Zika

Most of you are aware of the fact that my girlfriend Sissy's little sister, Spud, (I don't think that's her real name) is retarded developmentally challenged and as such, tends to be somewhat easily influenced.

With this in mind, I wasn't that surprised when Spud barged into the house Saturday night yelling "Zika! Zika!" and hysterically begging for insect repellent. Apparently she had watched some show about the Zika virus and come away with the belief that a bite by a mosquito would shrink one's brain, turning them into a flat-headed zombie. Knowing that her backyard is a veritable swamp teeming with mosquitos thanks to an overflowing septic tank, and seeing the fresh welt on Spud's dirty ankle told me this was the kind of situation I live for.

After dimming the lights and fogging the area with insecticide in case she was followed, I had Spud lay down on the living room floor. Moving quickly, I applied a tourniquet just below her knee. Then, in a courageous and selfless move with absolutely no regard for my own safety, I proceeded to suck the bite in a desperate attempt to draw out the deadly virus before it could reach Spud's brain. As Sissy attempted to calm her sister, I frantically vacuumed the wound while exhorting Spud to stay strong and not pass out. Finally, convinced I had hopefully done enough, I had nurse Sissy administer several shots of tequila and a sleeping pill as I went out to pick up more needed supplies.

When I got home I was glad to see that Spud was sound asleep. We carried her to the couch, covered her with a blanket, and went to bed.

I woke up at around two in the morning and put on the wig that I'd bought, pulling it down to my brow. I smudged some of Sissy's eyeliner around my eyes, dribbled some catsup out of my mouth, and quietly slipped into the living room. I sat down on the coffee table facing the couch, turned on the flashlight pointed up at my face, and started growling.

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There's a big difference between torturing someone and simply trying to cheer them up and nobody knows that more than me, regardless of what Sissy or her stupid mom says. Also, blaming me for someone else's lack of emotional/mental stability is hardly fair, especially when it's me and my stuff that got damaged. As far as I'm concerned, I'm willing to not press charges against Spud for kicking me in the face if she pays for the shattered patio door and cleaning the couch. 

That's fair. That's more than fair.