After I found a colony of tiny explorers living in one of my laundry piles, I began to wonder if I should clean my bedroom.
There are three basic cleaning techniques I have learned over my many (29) years) on this planet:
One, clean everything every day so that stuff doesn’t pile up;
Two, clean everything once every few years in a painful but necessary couple of weekends;
Three, don’t clean at all until you find a colony of tiny explorers in one of your laundry piles.
And now, having lived through No. 3, I’m leaning toward No. 2.
Not that No. 2; my room’s not restroom filthy, no matter what the three-inch-tall people say.
The explorers are descendants of some famous world-traveler from about 500 years ago.
I'm not sure exactly which world traveler because their little accents are almost impossible to understand.
They say they blundered into my room in late 2010, and it was so dirty they knew it must be an uncharted wilderness.
I think they think it's still the Age of Exploration, judging from their bold colors, old technology and their tendency to claim everything in the name of "something." (Like I said, their accents are incomprehensible)
I told them, "No, This is not a newly discovered continent, it’s simply a filthy room that I am not going to clean no matter how many times you shoot me with tiny muskets. Ow. OW!"
(It only stings a little.)
The itty bitty gunfire isn’t the only problem.
- I keep waking up to find small flags in my belly button.
- My pens have been repurposed into siege weapons.
- They cooked my goldfish in a miniature bonfire!
After the explorers annexed half of my closet, I felt I had to put my foot down.
Unfortunately, that crushed one of the castles they had built and made the explorers even angrier.
I decided I’d clean up then and there. I headed to the bathroom for some Lysol and a sponge but I found even stronger resistance: There was an armada of small boats floating in my bath tub.
And these boats were from a different unpronounceable group of explorers.
They said that One, I was ripping off Gulliver’s Travels, and Two, I shouldn't clean up because it will give the explorers in my bedroom, who I have just now decided to call Crandallions, an easy path to attack the bathroom navy.
Well, I’m a peaceful guy so I tried to talk to the navy’s commander.
She said that unless I could find them an equally bountiful country overflowing with produce (mold) and livestock (bugs) the war would continue.
So I shipped both sides to my neighbor’s kitchen.
Now Mr. Winkoblonk (my neighbor) is constantly complaining about a small war in his cellar, and how battalions of little men are garrisoning his cottage cheese.
I have to admire their determination.
And you know what? That determination has inspired me. I’m determined not to clean my room.
Even though in a few minutes I have to meet with a delegation from a new tribe I discovered in my sock drawer.
Give John Crandall a Dollar posts whenever and would like to remind everyone to spray for tiny explorers every three years.
