Sometimes at night, when I don’t quite manage to fall asleep, I’ll ask my husband to tell me a story. I’m not entirely sure why, probably just to hear his voice, and to have a little laugh before drifting off, because those stories are… let’s face it, they’re pretty awful, and hubby has a higher death toll than George R.R. Martin. To give you an example, or maybe a taste, we have to go no further than last night.
It started the usual way. I asked for a story, he declined, claiming he was too tired and couldn’t think of anything anyway. Every time he does that, I give him a list of three random objects, people, animals, whatever, to craft a story from.
Last night that list consisted of a pea, a guinea-pig, and a beer crate.
“Once upon a time,” he dutifully began, “there was a guinea-pig, which on a dark and lonely night finished off a beer crate all by himself.”
Side note: We’re not talking sixpacks here, but German beer crates. That’s an average of 20 bottles.
“Afterwards,” he went on, “feeling slightly tipsy, his belly much extended, he couldn’t help thinking that while beer is certainly nourishing, it is sadly lacking in vitamins. Which is why he decided to have a bit of vegetable to make up for that lack. So he ate a pea…”
“I so know what will happen next,” I muttered, knowing my husband’s penchant for killing off any creature on my list.
“… and happily went to sleep, and woke up the next morning bright and rested, because he had eaten enough vitamins to sustain him.”
“Seriously? I thought you’d do a Monty Python, and make the poor creature explode.”
My husband gave a heartfelt sigh. “Please. Exploding guinea-pigs are so cliché.”
“And he didn’t choke on his own vomit either? I mean, slightly tipsy, my ass. He must have been pissing drunk.”
My husband then proceeded to explain to me that guinea-pigs have a high tolerance for alcohol, as it apparently bypasses their system altogether, meaning a guinea-pig’s piss after having drunk beer consists of almost 100% pure alcohol. My question why, if that’s the truth, there aren’t any guinea-pig farms out there producing pure alcohol from guinea-pig piss, was met with the patient explanation that it would be a rather expensive affair, to feed the poor things with beer just to draw the same liquid, only of a higher percentage, off their urinary tract. What’s with Octoberfests, I wanted to know, there’s always leftovers in some glasses when the waiting staff take them away, right? Collect those and give them to the guinea-pigs. Recycling! My husband concluded his delivery by telling me that those leftovers at Octoberfests would just be poured back into the barrel and served to the next person.
“Remind me to never visit an Octoberfest, ever,” was the last thing I said before finally giving up.
I really don’t know why I keep asking for stories. I guess I simply love to hear his voice.