I fear the Shower

I’m pretty sure I will die in the shower. One quiet day, I’ll be a little too rough with the temperature dial and one turn too far will gift me with a lake of fire experience. If that doesn’t do me in, I’ll fry my reproductive organs and lose the will to live and finish the deed myself.

The runner up fear to frying in the shower is falling down in the shower. To guard against shower falls, I now sit in the tub and wash myself. Can’t fall down if I’m already there. I now wash my big, fat, bearish self lounging in pool of soap and water. I use my left paw to slap myself with Dove bar soap. I use other my right paw to prevent drowning, propping my head out of the stream of water.

Yes, I struggle with life. In short rooms, I’ll bang my head. Corners on desks, coffee tables, boney people; they bruise me in all sorts of new ways. Rugs? Aren’t they safe? Nopes, go too skinned knees and elbows from tripping over shoelaces and the vacuum cleaner.

No, it won’t be bombs, anthrax, nor stray bullets that will be my ultimate demise. No, laziness will be my assassin, clumsiness his accomplice. Guess which method will do me in.

1. I’ll finish greasing a pig and slip up with a cleaver. Bye-bye throat.
2. I’ll try to iron a shirt in the shower for efficiency. Fried Chicken anyone?
3. On a newly waxed floor, I will bend over to pick up a chip that I coughed up laughing at my own joke, slip and break my spine.

Ironically one of these has already happened. Care to guess which one?

Summary: Life is rough.