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Jiffy pondered the solidity of his problem. He had rarely seen anything like this on the job before. It was a large mustardy smear, relatively fresh, yet absolutely caked onto the bottom of the monkey cage. What had they been feeding Ragtail, anyway?
He wondered if the Monkeyologists in the room had even considered what he dealt with on a regular basis. Problems. He was a problem solver, same as they were, if not more. For example: Should he use the lye based solvent? Ammonia? Bleach? Hah. Bleach. As if. This stuff was pure granite. He decided to go with WD-40.
Directions: SHAKE CAN WELL. Saturate area and let soak for several minutes.
Jiffy (pronounced “Yiff-ee”) inserted the thin red straw-- only found in cans of this sort-- and pushed the clean, white nozzle down. Shit. He had mistakenly aimed and sprayed in the wrong direction-- into his mouth. Fuck-- now, slightly panicked, he had just swallowed. Goddamn it, Jiffy thought, licking his well-lubricated lips. What do I do, what do I do. Breathe, goddamn you, breathe slowly. Calmate, Jiffy. Calmate. It had been a large hit. A little less than a sip of water's worth.
In case of Ingestion: CONTAINS PETROLEUM DISTILLATES. Harmful or fatal if swallowed.
Dang it! Fatal? Obviously they were exaggerating. Fatal meant one thing, and one thing only. Death. Jiffy’s short, perverted life throttled before him. He felt a sudden nostalgia for Cape Cod. Gramma’s soft cheek. Wooden blocks with pencil scribbling. The fetal position.His stomach lurched, and Jiffy booted Crayola all over Ragtail’s dung. It had come up surprisingly smoothly. He looked at the duality of waste now facing him, and a sort of euphoric, near-death calm settled on him. He let the vomit soak into Ragtail's feces for several minutes, then used his stainless steel monkey-shit scraper to efficiently remove the problem. Jiffy moved on to cage 78, looked up at the surveillance camera, and got back to work. Problem solver. He was a problema solverista.
Date Written: January 25, 2005
Author: Benny Maniacs