The evolution of monkey-fuck-a-football is rooted in my father's need to plan a time to plan the plan. Nothing, nothing takes place in his world without careful thought, some deliberation, and a lot of measuring. On those rare occasions when he must act on the fly, the most simplest tasks become riddled with complications. During those times, Dad would say, "It's like a monkey trying to fuck a football," which has evolved into monkey-fuck-a-football.
Not only is imagery funny, but the use of alliteration and consonance appeals to the ears and the tongue. Bravo, Dad. Not bad for an engineer.
My brother-in-law, Cory, doesn't quite understand it's meaning and he's an English teacher as well! He might not get this particular metaphor, but he adds an example of irony to it quite nicely.
Even more ironically, it is the birth of his and my sister, Kelli's, son on Wednesday that led to a perfect example of monkey-fuck-a-football. And, of course, I am the star. Well, I'm the supporting role. The stars are Kelli and Cory's pets: Jade, Duncan, and Zeus.
Jade is a Pit Bull, Doberman, Labrador mix. Her looks may be mostly Pit Bull, but her temperament is all Lab. When she hauls her 50 pounds of pure muscle into your lap for a belly rub, it is both adorable and painful. In her world, playtime is all the time. No one can wear this girl out--your arm will go numb before she's tired of playing fetch. Duncan, a puppy only twelve weeks old, is a Shih Tzu / Maltese mix. He weighs 3 lbs. but bosses the entire household around. My dad calls him Rizzo the Rat. When I first saw him, I asked Kelli if that was a dog or had she just cleaned out her hair brush?
|Duncan munching on my finger.|
For the three nights that Kelli would be in the hospital (my nephew, Jay Joseph was born by Cesarean section) Cory and I planned to trade residences because they live close to my work and I live close to the hospital. Also, my three cats could survive without people around as long as food was in their bowls. My sister's pets--who all have individual regiments for everything from where their food bowls are located to their level of access to the backyard--would not fare so well.
Kelli and Cory manage their animal's routines and restrictions with confidence and deftness. Me? Monkey-fuck-a-football.
Last week, after spending the day at the hospital I drove up to Whittier anticipating very anxious animals who had been sequestered for over twelve hours. Having spent the entire time alone in the backyard, Jade greeted me with a pit bull's enthusiasm and nails. She is trained, but still struggles with not jumping on visitors. I struggle with not stepping in dogshit or falling into a hole that she had dug on my way from the garage to the back porch. Doing this at night? Oy.
Once I made it to the porch poop-free but with a bruised thigh from where Jade's paws had landed, I let Duncan out of the laundry room. He bounded outside, yipping away, looking like a giant hairball blowing across the lawn.
I went into the house, followed by Jade, to put my stuff down: overnight bag, keys, purse and cellphone. Zeus immediately accosted me with squawks for food. I dropped some kibble into his bowl and then went back outside with Jade to monitor the peeing. Because Duncan is so small and a puppy, he is not left outside for long periods of time.
Jade went over to her food and water bowl and had dinner while stood with hands on hips, ordering Duncan to do his business so we could go in the house and go to bed. Instead of business, Duncan was frolicking around, plucking up pink flowers that had fallen off a bush. He brought a wilting bud to me, then got another one, shook it vigorously to show it who was boss and then took it on a tour of the entire backyard. Unfortunately, the tour didn't include bathroom breaks.
While my back was turned, Zeus snuck out onto the porch. I saw him and acted with authority and calm so that he wouldn't bolt. Opening the screen door, I called to Jade who immediately came and went inside. Duncan, on the otherhand, needed more coaxing. He may be a puppy, but he's a slippery little booger, and it was quite a challenge to catch him and keep and eye on the cat as he skulked around the lawn. Once I had Duncan, I threw him into the house (along with a few pink flower petals) and closed the two doors so that the dogs wouldn't come back outside (the screen doors don't really latch closed) and startle the cat into a run.
"Zeus, you silly boy, what are you doing?" I cooed as I crept up on him. He hunkered down a bit, suspicious, but I moved slowly and kept my voice low until I got close enough to snatch him up. Cat in arms, I lugged him to the door, shifted his girth under one arm, grabbed the doorknob. . . and found it locked.
