Don’t you hate it when you innocently carry a shipping box out to the trash can and come back in to find a snake on your kitchen floor? Then you have to backpedal out the door as fast as you can, trying not to trip down the stairs.
After sitting on the patio for 10 minutes, waiting for your heart rate to come back down from heart attack range, you think about how fast the snake got into your kitchen. So you think to yourself that you’d better get in there, because if he’s that fast, he’s likely to hide somewhere in the house and then you wouldn’t know where he was. Ever.
Fighting down the panic that thought ensues, you head back up the stairs to the back door, damning the fact that your cell phone is on the kitchen table and you can’t call for back-up. As you peer through the doorway, you notice the snake is still there, in the same spot, and you wonder why, given all the hysterical noise that had been going on only moments before.
You take a cautious step forward. The snake doesn’t move. That’s when you realize that it is not a snake at all, but rather a piece of squiggly packaging material that had apparently fallen out of the shipping box on the way to the trash. You are thankful to the powers that be that you didn’t have a real heart attack over a not real snake.
Don’t you just hate when crap like that happens?