I’m often amazed at the number of ways I stick broken stuff together
around my kennel without intending to. I admit, I might tend to the slightly sloppy
which dots skin through shirt with sweet savory sauces and thick n’ sticky soups
du jour. Even when lurking in dark alleyways I never miss sticky guano-spots when
skulking for trash-can treasure, though my cave-gait alone should repel all but
the most emboldened of beady-eyed bat beasts.
With all that Grey Poupon farmed from my smocks and sandals
I should be one handy homeowner armed with more than muck, luck, and duct tape
to keep my cardboard hut full-up with working stuff. But alas it takes more
than hope and a whole tub (no I didn’t forget the ‘e’) of shoe glue to keep my
décor un-smashed and always at the ‘thrift-shop’ ready. So like most folks I must buy overpriced messy
mix epoxies and pin-pointy topped bottles of sticky store elixirs, to mend my
gaps and furniture fixers .
The type of goo doesn’t matter as long as it sticks to dirt and
smells like acrid saucy Sriracha flowing freely, like water, at a Songkran
weekend wingding. My only real complaint is that colorful glue concoctions of
today all seem to be so specialized and custom designed to adhere to just one
specific thing. I have so many bins stuffed with half-used tubes of crusty-capped,
brain-shrinking aromatic glues that I could even make ol’ Elmer, the handsome mascot
bull, believe he’s just a flying pig wearing waterproof lipstick.
What I need is a universal donor cement for the average Joe
like Negative blood Type O, so that beyond the recyclables, I don’t have a
garage crammed full with more blobby bottles and gunky cans. Even though I live
in a ‘CRACK-ing house’ I’ve borrowed from
the bank, it’s high time I get on the stick and find a grabby true-glue friend to nix my flophouse fractures
and fix ‘em up quick. Too bad I won’t lift a finger to help my crib-complaints
flee, since apparently one thing ALL glues
do well, is adhere thin-skinned fingers to rump, nose and ME.
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