The Haunted House?

What is it they say about no good deed ever going unpunished? Or something like that?

The Lovely Mrs. G. and I were honored to have guests over to our house this weekend, which is a big deal. You see, our old home in Sewer City was just too small to have anyone over, so we never entertained. Never.

Ah, but now that we've moved UPSCALE, we've got a much bigger home, with plenty of room for people to come over, nosh, mingle, and hopefully not spill anything on the carpet.

So yesterday we had a mini-party, having some friends over for lunch. My old pal Chris from Orlando was in town with his family for the weekend, and Mrs. G. had him and his crew over for burgers & dogs on the grill.

Sounds simple, right?

Well, for most part it was. We had a great time visiting with everyone, I whipped up some mighty tasty cheeseburgers, while Mrs. G. made her world famous potato salad and a batch of killer brownies, and we all had a good time chatting and wolfing down some picnic fare.

Ah, but there has to be a rub to everything, and here's ours.

We'd spent most of the weekend cleaning house and making everything neat & pretty for our guest's arrival. (Okay – total disclosure. Mrs. G. did most of the cleaning. I did however manage to mow the lawn, and clean the junk off my desk that had been piling up for weeks on end.)

So the house was nice & clean, and we were proud to take our visitors around to see the place. I showed them the upstairs, I showed them the downstairs, I showed them the main floor.

And then I took them outside, to see our deck and backyard. And that's when things sorta fell to shit.

You see, somewhere in the brief time between our final "pre-company walk through" and the actual tour of Casa se Gressel, one of our lovely cats had managed to catch and kill a squirrel. Poor thing. Gone to the great big oak tree in the sky.

Anyway, I take everyone outside to admire our lovely deck and the greenest lawn in all of Eastern Nebraska, and there he was – Mr. Dead Squirrel, lying on his back, spread eagle, welcoming Chris & Co. over.

Yes, nothing says "Howdy" like a dead squirrel presented at your guest's feet.

Of course, everyone said "Ewww", while your host Tommy the Ghoul turned 8 shades of red at the unexpected (and dead as a doornail) party crasher.

It would've just been easier if I'd planned the pet cemetery exhibit in our backyard. "Hey, everyone! Welcome to the Gressel's House of Death & Torture! That's Danny the Dead Squirrel! See him already covered in genuine flies? Why, that's Macabre with a Capital M!"

As far as the cats go, they seemed awfully proud of their lawn art. And as gross as it was, at least his corpse was intact. I was glad that Dixie hadn't eaten his head or something, which she's been known to do with past captures. Chris' 8 year old daughter however did recommend that we cut the dead squirrel in half and hang him on the wall, like a hunting trophy. (I politely passed on this suggestion.)

So there you go – it was lunch, a tour, AND a Circle of Life moment. And with Halloween only 33 days away, I guess you can say we got into the "holiday spirit" a little sooner than most.

And who knows what dead things we'll have laying around the house when you come to visit. So consider yourself warned, and by all means watch where you step.

Looking Out For #2

We're about to delve into a world that my mother would refer to as "Bathroom Humor." It's the favorite subject of adolescent boys everywhere, so please – pretend you're 11 for a moment and follow along.

This story is brought to you by two co-workers in my building this afternoon, who inspired me to finally write up the grody details below.

The first guy was in the men's room, locked in a stall, eliminating his lunch in a really gross sounding way. While he was on his cell phone. What do you suppose his caller was thinking?

AT THE VERY SAME TIME (no kidding!), a second guy was at the urinal, peeing with one hand and talking on his cell phone with the other. Talk about multitasking!

So since we're (pretending to be) impressed with their dexterity, I thought I'd share this with you. My old friend Gary (emphasis on OLD) sent me this link a few months back, but I haven't had the time and/or inspiration to write it up until now. But once you read it, I'm sure you'll agree that it's worth the wait.

It's from a company called…dare I say?...The Brown Corporation. Hey, when you make such a product, I suppose a pun is 100% appropriate.

Yes, it gives the term "porta-potty" a whole new spin, doesn't it?

Now, when you think of it, it's probably a rather ingenious invention. It's easier than digging a hole, cleaner than most public W.C.'s, and beats having to drop one in the poison ivy in times of such an emergency. All you do is unfold it, do what nature intends, and then go along on your merry way. And hey – if you set it up next to a curb or a fire hydrant, you can even walk your dog at the same time.

My first question is this. Because this cardboard potty is SO convenient and easy to use, what's to keep Mr. Dumbass from using it in places where it's really not so appropriate? I mean, there isn't much privacy offered with such a device, so you'd think that people would be wise enough to use a little discretion, and look for a suitable (semi-private) locate to set it up.

But I'll bet you anything you'll see this wonderful device in use all over the place. Tailgating, NASCAR, along parade routes, Skynard concerts, all-you-can-eat chili fests… The possibilities for public exposure while seated are endless.

Well, I don't know about you, but I for one won't be caught taking a public poo while I'm surrounded by 50,000 rednecks. Or even one redneck, for that matter. (Hey, I've seen Deliverance.) Nope – I'll just hold it, if it's all the same to you. I may have cramps, but you won't catch me seated on a cardboard box with my pants dropped anytime soon.

My second question concerns the maximum weight load on this thing. I mean, everything has its breaking point, right? You'd hate to be sitting on it in the middle of Woodstock 2009 and hear a horrible creaking sound that wasn't coming from your small intestine or Green Day's bassist.

Ah, but never fear. According to the technical specs on the website (Hey, they thought of EVERYTHING!), the Human Litter Box has a weight tolerance of 55 pounds per square inch. So unless you're getting Bubba the Mega Porker sitting on this thing, you're probably "good to go", as it were.

Question #3 involves the fact that there's no T.P. included with this amazing device, but since we're already treading waaay too deep into territory that doesn't go well with breakfast, let's just leave that one alone. Besides, if you're THAT drunk and/or desperate to crap into an oversized shoebox, you probably don't care one way or another. In those cases, please stay away from me. Please.

So there you have it – another amazing invention from someone with the fortitude and dream to make it a reality. What'll they think up next? I'm almost afraid to ask.

I just hope I'm not at the cell phone at the time.