Heh, heh. I am getting even as we speak. Okay, not so much speak, as I write and you read. But still. I'm exacting revenge. Right now.
This morning I went to put on my shoes to head to school for a teacher inservice day. And I noticed that my great toe nail on my left foot was a bit long in the tooth. So I took the extra time to go back into the bathroom and prune it. Normally, I do that after a shower, when the nails are pliable. Flexible. Tender. But this morning they were hardening like arteries in a sumo wrestler.
I had really let this one nail grow out of control. Like a junior on prom night. It was not so much a toenail as a talon. That Napoleon Dynamite line could have been about Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's toenail. On her left great toe. That's the scientific name for it, you know. Not big toe. Great toe. Yes, Napoleon could have told that chicken farmer, "Your Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has large talons." Because once he'd seen that left one, he could only assume that the right one was the same.
So there I was, with my foot hiked up on the edge of the big forest-green triangle bathtub, prying away at that large talon like a blacksmith trimming the hoof of a foundered pony. And it happened. A sharp, jagged, portion of the talon shot off like a Saturn V rocket. Into the tub.
Well. Of course there was no time for me to climb in and retrieve that bit of future flotsam. Farmer H will have to discover it during his next bath. I'm a shower person all the way. Makes me no nevermind if Farmer H finds my talon shard when it bites him in the butt.
Let's just consider it retaliation for his chicken-feather sink-clogging, breather-germ-spraying, arm-uprooting pillow-pile, no-slow-leak-tire-changing ways.
I shall not be scorned.