Monday, August 1, 2011

Best. Story. EVER.

I don't know about y'all, but when something crazy happens I just can't wait to tell the whole friggin world about it.  I get great pleasure out of recreating my life's shit-show for others to laugh at. Or cringe at.  Whichever.

In the best case scenario, others love (or hate) my story so much that they are COMPELLED to re-tell it.  That's the definition of "popularity", people.  It's basically how I intend to successfully live forever.  Through my stories.  Like grampa.  Who apparently walked 30 miles to and from school every day. During a snowstorm. Up hill.  Both ways.

So... welcome to this week's writing prompt:

Best. Story. EVER. 

Because I want y'all to live forever too.  I'm just considerate like that.  We'll rule the world together as long-term legends and professors of immense wisdom.

After you read my best story (below) link up your best story at the bottom of this post - brand spankin new, or from your bloggy archives (because a good story never gets old).

And if you'd like us to feature your story as a guest post, email the text to cheesybloggers@gmail.com this week and we'll make sure your legacy spreads across the interwebs better than conspiracy theories and celebrity gossip. Promise. 

 - Marianna Annadanna

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Oh. My. God.

So, Hubby calls me this morning and whispers: “There’s a crazy guy on the front step of our house cutting himself with scissors.”

Holy shit.

I guess Guy (crazy and/or disturbed and/or high-out-of-his-TREE... to be determined) approached Hubby out front, asking for Andrew. Hubby doesn’t know an Andrew, and he definitely doesn’t know Guy.

So Hubby retreats from the driveway into the house and locks the door while Guy wanders down the road… wanders down the road, only to quickly return to our front porch and proceed to peer into our front door, and then begin to use my garden scissors to carefully cut his right shoulder.

Hubby calls the police.

Hubby then cautiously observes Guy from the distant family room while anxiously waiting for Cop to show up.

Hubby gives me the play-by-play via telephone. He says he’s ready to escape out the back door if needed. And I, of course, ask “where are the cats?!” to be sure that he will rescue Tuxedo and Patches if a hasty exit is required.

Finally, Cop shows up and is yelling at Guy to put. the. scissors. down. Guy is laying on our front lawn/porch.

Cop cars #2 and #3 arrive. And then the Paramedic vehicles drive up – 3 of them.

All these people try to secure Guy – one even pulls out the hose from our backyard (the reason for which does eventually reveal itself) – all while Hubby watches from the relative safety of his Panic Room.

Hubby kindly points out to me how crazy this must look to our neighbours. Both mine and Hubby’s vehicles are parked out front, and it can’t look good. Oh, wow, what’s going on with the cute newlyweds? The honeymoon’s over!

I then realize that I feel really badly for Guy. Something must be very wrong with him. But I reserve my concern for AFTER he’s not a threat to my house/husband/cats.

Hubby eventually emerges from the house.

Cop has placed our scissors in the mailbox! How… thoughtful? Hubby quickly confirms that, no, we don’t want the scissors. Cop puts his rubber glove BACK ON and removes the scissors.

Cop then informs Hubby that when he arrived, Guy was on our front step trying to cut off some very important body parts.

Oh. My. God.

And so, because Cop had to stop Guy somehow (he didn't want him to regret THAT later) Hubby will now have to wash the PEPPER SPRAY off our front door.

OH. MY. GOD.

Hubby gets out the new pressure washer to blast the front door and ends up breathing in hoards of the "minor irritant" (Cop's description) as it dislodges from our front step and fills the surrounding atmosphere.

Hubby finally goes to work and stresses about the whole traumatizing event all day. Who could blame him?

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So link up here! And if you want to guest post, email us your best stories.  Oh, and don't forget to check out this week's new Spreadable Cheese.  It's fun. You'd be crazy if you didn't, really.