IMAGES OF THE LI'L MONOPOLY MAN

I'm not good at finances. I'm really really not. Math is not my strong suit. Add to that the fact that I'm lazy when it comes to balancing my checkbook and I have often balanced said checkbook whilst intoxicated and the possibility (the likelihood) of error is raised exponentially.

I dragged my sick sniffling ass to my checkbook earlier this morning and cracked my knuckles, ready to wallow--just in time for the Yuletide celebrations--in the despair of a negative balance. Yes, that happens, sometimes. And, seeing as how I'd been "out of action" for ten days, I figured it was a given that I'd be in the red. Now that I think about it, though, ten days away from my money seems that it would have had the opposite effect.

I went to work on my checkbook, crossing off all the paid checks and circling all the outstanding checks. (Yes, this is Balancing Checkbook 101--pay attention, please.) As the end result became clearer, my wondering eyes took in what at first seemed to be a hallucination. That thought was dispatched rather quickly when the creature slapped his cane against my shin, causing me to slowly close my eyes with pain. I opened my peepers and he/it/the creature was still there in my kitchen, as real as day, staring up at me.

I looked down at him, my eyes wide, a line of spittle dangling from my quivering lower lip.

'Twas the Monopoly Man.

Replete in an ill-fitting suit and a dingy top hat, the Monopoly Man--let's call him Melvin--removed his monocle and polished it on his pantleg. He popped the monocle back over his left eye and cleared his little throat before he said, "Bank error in your favor, asshole."

I goggled at the little man, surely no taller than three-and-a-half-feet tall.

"What'd I grow tits, dickhead?" he rasped. "Close your mouth; you're drawing flies." He slapped his cane against my other shin and the burst of pain caused my mouth to shut with a snap; I clipped the end of my tongue with my teeth.

As the taste of warm blood seeped into my maw, the little bald man continued. "Consider yourself lucky, moron. You had no freaking idea in what state your finances were yet you came out rosy. You have an extra $238 in your account. Now you can be the Santa you want to be instead of the Grinch you thought you'd had to be. Shower up, numbnuts, and get your ass in gear. There's shopping to do."

Cognizance began to filter back into my shocked brain. I opened my mouth to speak and, as I struggled for words, the Monopoly Man winked out of existence with an audible pop. I gawked; he was gone. The only evidence that the creature had been in my kitchen at all was the pain radiating throughout my shins and a small pile of--for lack of a better word--droppings where Melvin had stood. Yes. Droppings. The Monopoly Man had left me with my own little Christmas present--he'd taken a quick shit on my kitchen floor. (And I'd never even noticed him dropping his pants!)

Similar in shape and size to rabbit droppings, that was where the similarities ended. The stench was unbearable and the size of the shit belied its density and its weight. The small pile had to weigh at least 20 pounds. I scooped it up in a doubled-up paper towel and carried it to the bathroom. My dog, Lou, shied away as I approached and I can say, with all honesty, that I did not blame him one bit. I set the prize gently in the toilet bowl and flushed. (Try flushing 20 pounds of ectoplasmic excrement down a normal toilet; it doesn't work. But that's a story for another day.)

I have shopping to do. Thanks, Melvin! :-)