Clyde

I have a new friend named Clyde.

A few weeks ago Rob's monitor started acting "on the fritz". His parents had a really nice flat screen monitor laying around un-used, so he took it. The big old clunky monitor was placed on the floor in the living room to be properly disposed of.

To properly dispose of electronics, you need to call the fire department or a company like HP who will recycle it for a fee of about thirty bucks. I'm not sure what he's going to do, but I was assured that it would be done "soon".

Right.

"Soon" to me means this week.

"Soon" to my Mr. Wonderful, apparently, means sometime, after you've stubbed your toe on it no fewer than fourteen times, dragged it about the living room placing it in different places by it's useless electrical cord in a vain effort to make it less in the way, written bad poetry about it*, and finally, named it Clyde, sometime after all that, and God knows when, it will move.

I'll keep you posted.

*Yes, really.

Ode to Clyde
by Amber Santos

You're in my way.
"Move this!" I say.
To my sweetie.

Day by day
You make the apartment
Less than neat-y.

I glare at Rob
As I walk by
And stub my feet-y.

Oh Clyde, oh Clyde
When will you die?
Shall I throw you
On the street-y?

Or smash you up?
Or make you fly
Off the balcony
Or be sneaky,

And tuck you in
On Robert's side
Of the bed
So he'll have to to move ye?

You make me cry
Fat Clyde, so wide
I want you gone!
Rob, please, by next week?