Someone is to Blame
for My Sofa Stain
the commune's Rok Finger asks you to please not stand so, don't stand so, don't stand so close to him 

Monday, Oct. 15, 2001
Who’s to blame, good people? That’s what I’ve been asking myself all week: Who’s to blame? That and, on an unrelated note, “Why did they cancel Gunsmoke when it was just getting good?”

The earlier question has been inspired by an incident that happened last Sunday, friends. I was enjoying an issue of Hot Dog magazine, as I’m prone to do on occasion, when my charming neighbor Mrs. Hardlevilch stopped by for a visit. As you may or may not know, people who are very close to dying in their old age make a “visit” a huge event, and Mrs. Hardlevilch is no exception. She was dressed in her finest pantsuit and babushka.

The three of us--myself, Mrs. Hardlevilch and my long-suffering wife, Arvelyn--all sat around talking over the state of things, or more commonly the state of things in 1949, the last year before everything went to pot in America. Mrs. Hardlevilch became very flustered and excited when I did my famous Louis Armstrong-in-a-blender impression, and that’s when it happened.

Mrs. Hardlevilch wet my sofa! And floor, thanks to some unsightly dribbling, but mostly my sofa is what I’m concerned about.

Needless to say, I was perturbed. At first Mrs. Hardlevilch apologized rapidly, still laughing uncontrollably at my dead-on impression, and offered to build a time machine to go back fifteen minutes and put some plastic on the sofa before she sat down. I was intrigued, but it quickly became apparent her theories of time travel and plans to carry it out were extremely flawed. Within another minute, Mrs. Hardlevilch was convinced someone had entered the room and pissed on her, completely forgetting her role in staining my couch.

I’m now at my wit’s end, and it wasn’t far to go, let me tell you. I’m left asking, as I said before, who’s to blame? Sure, I could sue Mrs. Hardlevilch in a court of law, but no jury is going to convict a withered old fossil of public urination since I’m not sure it’s a crime and, truthfully, my living room isn’t considered public domain. If I had deemed to shoot her, sure, it would have been legal, but her pissing all over my couch left me without much recourse of action once the moment for retaliation passed. Not that I would ever shoot the dear old women, she’d probably think it was the Kaiser shelling her homeland or something anyway.

If Mrs. Hardlevilch is not to blame, who is? Through some late-night detective work, I managed to find out Mrs. Hardlevilch wears Dapper Debutante brand adult “pads,” so that offered me some hope. But so far all threatening letters have not received any offer to settle out of court, and I’m sure signing them with my real name wouldn’t help. This means, of course, that there is a faulty product out there in Dapper Debutante adult “safety nets” and behind them is a company unwilling to admit they’re responsible for the puddles of the greatest generation.

In the end, as Arvelyn pointed out, I probably have no one to blame but myself. There is nothing funnier in the world than my Louis Armstong-in-a-blender impression; I knew this and carried forth with thoughtless drive to entertain, floors and sofas be damned. More than a reasonable number of healthy young Americans have relieved themselves all over my property in response to my humoriffic comedy “closer.” This might seem enough reason for anyone to stop, but I know I won’t. The world needs hilarious impressions of famous loveable singers suffering severe torture in a comical fashion, and I think a sofa, after all is said and done, is a small price to pay.