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My Name is Mike Squatch

November 26, 2013 Leave a comment Go to comments

By Mike Squatch
Architectural Correspondent
File photo

My name is Mike Squatch.  I am an architect.  I designed Vitiello Decorative Hams Arena.

I have a delightful studio paneled in lovely plastic oak which I designed myself.  The studio is sunken slightly and my wife Sally has placed large pillows about the steps, creating a plush and luxurious effect.  We are married.

Working from home has many advantages.  For example, I was able to keep an eye on the foreclosed house next door.  Some troublemakers have been placing carryout fliers in the mailbox.  I have had to anonymously phone our block watch several times.

After a few months, the house was placed up for sale.  Several couples came to a Sunday Open House.  I scanned the crowd carefully to be sure there were no interlopers.  I asked Sally to do so as well but she was too interested in sitting on the couch to bother.  We are married.

Later that same week, my oldest son Kirk came into my studio.  “Now, Kirk,” I lightly scolded, “I’m putting the finishing touches on plans for a Pizza Barn.  This better be important.” “Gee, it sure is Dad,” he responded in his energetic, effusive manner.  “Some people are moving into the old Householder place!”  I got up immediately and peeped out the living room window.

To my shock, I saw a corpulent, gaudy sort of person laboring under a tremendous cardboard box that seemed to be wet and splitting open at the edges.  He was clad in low-quality garments and sported a small mustache.  “Gee, Dad,” said Kirk.  “What sort of person is that?”  “I don’t know, Kirk,” I responded.  “I don’t know.”

Later that night, I asked our maid, Miss Grubers, to make some cupcakes.  “Gee Mr. Squatch,” she said, “you’re so much better at making cupcakes than me.  Particularly with the frilly decorating.”  I thought about that.  “You’re right, Miss Grubers.  I’ll take care of it myself.”  Miss Grubers nodded and joined Sally on the couch.  Sally is my wife.

The next morning, I took the cupcakes over to the old Householder place.  The corpulent man answered the door.  He was wearing pajamas and engaged in extensive mastication of some sort of foodstuff.  There was an unspeakable magazine in his hand showing some women wearing garters and hanging about shiftlessly on a green couch.

“My name is Mike Squatch,” I said, by way of introduction.  “I’m married and live next door.  Just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood.”

He looked down at the 24-cup muffin tin, each filled with perfectly-rounded specimens.

“These are for you,” I offered.

“Hey, look at that, would you.  Muffins.”  He grabbed the tin and broke open a muffin near the corner.  “Huh, what’s that, blueberries?”

“Yes, blueberries.  My name is Mike Squatch,” I offered again.

“OK, Mike.  Thanks a lot.  I’ll have these today, get this pan back to you, or whatever.”

He suddenly shut the door.

It’s been a week.  The pan has not been returned.  He has not mowed his lawn and there are strange moving lights to be seen from his basement windows at odd hours of the night.  My work has begun to suffer.  I have been short with the children.

I am married.

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