What's "Up Chuck"?

So, a few days ago Chuck made the fatal mistake of commenting on my blog, that I can come and move in with him post on his site, and I jumped all over that like a fat kid on cake.  He also told me that it sounded like I need to adjust my meds.  My God, the amount of love that man has for me is almost embarrassing.

Now, like most sane people, when someone offers them “the keys to the place” I assumed he was in the market for a house guest.  I figured he was desperate to have someone pee in water the plants, feed Trooper, and bring in the newspaper and mail, while he was gone.  I kind of thought that asking someone who is a 15 hour car ride away was a bit much, but that’s what stalkers friends do for each other.  So, I hitched up the sled dogs, smuggled my pot and firearms past a few border guards, and headed South.

Of course I wanted my visit to be a surprise, even though I know I was totally invited, but I thought it would be nice to snoop around as much as I could clean the place up a little, make a wonderful home cooked meal, and give Chuckie the home coming that he deserved.  So, I waited patiently in my car for him to leave for his business trip.  Now, there’s no need to mention how much I over estimated my travel time, how I got there days in advance, and how I had to wait in my car for him to leave, living off rain water, two packets of Starbucks brown sugar, and some old McDonald’s french fries that I found under my seat.

By the way, Chuckie, you must know, that penis flopping dance that you do in front of your bedroom window is highly entertaining, but I heard the neighbours (we use extras vowels in Canuckistan.  That’s how we do.) groan and they were all, “Dude, that again?  Doesn’t he have any new material?”

Trooper was a tad freaked out when I dropped in from that open kitchen window.  He was a little leery of me at first, but then I let him smell my butt and he warmed up to me pretty quickly.  That’s actually kind of funny, because that’s exactly the way Chuck and I became friends.

Alright, that’s not entirely true, but our dear Chuckles was once ASSaulted by a horny Canadian ghost.  I’m pretty sure that’s how I’ve decided I’m going to spend my after life….hanging out in hotel rooms, tickling the brown spiders of Alabaman (Alabamanian?  Alabamites?) tourists.

Anyway, I raided the fridge and slipped Trooper some beef jerky, and we became friends for life.  He followed me all around the house, searching the couch cushions for gas money, opening drawers and rifling through the mail.  I was kind of thrown a bit when I came across Chuck’s renewal to the Victoria’s Secret Panties of the Month Club.  Not so much because he was a current member, but because he actually thinks he fits into a medium Hip Hugger, and his preference is florals as opposed to lace.  Chuck, really man, we need to talk.  Florals?  You might as well be wearing Granny panties.

After taking advantage of being able to use a fully functioning bathroom again, (you have no idea what a pain it is to keep your aim steady in the car while you’re trying to pee in a diet Pepsi bottle) I did what any good house guest does, and snooped in the medicine cabinet.

Old Spice, Chuck??  No one uses Old Spice any more, babe.  Also, those condoms have an expiration date of before I was born.

I did end up finding this bottle filled with these cool, little, blue pills.  They kind of looked like Skittles.  I like Skittles.  Apparently Trooper does, too.  I was going to eat a handful of them, but the after taste was kinda chalky, so I thought better of it.  It might be a good thing that I stopped at only one, because I don’t think they were really Skittles.  And now I have some serious, extreme tingling in my nethers, and Trooper is humping the laundry hamper.  I’m just going to go ahead and tuck a few of these away for later.

I was jumping up and down on the bed when I heard keys jingling in the front door.  Trooper took off like a banshee, and I’m pretty sure that furry bastard ratted me out because Chuck came right back to the bedroom.  I’m sure it had more to do with the talking dog than the fact that Chuck had forgotten one of his bags.  I bet you can imagine how happy he was to see me, mid bounce and all.

It turned out that Chuck wasn’t really expecting me.  Apparently he must have gotten his dates mixed up or something.  That silly Chuck.  I was thrilled, though, when he offered to walk with me out to my car to carry in my bags, so I could make myself more comfortable.  He’s such a sweet, sweet man.  It’s too bad about that defective hinge on the front door that causes it to slam shut and not be able to be opened from the inside.  Poor Chuck ended up being locked in.  Without me.

I was about to go ’round back to crawl through the kitchen window again, when I noticed the police car pull into the drive way.  What luck! I thought.  When the officers approached I frantically told them all about poor Chuck being locked in the house, kept captive by the broken front door hinge.  It turns out, though, I don’t speak Alabaman and those officers couldn’t understand what I was implying.  Apparently they thought it might be a good idea for me to speak to a translator, down at the station.

I still don’t understand why that required handcuffs.  Or the restraining order and peace bond.  Or the strip search.

But apparently Chuck’s business trip was very successful.  He’s been offered a wonderful management position with a firm in Uganda.  I don’t really know where that is, but Chuck tells me it’s far, far away and there’s no public transportation or lines of communication to allow me to call or visit.

I’m sure going to miss him.