The Goddess Of Battery Failures…

…is a fickle mistress! So much so that she ALWAYS must wake you up in the middle of the fucking night, when you’re sawing Z’s like Curly of The Three Stooges, to take her due.

“What in the BLUE FUCK is Mssr. Richard blathering about to-DAY?” I’m referring of course to smoke detector and carbon monoxide detector batteries; to wit: Why do they run out of juice EXACTLY at 2AM I wanna know?

Peggy and I own TWO freakin’ houses right now; one of them will either sell or burn to the ground w/in the next two months (“Geez Dick—sorry to hear about your house fire!” “Sssshhh—that’s NEXT week!”). And since we’re here in Kalifornia, The Law requires that you have a smoke detector and a carbon monoxide detector in just about EVERY fuckin’ room in your house; I’m not kidding! I gots four smoke detectors and two CO detectors in house #1—3 out of 6 of ’em are mounted on 18′ high ceilings.

Now lemme ask ya’—couldn’t ONE of those SIX detectors’ batteries fail in the fuckin’ DAYLIGHT, when I’m awake and vaguely ambulatory? No no no no no no NO—I replaced ever’ God-Damned ONE of ’em in the last six months, ALL of ’em failing when I’m doing my best Karen Ann Quinlan imitation (Google Search is your pal here).

You know the drill—you hear a fucking “chirp”—one eye pops open. You listen for a minute—nothing; eye closes, start to slide back to Dreamland. 90 seconds later—CHIRP! “Maybe it’ll go away…” Two chances of THAT happening, Moron—and Slim just left town on the Grey Dog…

So you get the fuck outta bed, slide into your Heckle & Jeckle slippers (What—you don’t have Heckle & Jeckle slippers? You poor, dumb bastard!), hit the pissoir, and start turning on every light in the house—like LIGHT is gonna help you find the offending detector! And that repetitive chirp is timed JUST far enough apart that it takes you an additional ten minutes to figger out EXACTLY which mother-fucking detector is the one that needs its battery replaced. “Yup—THAT’s the one; right up there 18 feet from the floor.”

Out to the garage you go, get your Gorilla A-frame ladder, crank that mo-fo up to full erection, then clamber up the God-Damned thing, summarily ignoring the “Do Not Stand/Step Beyond This Point” sticker (that warning is for SOMEONE, just not ME!), perch of the VERY fuckin’ top rungs, S-T-R-E-T-C-H your arm all the way up, stand on your tippie-toes, and JUST reach that hateful conveyance.

You unscrew it from its mount, noticing that there is exactly ONE fucking way to REATTACH it, clamber back down the rungs that by now are making your plantar faciitis chirp out its own twin warning(s), and yank out the offending battery. Go fetch you another 9 volt from inventory, jamb it in the hole the wrong way first, get it right, hit the “Test” button so as to be sure that Peggy is now awake too, then up the ladder you go again, where you get to stretch your arm out and fiddle-fuck around with trying to get that mo-fo screwed back up to its mount…

Fuckin’ DONE—think you’re gonna go back to sleep NOW? It’s no fuckin’ WONDER that 50% of the population that HAS those things never replaces the batteries with anything but a bullet…



Insult to Injury – I had forgotten that these fucking thermostats even NEEDED a battery!  Fickle mistress INDEED…


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