The Poop Deck

Ah yes.

I told my fiancee, now my husband, that I wouldn't move in with him, much less marry him, unless he remodeled the kitchen. It had these duck-shit green metal cabinets from the 1940's and a gas stove covered in grease. I mean, it looked like a giant square candle--no metal surface showing through the funk. So his elderly parents agreed to pay half the cost.

So, we had to clean before destroying, right?

It's an L-shaped kitchen. As you might imagine, no one ventured into the top of the L, especially not two 80 year olds who at take out every night. When we finally removed enough stuff to get back there, I pulled out an old sack of potatoes. The potatoes were liquid funk covered in masses of crawling bugs. And you guessed, cockroaches ran everywhere. Up my arm. Up my leg.

I screamed, obviously.

We tried everything to kill those SOBs. Finally, I grabbed a can of carbeurator fluid and started shooting them from a few feet away. I've never been more gratified as I was watching those little creatures turn belly up and dance their death throes.

So I responded to an invitation my best bud sent me, describing the situation, blow by blow. I must say, it was quite eloquent.

Imagine my horror to find I'd "replied all" to his entire company, including the owner. I hastily sent a lame/joking response but the damage to my reputation was done. She thought it was hysterically funny. They call me La Cucharacha Killer.