Sunday Morning Story?

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NewbOldster

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My tales are true ones - I'm not bright enough to make stuff up. šŸ„“ (This story may not be for the easily squeamish; just sayin'.)

I divorced my first wife in '87, after 8 years of misery. She liked to spend money, but in those eight years she never worked a steady job.
Partially as a result of that, we lived in a not-so-nice part of town, in a dilapidated 80 year old Florida A-Frame Cracker house perched upon concrete pilings. Typical of the time. You absolutely could not keep bugs out of those houses.

The day we signed the divorce papers, I got an awesome (flat-rate) paycheck and decided to celebrate. Alone. All by myself. In a "QUIET!!", peaceful environment, for a change.

I went by a buddy's house and bought some weed, then I stopped by my favorite sammie shop and got what they called "The Godfather", a bottle of rum and a big bottle of Pepsi.
Went home and ate my sandwich, then turned on the tube and watched TV as I rolled up a smoke and made myself a drink. Got a good buzz goin' as I sat there, and I got out an old spring operated BB Pistol to shoot at the cockroaches as they scurried across the living room floor. I told ya' the place was dilapidated. I ain't lyin'.

Anyway...my first drink was roughly 1/4 rum and 3/4 Pepsi, not considering the ice. I don't know about anyone else, but when I got to about my fifth or 6th drink, it was more like 75-80% rum and 20-25% Pepsi. Hard to taste (or gauge) the liquor when you hit that point. Bleary-eyed, I got up and made a new drink with fresh ice in a clean glass.

Went back to my chair and promptly nodded off for a few minutes as folks are wont to do after an evening of entirely preventable, highly intoxicated stupefaction. I woke up very shortly though, and reaching for my 'fresh' rum and coke, I noticed for some odd reason that the edges of the ice cubes were still crisp and sharp. Don't know why, but I made a mental note of that fact.

What I did NOT notice, however, was the 2 inch long Florida cockroach that had apparently crawled into my glass and drowned in the nearly-pure alcohol.

Not until I threw that glass back for a chug and saw that big dark brown cockroach floating on top, then felt it being deposited into my wide open, drunken mouth. That thing tickled the back of my throat and the projectile vomiting began. I spewed for what seemed like two hours, then had the dry heaves for about three days afterwards, every time it crossed my mind.
To this day I can't stand the smell of rum. It's certainly not one of my prouder moments, but at least that neighborhood-plaything-woman was gone from my life. Golf Clap.

(Next up, the time I came home to find a naked man digging in my kitchen trash can during a thunderstorm, if you'd like) šŸ˜²
 

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