The bombs I make don’t work, but I keep making them. I think I keep crossing the red wire with green and the green with this yellow one – I think it’s a yellow one – it’s always left over. I roll it up neat and tuck it down into the middle part. I then clean it of all possible evidence before I turn it over. I think it’s unnecessary but the wife thinks otherwise and it’s best not to make her mad. It is better for everyone if she’s not made angry. Her getting angry is what started this whole mess.

“Ashton! Did you finish that project yet,” my shrew of a wife questions me.
“Yes, dear, all ready to go.”
“Did you clean it too?”
Her 330 pound, 6 foot 3 inch colossal frame descends the narrow basement stairs. Each wooden stair groans a threat to be the last time it will bear her weight ever again.
“Yes,” I may have lied.
“Then give it here, you twit. I need to pick up some eggs, milk and bananas before I drop this off at the office.”
She always buys eggs, milk and bananas. I think that’s all she ever eats.

Cliff is my neighbor and some kind of federal agent. He regularly gives Chauncey, his wife’s rat terrier, a walk around the block. He hates that bitch, the dog not the wife. She makes unannounced stops along the walk and Cliff nearly yanks her head off each time. For a little rat of a dog, she makes some major sized dumps. It must be the kibble they give her. It must have too much fiber or something. But there she is –assuming the position, squatting and leaving a football sized turd on our lawn. My wife’s going to be mad.

“Sweet pickles in my vagina! Are you going to pick that up? Don’t you shrug at me, Mister.”
“Can I wait until she is done?”
“I don’t need this added stress. I must drop this package off before I go to the grocery store and I do not need to see your nasty little dog dropping a load on my grass. My husband works very hard to keep it green and lush and beautiful and I read on the internet that animal droppings can burn the grass. If my grass gets burned, I will expect compensation. Do you hear me?”

My neighbor pulled a plastic bag from his pocket, stooped down and picked up the colossal dog shit. Chauncey was wiped out, panting and wheezing. I am very surprised she didn’t give herself a stroke from bearing down. She takes a moment to recover and she’s as good and new. My wife on the other hand is cursing and yelling about the dog doing its business on our lawn and how she’s going to be late delivering the package. My neighbor is calm and cool through the whole affair. He never argues with her and waves when she drives away.

On news 20, another bomb was discovered at another temporary employment office. The police bomb disposal squad was called into action to remove the explosive. It was later detonated safely by the police. The police chief has this to say about today’s events, “To the lay person it might look like these explosive devices might be from a single perpetrator. But my detectives have assured me that there is no evidence tying these devices to one person.”
“Chief, are you saying 15 bombs and 15 different suspects?”
“Yes, more or less. No more questions, thank you.”
Later tonight, we interview…

My wife screams and yells at the TV. Calling the police chief a twit and poop. She wants a bomb with extra punch and she wants it now. I hate it when she’s so pushy. I have to cut corners and that’s not good for anyone. It just might detonate if jostled.
“Did you clean it, you twit?” as she snaps on her gloves.
I thought about it. I couldn’t remember, I lied, “Yes.”
I hand it to her gingerly.
“This one should get their attention. They will know we mean business and the temp agencies will fall and burn.

Chauncey’s eyes were bulging out of her brown bulbous head when my wife confronts the neighbor again.
“Sweet pickles in my vagina! Why does your dog love to take a crap on my lawn?”
She did not notice Chauncey wrapping her leash around Mary’s ankles. When she was done with her rant, she took a hobbled step and stumbled. The package she was carrying flew into the air. She screamed like she had been kicked in the lady parts. Cliff caught it with ease. She froze like a statue. Gingerly, she took the package without a word and drove away.

Who knew that Mary was right the whole time, maybe I should have been more careful in cleaning off those packages. Maybe I secretly wanted to be caught. Maybe I am really good at making bombs that look real and won’t detonate. Maybe the residue on the outside of that package Cliff handled was enough to set off alarms at his job at the agency. Maybe deep down inside of me I knew all along we would be found out and we would have every agent in the tri-state area at our doorstep. I’m just tired of it all.

Three dozen men hiding in plain sight, wait for my wife, Mary Martin, to come home. She steps out of her minivan and the streets burst to life with a tidal wave of officers rushing toward her. Mary breaks into a full sprint and enters the front door screaming, “Plan Samson! Plan Samson!”
She bounds for the basement. Unable or unwilling to stop, she smashes through the basement door and tumbles down the stairs, shrieking and cursing the whole way down the stairs. Federal agents were not far behind her with weapons drawn and yelling about warrants and seeing hands.

Wide eyed, I watched my rotund wife roll down the stairs like a giant beach ball. At the foot of the stairs, Mary moaned and muttered to me, “Plan Samson, hand me the button.” I did what I am told as I always do and fetched the self-destruct button for our home and handed it to her. Without care she depressed the red button. It clicked once, twice and three times before she looked at me disappointed. I took the control from her and removed the safety latch and handed it back to her. I closed my eyes real tight.

I’m not very good at making bombs. But I do what I’m told. Mary hated temp agencies. She felt that temporary employees were a form of legalized prostitution. I didn’t argue with her. I never do. But this time I actually agreed with her. Temps are treated like they are disposable. I thought we would fight the system together. The D.A. offered me a light sentence if I pinned it all on her. I refused. My wife wasn’t as noble. She rarely visits me here. But I’m okay with that. My bunky, he gets jealous when she comes around.

Podcast: Play in new window | Download