Friday, February 05, 2010
Frank's (Imaginary) Reasons
Once again, Fantastic Spanking has taken a long, unscheduled break in its publication schedule. And, as usual, I have a perfectly good reason for the extended absence.
You see, I lost my job.
And then I lost my house.
And then Angela left me.
Now, my dear readers, let me first assure you that, in these difficult times, since I am an imaginary spanko and have complete control of my own destiny, this is not a tale of woe. Indeed, it is somewhat more literal than that.
The events occurred thusly: As you know, last spring I suffered a spinal cord injury playing basketball with my daughter, and missed several months of work recovering. I had been back at work for about six weeks. It was my day to drive to the office (I usually work from home), so I headed there one morning. Now, the building that houses my office is at 8100 Fulbert Road, which is at an intersection. When I arrived at the intersection, there was no building. There was also no Fulbert Road. There was even no intersection. I'm not making this up.
Okay, I am making this up. But everything here is made up. After all, I am an imaginary spanko.
I drove around for what seemed like hours, looking for my workplace, but it was not to be found. I stopped at a gas station and asked for directions. The attendant said that he remembered such a road, but couldn't recall where it was. I looked at a map and there was no longer any Fulbert Road. Finally, I was so frustrated that I went home.
Only when I arrived, there was no home. I was sure that it was there when I left. I called Angela, who was volunteering at a local school, and she came home ... or at least to where home used to be. But the big barn house was gone. The guest house was gone. The garage was gone, the shed was gone, everything was gone.
Angela and I stared at what we thought was where our home used to be. Finally, out of desperation, we called Bernie. She was really busy, but said that she'd meet us at a local diner for lunch. There, we explained the situation to Bernie. When she finished laughing, she said that she'd take us home herself, but first she wanted us to take a blood test because she thought we were seriously stoned on something.
Bernie drove in the direction of our house, but she just seemed to keep driving down our street. At last she turned around, figuring that she became distracted and just passed. We drove the other way for a while, until Bernie realized that she didn't know where we were. I was sure that we were on the road on which we lived since we had passed several landmarks that I recognized, but I was not familiar with our current surroundings. Being a member of the state Police Department, Bernie's car was equipped with a GPS which she activated and entered our address. "No such address," the blasted machine responded. Bernie instructed it to take us to the general vicinity.
We followed the directions of the GPS for about a half-hour, going down streets that were close to our house. We've lived at the same address for more than twenty years, and I though I knew all of the streets nearby. However, I did not recognize any of the streets that we took.
After another hour of following the GPS directions, we became completely bewildered. This was when Angela's cell phone rang. It was Collete. "Mom," she said, "where's our house?"
"I don't know, honey," responded Angela. "Your father and I can't find it either and we've been looking for hours."
Bernie pulled the car over, turned to me and said, "It's time to face facts, Frank. You've lost your house."
"How does one lose a fucking house?" I asked heatedly. "Especially one as big as ours?"
"I don't know, Frank," Bernie replied. "And it seems that you've lost your job, also."
So we spent the next several weeks staying at a motel and looking for our house. We did eventually find it. If I recall, it was right where I left it.
But that is a story for another day.
Once we were back in the old homestead, the weather was miserable and snow was coming every day. Finally, Angela decided that she'd couldn't stand it any more and that she'd had enough. So she bought a plane ticket and left me to stay with her parents in Florida.
Oh, yes, she returned in a week or so. One can only stand so much time with Angela's parents before one must bid them farewell, else one will be very tempted to injure them severely in order to get them to stop being so darned annoying. But that story, also, will have to wait for a different occasion.
So, you see, all of my opening statements were true, just not in the sense that we typically think of them.
In the meantime, I have returned to chronicling my life on my own little corner of the internet. I feel as if this time the entries will be more regular. I've even given myself some incentive. If I stop writing, I will ask my darling wife to give my a good, hard, bare-bottomed spanking.
Except that I like spankings. Perhaps that will not be a proper incentive after all.
You see, I lost my job.
And then I lost my house.
And then Angela left me.
Now, my dear readers, let me first assure you that, in these difficult times, since I am an imaginary spanko and have complete control of my own destiny, this is not a tale of woe. Indeed, it is somewhat more literal than that.
The events occurred thusly: As you know, last spring I suffered a spinal cord injury playing basketball with my daughter, and missed several months of work recovering. I had been back at work for about six weeks. It was my day to drive to the office (I usually work from home), so I headed there one morning. Now, the building that houses my office is at 8100 Fulbert Road, which is at an intersection. When I arrived at the intersection, there was no building. There was also no Fulbert Road. There was even no intersection. I'm not making this up.
Okay, I am making this up. But everything here is made up. After all, I am an imaginary spanko.
I drove around for what seemed like hours, looking for my workplace, but it was not to be found. I stopped at a gas station and asked for directions. The attendant said that he remembered such a road, but couldn't recall where it was. I looked at a map and there was no longer any Fulbert Road. Finally, I was so frustrated that I went home.Only when I arrived, there was no home. I was sure that it was there when I left. I called Angela, who was volunteering at a local school, and she came home ... or at least to where home used to be. But the big barn house was gone. The guest house was gone. The garage was gone, the shed was gone, everything was gone.
Angela and I stared at what we thought was where our home used to be. Finally, out of desperation, we called Bernie. She was really busy, but said that she'd meet us at a local diner for lunch. There, we explained the situation to Bernie. When she finished laughing, she said that she'd take us home herself, but first she wanted us to take a blood test because she thought we were seriously stoned on something.
Bernie drove in the direction of our house, but she just seemed to keep driving down our street. At last she turned around, figuring that she became distracted and just passed. We drove the other way for a while, until Bernie realized that she didn't know where we were. I was sure that we were on the road on which we lived since we had passed several landmarks that I recognized, but I was not familiar with our current surroundings. Being a member of the state Police Department, Bernie's car was equipped with a GPS which she activated and entered our address. "No such address," the blasted machine responded. Bernie instructed it to take us to the general vicinity.
We followed the directions of the GPS for about a half-hour, going down streets that were close to our house. We've lived at the same address for more than twenty years, and I though I knew all of the streets nearby. However, I did not recognize any of the streets that we took.
After another hour of following the GPS directions, we became completely bewildered. This was when Angela's cell phone rang. It was Collete. "Mom," she said, "where's our house?"
"I don't know, honey," responded Angela. "Your father and I can't find it either and we've been looking for hours."
Bernie pulled the car over, turned to me and said, "It's time to face facts, Frank. You've lost your house."
"How does one lose a fucking house?" I asked heatedly. "Especially one as big as ours?"
"I don't know, Frank," Bernie replied. "And it seems that you've lost your job, also."
So we spent the next several weeks staying at a motel and looking for our house. We did eventually find it. If I recall, it was right where I left it.
But that is a story for another day.
Once we were back in the old homestead, the weather was miserable and snow was coming every day. Finally, Angela decided that she'd couldn't stand it any more and that she'd had enough. So she bought a plane ticket and left me to stay with her parents in Florida.
Oh, yes, she returned in a week or so. One can only stand so much time with Angela's parents before one must bid them farewell, else one will be very tempted to injure them severely in order to get them to stop being so darned annoying. But that story, also, will have to wait for a different occasion.
So, you see, all of my opening statements were true, just not in the sense that we typically think of them.
In the meantime, I have returned to chronicling my life on my own little corner of the internet. I feel as if this time the entries will be more regular. I've even given myself some incentive. If I stop writing, I will ask my darling wife to give my a good, hard, bare-bottomed spanking.
Except that I like spankings. Perhaps that will not be a proper incentive after all.
