Yesterday was full of carnage.

The day started out with me finally getting to have sex with Deb. No, that wasn't one of the carnage parts. She went upstairs, picked out Hank, the razor strop, and a flat wooden spoon. I've been training her for years to let me know what she wants or what she's in the mood for, and picking out tools/toys from upstairs is a great way to do it. Yay, Deb.

It may have been one of the earliest times in the day that we've ever had sex. About 9 a.m. But this was after Deb had tea and cereal and newspaper, not like waking her up to have sex. Why so early? It was the only time in the day she could work me in. We had brunch with the girls planned for 11:30 or so, then Deb hoped to work in a bike ride with Jake, and then she'd have to start getting dinner ready to have it done before 5:00.

Anyway, I had some nice sex time with the wife, then she got up to putter around and I dozed on the couch wating for brunch, hoping the semiconscious state of mind would filter out the pangs of hunger.

We brunched, and then the four of us went for a walk through the neighborhood. I finally got some energy going and decided I would rake leaves.

Death scene 1: definite homicide. Location: driveway (body had been moved). Victim: cardinal, male. All that was left of him was a few scattered feathers, one wing, and half of his beak. The tongue was still inside. Suspect: young orange tom cat, a neighborhood thug with a bad attitude toward wildlife.

I don't really blame him. I don't think his owners feed him very often, so half his diet is what he can catch. But I don't like him eating the kinds of birds that I like. Let him eat mourning doves or bluejays or sqirrels. We've got zillions of those. The cardinals are special.

This tom, we call him Spike, treats my birdfeeder like his own personal bait box. Sentence: When it warms up enough, he'll get the hose. If Susan Sarandon wants to argue about this, bring it on, sister.

I moved to the back yard. Still raking. I glanced over at the pond to see if I could see my frog. This is a habit of mine, because sometimes I can get a glimpse of him before he goes and hides under the rock.

So I look over, and, "Oooh! He's right there at the top! Jeez, he's huge. I should go get the girls, 'cause he's doing his 'I'll hold perfectly still and no one will see me thing.'" I don't know if anybody but me has seen this frog in a year and a half. I keep telling them how big he is, and I know they think I'm exaggerating. It's a tiny pond.

I look closer. He's very exposed, and he's really not moving. In fact, he's not sitting on the rock, he's floating in the water. Shit.

Death scene 2: suspicious death, possible natural causes. Location: backyard pond. Victim: big-ass bullfrog. I took my rake and lifted him out of the pond. He was one big mother. His feet had huge swimming webs, probably two inches long. His eyes were white and creepy.

I thought briefly about putting him in the compost, but Deb would surely kill me. Then I thought about the Stinky Meat Project and dumped him over our back fence into the yard behind us. I don't think anyone lives there right now anyway.

Suspects: Old age, me. I hope I didn't kill him by turning off the fountain. The pond has been frozen over for weeks. He could have been floating under that ice for a while. Sentence (if it was me): a sincere apology to the frog spirit, time served.

Then, just to cap the downward spiral my day was taking, my mother-in-law arrived. Ahhhh, I'm kidding. She's not so bad. Boring and dour sometimes, but she's nice. She's just not the most fun-loving, optimistic person you ever met.

The girls came over for dinner and brought me a package of E.L. Fudge cookies (buy one get one free special). Woo-hoo. I love those damn cookies. I cleaned out the cookie jar to make a special place of honor for them in my home.

I opened the package.

Oh god. Oh god. Nooooooo.

One elf. Mangled. Lying by himself, on top of the tray. On top of the others. Oh god. Twisted. Broken. Tortured in ways I can't even describe without losing my breakfast. Fudgy filling everywhere.

Death scene 3: another homocide. Location: thin plastic tray full of delicious cookies. The seal on the bag had not been tampered with. Victim: innocent Keebler elf. Just doing his job, I'm sure. Suspects: Every elf's a suspect.

Callous bastards. Neatly lined up. Not a scratch on any of them. Looking the other way. "Oh, we may have heard something, but we didn't want to get involved." You could tell not one of them tried to help. Sick buttery fucks. They're all suspects.

I had Sara look at the fudge splatter pattern. Two of the scumbags were smeared pretty good. I felt the evidence was damning. But Sara said no. In a package that crowded, those two schmoes could've just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. But they had to have seen something.

I put the rest of the elves in cookie jar lock-up. Brought out a glass of milk, and conducted a little interrogation of my own. My lawyer advises me not to reveal what we talked about.

The suspects were eaten while trying to escape.

Moving on - 12:11 p.m. , 2007-08-14

Where the hell have I been? - 12:10 p.m. , 2007-02-19

Holy shit! - 2:24 p.m. , 2006-01-11

Stuffing recipe - 6:17 p.m. , 2005-12-13

Good Life Update - 10:22 a.m. , 2005-11-11