Mumbling under my breath, I went to the laundry room door . . . and found it locked.
Wrapping Zeus in a tight, double arm hold, I went to the door that led from the master bedroom to the backyard and found it . . . you guessed it . . . locked.
Hell, if the house caught fire, each resident had his or her own exit, but I as one person couldn't find a way in through any of them. Cory, I have just usurped you as a model of irony.
Great. I'm locked outside with an indoor cat at 11 p.m. without keys and without a phone. Jade and Duncan sat in front of the glass doors wagging their tails and cocking their heads at me in confusion. I watched Duncan pee on the carpet and then scurry around it with triumph.
My only option was to leave Zeus in the garage, climb over the fence, hope I didn't break a bone because I couldn't call an ambulace, and then hope that a neighbor would bring me his or her cellphone to call my mother (who I learned later actually didn't have a key). I had no plans to call my sister or her husband; they had just had their first child and all they needed was to worry about me being locked out of their house. With the cat.
Trudging across the back lawn (still managing not to step in dog shit) I found the garage door also locked. Oh, and the garage door opener? In the house. With the keys and my phone and my brain.
I could barely hop a fence with a ladder, a pully system, and a team of stuntmen. Haul my shit over a fence with a very agitated, overweight cat? Forget it. Zeus began to voice his disapproval with a gutteral growl. I squeezed him tighter; he squirmed.
It was out of the questions to leave the cat in the backyard while I tried to get to a neighbor's house. The chances that he'd still be around when I returned were slim and I could not lose this cat. The few times he had run away--once being gone for three days--Kelli had been distraught. If I lost the damn cat, she'd be devastated and I'd never forgive myself.
Hoisting the cat up, I marched with purpose back to the glass doors. Eyeing them, I took a deep breath. I turned my profile to the target, leaned my weight into one leg, readjusted my hold on Zeus, and launched my less burdened foot toward the door. My heel cracked the white paint of the wooden frame. Encouraged, I slammed my foot into it again. The dogs scooted back and lowered their heads, but they did not run. Zeus snarled and squirmed. I tightened my grip and delivered a series of kicks--my leg whipping out from my body; a boom and rattle echoing from each strike. The glass in the door quivered.
I would have looked pretty bad-ass if I hadn't been wearing yoga pants, a shirt with a lotus flower and the image of a mediating Buddha on it. Oh, and clutching a fat, grey cat to my chest. But, I felt bad-ass. Until I had to take a break and catch my breath.
Glaring at the cat in my arms and panting, I drew my posture up, jut out my chest, lunged back, and fired my leg out one more time. The doors flew open spraying chips of wood and sending two dogs fleeing. Tossing the cat onto the ground, I gave him a good scolding. I think I also cussed out my keys and phone for good measure. I flipped-off the garage door opener.
Yanking off my ugg boots, I dropped them on the floor only to have Duncan take one in his mouth and drag it out of sight.
There was pee to clean up, but I wanted to make sure the door was secure first.
The inside and outside knobs were still intact, but the strike plate and the deadlatch were not longer securely in the door. I tried to push them back into place, but bent screws and bits of broken wood got in the way. Finally, I was able to force the doors closed, and luckily, the screen doors had hook latches on the inside. I could at least keep strangers from breaking in.
That done, I turned to head into the kitchen for a glass of wine (or shot of Tequila) and stepped in Duncan's pee. But, I kept going only to find that they had no red wine and no chilled white wine. And no Tequila.
The icing on the cake? Not only do I have icing, I've got decorations too. During the night, Duncan peed in the bed while I slept spooning Jade. The next morning my foot sunk into a nice little turd Duncan left for me in the hallway. And, later that next day, my brother-in-law decided to run home, discovered the damaged doors, and called the police because he thought someone had broke in. He wasn't totally wrong; someone did break in. There was just no need to call the police.
Well, maybe there was.
When my sister called to ask me about the doors and asked "if I had noticed that they'd been pried open?" I said, "Of course, I noticed because I did it. Only I didn't pry them open, I had to kick them in."
After a pregnant pause (I know, groaner pun), I added, "It was monkey-fuck-a-football at your house last night. I had my ass handed to me a 3 lb fur-ball and a 14 lb feline."
She needed no other explanation.