You humans don't know the first thing
Why are my spinnerets in a wad? Let me explain. We had a spell of unseasonably cold weather in L.A., and I went into hibernation. So sue me. Perhaps all the recent excitement caught up with me at last; Oprah Above knows I needed a rest.
Anyway, first thing I do after waking up, I check my blog comments. And what do I find?
Anonymous said . . .
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Let me back up a bit. Remember how the Rabbit and I were staying at the Hyatt? (More about my run-in with the Crocodile Hunter some other time.) Well, I woke up not in the Hyatt, but in an absolute dump, some sort of low budget one-bedroom apartment. Next door, a horrid dog would not stop barking. I think that's what woke me up in the first place.
I saw neither hide nor hair of the Rabbit. At least he'd had the decency to leave me a note.
I hope you'll understand that I can't haul three hundred pounds of dead weight, not when I'm this close to my goal. I'd hoped to have your help, but I can do this without you.
By the time you wake up, Keanu Reeves will be a dead man, and I, Keanu Reeves, will be a star.
I left a few chickens in the freezer. Call my cell when you wake up, k?
Haul three hundred pounds . . . ooh, he made my blood boil. Right then I couldn't have cared less that nanocyte blood might give me indigestion. If I caught up with him, I'd make a point of finding out.
Oh, well. At least he was thoughtful enough to leave food. But -- ugh. Frozen chicken. I managed to impale one on my fangs and transfer it to the sink, where I began thawing it under the tap. I was sooo hungry, and then, when a pair of Jehovah's Witnesses came knocking at the door, it was sooo tempting. When I opened the door, though, they passed out first thing. You know what? It just didn't seem sporting. Then that dog from next door got loose and couldn't decide whether to sniff their unconscious crotches or bay at me like some sort of quadripedal maniac. It was quite a scene, let me tell you.
Yes, yes, I know I'm supposed to avoid creating an intergalactic incident. But this is Southern California. Charles Manson had a fan club. So does Matt Damon. See? I've done my homework.
I closed the door on those nice unconscious ladies with the pamphlets and fired up my computer. That's when I discovered Mr. Anonymous's enticing email. Sex, that much I understood.
Hmm. What to do while I waited for my chicken to thaw. I could try to transfer the other two frozen birds to the sink, but that first one had given me such a case of brain freeze. And I kept thinking, you know, about S-E-X. And it came to me. WWBWD?
On a planet with no eligible males, what would Bronwyn Webweaver do, indeed? She'd take matters into her own legs, that's what she'd do.
I found a directory near the telephone, and located a list of Adult Sex Shops. I phoned the first one on the list: Acme Adventureware, with a storefront only a few miles away.
"Do you sell Adult Sex Shop Vibrators Vibrators Vibrators? Um, Vibrators?"
"Yeah, we got vibrators."
"Do you deliver?"
Wouldn't you know it -- the very first business I spoke with, and they delivered! The kind man on the other end of the phone read off a list of names and descriptions. I chose the Ron Jeremy Lifelike Intruder.
"Cash on delivery. You need batteries?"
"I don't know. I suppose I do."
"Very good, Ma'am. No out of state checks. Is that a problem?"
"No problem at all." Then I thought of something. Human packaging can be quite a trial. "Um . . . I'm, I'm disabled. Yes, that's it. Might your delivery man take the Intruder out of its package and load it with batteries for me? It would be a real help."
"Ma'am, we don't indulge fantasies. We're strictly legit."
"I quite understand! I'm strictly legit, too. I promise you, I have nothing but the most honorable intentions towards your delivery man."
I heard him grumbling something to a colleague. After an extended argument, he came back on the line. "Boss says I need a credit card number."
This was much better. My champion, my love, Lord Valor had provided me with an American Express Card number. I had it memorized, so I recited it to the nice young man on the phone.
While I waited for my Intruder, I checked the chicken. Mostly frozen, still, and I could tell it wouldn't be juicy enough for my liking. Rats. I could hear them in the attic; if I could catch enough of them, I might regain a bit of strength. The main challenge would be that damnable dog. He was barking up such a racket, I wasn't sure I would be able to hear the rats.
Success! I entered the attic through an access panel in the hall closet. Oh, they were crafty opponents, but they were no match for me, barking dog or no.
The doorbell rang. I popped down from the attic and went to the door. Without opening it, I said, "Do you have my Intruder?"
"Yes indeedy," said a young male voice.
"Have you taken it out of its package and loaded it up with batteries?"
"Yes'm. And, might I say, it's a fine, manly product."
"I certainly hope so, young man, given what your employer charged me. Leave it on the step, please."
"Sorry, Ma'am, but you have to sign for it."
Drat! How could I sign for anything? I suppose I could open the door and scare him unconscious, but he seemed so nice.
"Please," I said. "I left my credit card number with your boss. Isn't that good enough?"
"Rules are rules."
"But I'm not presentable. I'm old, and covered in sores, and I'm not wearing a stitch of clothing."
This last was true. I heard him sigh. "How 'bout I slip the form under the door?"
Now it was my turn to sigh. "Fine."
With one fang, I punctured a bit of leftover rat and used the blood to scrawl a big sloppy X. I pushed it back under the door. "Now, please. Leave it on the step."
Before he left, I heard a high-pitched whine (Good, I thought. I don't think I could have managed some teensy weensy switch), but that was followed by renewed baying by my un-neighborly canine neighbor. A prescient shiver ran up my cephalothorax. I opened the door, and the dog bounded in, tail wagging with single-minded fury.
I'd watched enough TV to know what to say.
"Good doggy. Who's my good little boy? Drop the Intruder, boy. There's a good, good, good boy."
As I spoke, I edged closer. I swiped his haunch with my foreleg. He yelped, dropped the Intruder, and bounded out the door.
The Intruder's whine was maddening. I thought: You humans think this is pleasurable? Not that I would have used it. Dog slobber is such a turn-off.