| Humor Fiction posted July 29, 2021 |
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The Best He's Ever Had
by Elizabeth Emerald
My friend Scott just called to tell me of his latest misadventure. Last night, after setting his supper plate on the rusty, rickety table in his side yard to enjoy a private picnic, he went back into the house to fetch a glass of lemonade ...
Take it away, Scott.
I've got the pitcher in hand, ready to pour, when I hear a shriek fit to shatter my sunglasses. I rush outside and there's my nudgy neighbor, Sarah, cowering, shaking, gesturing frantically at the picnic table, whereupon sits an enormous raccoon devouring my dish of spaghetti and meatballs.
Sarah's been scoping out my tomato plants for months. The woman has the hubris to appropriate the largest one. So, here she is, popping over to see how "her" tomatoes are coming along, when she happens upon this animated adventure.
As Sarah resumes her screeching, I get an idea. I tell her this particular raccoon is a frequent guest. I'm all too often having to shoo him and his pack from the garden.They chomp the petunias and gnaw the lettuce.They have a peculiar penchant for the leaves of tomato plants. "Hers" in particular.
I proceed to regale Sarah with tales of the raccoons' adorable antics, how they scurry up the stalk, scratching with their tiny toes, and how I swear they're just itching to pluck the tomatoes, soon as they ripen.
And with that, Sarah scoots.
So, back in the kitchen, punching my fist in homage to my ingenuity, I'm wondering what to eat, now that the bugger has absconded with my would-be supper.
I peer into the fridge, and there I see the loaf of banana bread Shannon baked as a thank-you for letting the crew stash their lunches all these months during bridge construction out back.
So, with my spaghetti digesting in the gut of a raccoon, and me craving carbs, I figure banana bread would fit the bill. I hack off a hunk, nuke it for seven seconds, chow it down, repeat, times two. Sorry, Liz, I was planning to save you a sliver ...
Ravenous as I am, I devour it, and given the gobs of butter I glob on, the bread is stupendous.
The construction crew is gone for the day, so I tape a thank-you note to the telephone pole at the work site.
At six-thirty this morning, I'm woken up by what sounds like a bunch of hooting sports fans. I yank on my pants, and hurry outside to the source of the ruckus. There, at the construction site, I see Shannon, red-faced, standing by the telephone pole, surrounded by her crew. The guys are howling, jeering, pointing at the note I'd left.
SHANNON:
THE BEST I'VE EVER HAD!!!
SCOTT
My friend Scott just called to tell me of his latest misadventure. Last night, after setting his supper plate on the rusty, rickety table in his side yard to enjoy a private picnic, he went back into the house to fetch a glass of lemonade ...
Take it away, Scott.
I've got the pitcher in hand, ready to pour, when I hear a shriek fit to shatter my sunglasses. I rush outside and there's my nudgy neighbor, Sarah, cowering, shaking, gesturing frantically at the picnic table, whereupon sits an enormous raccoon devouring my dish of spaghetti and meatballs.
Sarah's been scoping out my tomato plants for months. The woman has the hubris to appropriate the largest one. So, here she is, popping over to see how "her" tomatoes are coming along, when she happens upon this animated adventure.
As Sarah resumes her screeching, I get an idea. I tell her this particular raccoon is a frequent guest. I'm all too often having to shoo him and his pack from the garden.They chomp the petunias and gnaw the lettuce.They have a peculiar penchant for the leaves of tomato plants. "Hers" in particular.
I proceed to regale Sarah with tales of the raccoons' adorable antics, how they scurry up the stalk, scratching with their tiny toes, and how I swear they're just itching to pluck the tomatoes, soon as they ripen.
And with that, Sarah scoots.
So, back in the kitchen, punching my fist in homage to my ingenuity, I'm wondering what to eat, now that the bugger has absconded with my would-be supper.
I peer into the fridge, and there I see the loaf of banana bread Shannon baked as a thank-you for letting the crew stash their lunches all these months during bridge construction out back.
So, with my spaghetti digesting in the gut of a raccoon, and me craving carbs, I figure banana bread would fit the bill. I hack off a hunk, nuke it for seven seconds, chow it down, repeat, times two. Sorry, Liz, I was planning to save you a sliver ...
Ravenous as I am, I devour it, and given the gobs of butter I glob on, the bread is stupendous.
The construction crew is gone for the day, so I tape a thank-you note to the telephone pole at the work site.
At six-thirty this morning, I'm woken up by what sounds like a bunch of hooting sports fans. I yank on my pants, and hurry outside to the source of the ruckus. There, at the construction site, I see Shannon, red-faced, standing by the telephone pole, surrounded by her crew. The guys are howling, jeering, pointing at the note I'd left.
SHANNON:
THE BEST I'VE EVER HAD!!!
SCOTT
Take it away, Scott.
I've got the pitcher in hand, ready to pour, when I hear a shriek fit to shatter my sunglasses. I rush outside and there's my nudgy neighbor, Sarah, cowering, shaking, gesturing frantically at the picnic table, whereupon sits an enormous raccoon devouring my dish of spaghetti and meatballs.
Sarah's been scoping out my tomato plants for months. The woman has the hubris to appropriate the largest one. So, here she is, popping over to see how "her" tomatoes are coming along, when she happens upon this animated adventure.
As Sarah resumes her screeching, I get an idea. I tell her this particular raccoon is a frequent guest. I'm all too often having to shoo him and his pack from the garden.They chomp the petunias and gnaw the lettuce.They have a peculiar penchant for the leaves of tomato plants. "Hers" in particular.
I proceed to regale Sarah with tales of the raccoons' adorable antics, how they scurry up the stalk, scratching with their tiny toes, and how I swear they're just itching to pluck the tomatoes, soon as they ripen.
And with that, Sarah scoots.
So, back in the kitchen, punching my fist in homage to my ingenuity, I'm wondering what to eat, now that the bugger has absconded with my would-be supper.
I peer into the fridge, and there I see the loaf of banana bread Shannon baked as a thank-you for letting the crew stash their lunches all these months during bridge construction out back.
So, with my spaghetti digesting in the gut of a raccoon, and me craving carbs, I figure banana bread would fit the bill. I hack off a hunk, nuke it for seven seconds, chow it down, repeat, times two. Sorry, Liz, I was planning to save you a sliver ...
Ravenous as I am, I devour it, and given the gobs of butter I glob on, the bread is stupendous.
The construction crew is gone for the day, so I tape a thank-you note to the telephone pole at the work site.
At six-thirty this morning, I'm woken up by what sounds like a bunch of hooting sports fans. I yank on my pants, and hurry outside to the source of the ruckus. There, at the construction site, I see Shannon, red-faced, standing by the telephone pole, surrounded by her crew. The guys are howling, jeering, pointing at the note I'd left.
SHANNON:
THE BEST I'VE EVER HAD!!!
SCOTT
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