living room rug. Just looking at us. His nose in a constant sniff. His little microscopic pink mini-man fingers rolling around each other like a board room movie villain.

I leaned into the dog’s ear and whispered, “Duuuude...”

Both eyes opened in the direction of this rodent dropping pencil-tip #2s on my rug. Then he eyeballed up to me… and… cried.

“You’re crying?!?”

The mouse scampered into the computer room.

Probably going to catch the next bus.

“Come on, man. Get him..."

The poor dog tensed and sandbagged himself to the couch as I tried to shove his ham from the leather cushions. His padded dog meat only bunched and gloved at my knuckles as I buried him further into the Mexican wool blanket that he had himself already wrapped in.

Pussy.

I mean, let me be real here. The dog cries if his bed smells dirty.

He won’t eat if his water dish and his food dish are juxtaposed on his dining mat… and touching.

So, yes, he’s pampered. Soft. Never to keep a protective pack-eye on our homestead. And, frankly, maybe it’s his canid way of scolding us after the Neutering of ‘99: “If you ain’t gonna let me have balls, you ain’t getting balls… you get the mouse, motherfucker.”

Yeah. Me get the mouse.

Ewww!

I had to own up to it, I was on a pansy par with my pooch. But one of us had to dispose of this rat and it clearly wasn’t going to be him.

Since this was my first live rodent (I’ve rubber-gloved plenty of stiffs from the basement), the question was: What to do? I don’t know how to rid a house of mouse.

I didn’t want to poison the thing. That would just leave it dead and stenching in the unknown.

I didn’t have any traps around. And even if I did, using a classic pull-back-and-snap trap couldn’t be an option. Hearing that poor little skintail shrieking squeals of impending mouse death in the middle of the night -

My girls wouldn't dig that.

And what was worse, I'm not a pipe player. Or pipe pyer. I've never pied a pipe. Or whatever-the-Hell-ever.

No, I had to do my next best up from the Hamelinian mindset and catch this little grey wheel-runner with tools. So I grabbed the best that I had: A Swifter Wet-Jet and a dirty bath towel out of the hamper.

Now, armed, I heroed my way, in almost non-motion, towards the computer room.

I turned to my canine crybaby one last time, “You coming?”

He just snored into the hypo-allergenic pillow.

Truly, the dickhead has to know that this is more pathetic than his most pathetic moment to date. 6 years ago, while asleep in a curled-up ball on the big couch, he farted in his own face… barked at his asshole… then moved to the loveseat. Afraid of a thumb-sized rodent was rising quickly above that moment as just plain sad.

I made my way into the computer room – AND THERE HE WAS!!! The mouse. All snug against the baseboard, eating a chocolate jimmie that was floored from a bowl of vanilla Tiny got into trouble for eating on top of the computer - 3 months ago.

Aw, mouse, have you no culinary shame?

So, while he shamelessly dined, I tried to stun him with the flat end of the Swifter Wet-Jet, but a piece of lint dropped from the Wet-Jet and scared him right across the hall into the bathroom.

“Rick?”

Shit! I woke Wifey!

“’sup, babe?”

“What are you doing?”

My answer had to be crafted. Careful. There was no way that she was going to be cool with a mouse running around her home, so, I softly and very cautiously... gingerly said, “…. mouse…”

“WHAT?!? THERE’S A MOUSE RUNNING IN THE HOUSE? FROM WHERE?!? DID YOU LET IT IN?!?”

Dammit. Now I HAVE TO catch him...

... to be continued….