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.