If you live within 200 miles of town, you’re probably still reeling over the events of Sunday afternoon. Like so many, you’re no doubt wondering what caused the earthquake-like tremors that shattered windows, startled small children and caused cows to stop producing milk.
Local news networks speculated the quake was caused by a meteor impact. This prompted at least one presidential candidate to propose a temporary ban on all undocumented meteors entering U.S. airspace. This in turn lead to strident protests on the part of the M-DAC (Meteor Diversity Action Committee), which pointed out that banning meteors based on their previous location in the solar system was not only unconstitutional, but just plain stupid.
Environmental groups, meanwhile, suggested fracking caused the tremors. Spokespersons for FY-WDA (Forget You, We’re Drilling Anyway) countered that earthquakes are a common occurrence in Michigan and Sunday’s event had nothing to do with fracking. They then added, “Yes, we do always keep our fingers crossed — just for luck. It’s got nothing to do with lying or anything.”
Several farmers reported seeing UFOs in the area around the time of the incident. Homeland Security established a perimeter and declared the area under “maroon alert.”
At any rate, before all this gets completely out of hand, I figured I’d better come clean: it was me. I caused the quake.
I didn’t mean to and I’ll happily pay for damages caused by my actions, which again, were entirely unintentional. If you simply must lay blame, blame the holiday.
It happened, after all, while I was putting up Christmas lights.
I’ve written in the past about my abject cowardice when it comes to heights. It sounds funny in print, but in real life, lemme tell ya, it’s a drag. I can’t wear boots with tall heels without getting all light in the head.
I once actually fainted in one of those glass elevators that run up the side of a tall building in Detroit. I can’t watch movies featuring mountain climbers, tightrope walkers or gymnasts on a balance beam without spilling my beer.
(If you’d like to insert a “plucka-plucka” chicken sound into this narrative, now would be the time.)
And yet, every December I get up on that blasted ladder to hang Christmas lights. It’s only 10 steps up, but it was from Number Nine that I toppled.
That was several days ago, as I write this. It’s raining today and water is filling the impact crater left by my fall. A few late season ducks have gathered there for a last swim before heading south for the winter.
I’m typing with my arm in a sling, not the easiest task in the world. The urgent care doc says I may need surgery to get my humerus settled back into its rotator cuff, whatever that is.
On the bright side, my Christmas lights look nice and cheery, with the exception of that last string on the west end of the house; that one’s hanging askew, one end stapled to the roof, the other curled forlornly beside the impact crater.
So if you happen to drive by my house next August and see a guy paddling a floaty around his front lawn lake while Christmas lights blaze away on his roofline, you’ll know why.
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