We’re mov­ing to a nice golf course down the road. Just spent the morn­ing pulling a deer tick off my wife, then check­ing all the boys for ticks, too. This a few days after find­ing a fully engorged dog tick hap­pily snooz­ing on the car­pet in our upstairs hall­way. Really wish two of our neigh­bors would take bet­ter care of their yards. Heck, the back yard to the West is get­ting so over­grown we’re about to lose sight of their bird bath.

 

9 Responses to We’re moving

  1. mark says:

    *shud­der* Yikes!

  2. David says:

    Tics are seri­ous. They spread dis­ease. I was told the proper way to remove them is with lotion–to drown the lit­tle crit­ters so they remove their head from your body.

  3. mark says:

    Agreed! An acquain­tance in high school had a tic that was so severe, he actu­ally threw out his neck one time!

  4. Mark II says:

    I had a teacher once with an out­ra­geous full body tick. It was impos­si­ble to take him seri­ously. He’d be lec­tur­ing the class, per­fectly nor­mal one sec­ond, and then with­out warn­ing — SPLEECH! — he’d strike a pose so com­i­cal, so com­pletely improb­a­ble, that even after sev­eral months I never com­pletely believed he wasn’t just putting us on.

    I mean lit­er­ally from nor­mal to this (and I am not exaggerating):

    http://www.kinderblick.net/Cartoons/Don_Martin/DonMartinMonaLisa.jpg

  5. Mark II says:

    And he’d hold the pose, his body com­pletely frozen like that, for sev­eral sec­onds. If you were lucky he wouldn’t be look­ing directly at you when it hap­pened, because there was noth­ing worse than hav­ing his goO­gly freak eyes fixed on yours when the tick kicked in. Noth­ing. Cause it was impos­si­ble to look away, you see. You had to just stare back, express­ing no emo­tion, not dar­ing to smirk or crack a smile for the two, maybe three sec­onds of that dread­ful eter­nity while every one else in class col­lec­tively gasped and qui­etly thanked The Lord Who Afflicted Him So Cru­elly that they were, this time, spared the humiliation.

  6. Danny says:

    Mark, dear cousin, you have the weird­est life.

  7. David says:

    I had a teacher once that ate tooth paste to help his asthma He was a coach so we were out on the field play­ing foot­ball and stuff and he would be bark­ing out com­mands and eat­ing his tooth paste. Is that weird?

  8. David says:

    I had a math teacher that said “hum” every sec­ond sen­tence. You could barely under­stand him. It was like another lan­guage he was speaking.

  9. Mark II says:

    I know. My life is pretty strange. And I’ve had some wacky, fringe-dwelling teach­ers who no doubt had an influ­ence on me. Never had a rav­en­ous asthma-afflicted toothpaste-eater, though. I almost feel left out. And sud­denly I have to won­der: what’s a guy with asthma doing being a foot­ball coach?

    My high school dean was a gen­tle­man named Mr Ben­net. Nice enough guy, but his head was per­pet­u­ally kinked to one side, like he’d thrown it out in his youth and never fully recov­ered, and it was spooky because the angle of his head seemed to influ­ence the way he walked so that he never quite moved in a straight line, but always drifted a lit­tle like a car with its wheels out of align­ment. We called him Mr Bent­neck, of course.

    I remem­ber from my ele­men­tary school library a children’s mag­a­zine called High­lights for Chil­dren that used to fea­ture art sub­mis­sions from chil­dren around the coun­try. There was this one par­tic­u­larly awful yet hilar­i­ous draw­ing in one issue which, years later, I thought of imme­di­ately the first time I saw Mr Ben­net mak­ing his steady, if slightly par­a­bolic, way across the cam­pus quad.…

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