February 2
Today blew chunks. In the morning, I reorganized the library in my role as a male librarian. I’ve never trusted the Doobie Decimal System; it’s all numbers, where’s the decimal? I prefer a more straightforward approach. I’m almost done shelving the books in alphabetical order by first word.
Anyways, I got tired and decided to go for a walk. I went down O’Shagger Lane, walked a lap around the World Park, and then ended up where all roads lead in this town— Rafferty Falls. With all the water diverted towards the O’Halloran Puppery, the cataracts of the falls are thin and you can see the rock formations behind them. But today, I noticed a dark, fat, Irish shape moving behind the thin stream of water. I walked closer, wondering if maybe the Dog Catcher was back there, but then I saw something much worse.
With my own two eyes, I heard Mayor O’Connor swapping spit with my beautiful wife Ingrid. This hurt worse than the time I caught my hand in the grill at my bar and grill. During all twenty years of our marriage, I’ve been true to her, and she bore my only son, Karl Mayörsohn Johannson. Now that I think about it, she probably named him Mayörsohn because he may be the mayor’s illegitimate son.
I want to kill Mayor O’Connor.
February 3
I’m going to do it. I have to earn back my wife’s honor.
I read about an ancient Ayurvedic poison today in one of my favorite Sanskrit texts. (It was easy to find because I have reshelved the books in order of most Ayurvedic to least Ayurvedic in my role as male librarian.) The poison is called plumeria and it kills the target through violent dysentery.
The next time that Mayor O’Connor has his afternoon coffee at the Rafferty Falls Library and Swedish Cultural Center and Bar and Grill, I am going to spike it with a lethal concentration of plumeria. I want to send his McAss to McHell.
Adjö, förlorare.
February 4
Apparently the lethal dose of plumeria must be higher than I thought. Mayor O’Connor spent a thunderous hour in the bathroom but is still alive. Perhaps I needed more for a man of his tremendous Irish weight.
February 6
How much plumeria does it take to kill a man? He’s still alive and treating my smoke show wife Ingrid like his personal playground.
February 20
I’ve put half a drop of plumeria in O’Connor’s coffee every day for the past two weeks and he still lives. Gee, I wonder if the Irish are hereditarily immune to the stuff. I must consult the Ayurvedic texts, but I can no longer find them because I have reshelved the books in order of font size in my role as male librarian.
February 26
I know she’s still kissing him, and as long as they kiss, I will try to kill him. My critically acclaimed wife Ingrid came in this morning smelling like some sort of dog. I’m going to confront her about it this afternoon.
Later Today
Oh man, here I go forgetting things again! During the confrontation, my lush wife Ingrid reminded me that we agreed on having an open marriage twenty years ago. Phew, what a relief! I am so relieved that we are just nonmonogamous, not broken. Close one!
—A. Golden
