Archive

Archive for the ‘My Name is Mike Squatch’ Category

My Name is Mike Squatch

December 16, 2014 Leave a comment
By Mike Squatch

By Mike Squatch

Architectural Correspondent

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

I have three boys. A few years back, I lost my wife in an incident that still is being investigated. A few days later, I was hanging around the bus station when I met Sally. She was a perky little blonde wearing a fine pantsuit and after several months of dating, crying and shame, we were married. Sally has three girls. Her husband hanged himself in their garage.

Here I am at work in my studio. We love Lankville.

Here I am at work in my studio. We love Lankville.

We all moved into a house of my own design in the Lankville Sun Belt. It’s a fine split-level with a grand but streamlined staircase and wall-to-wall carpeting in pale yellows and greens. At first, we hired a male maid of my choosing but Sally ultimately dismissed him in favor of an unattractive little spitfire named Miss Grubers. Miss Grubers really keeps us all in line, I’ll say that for sure.

We have many little light entertainments to tell you about. There was the time that my oldest son Kirk decided to put in privacy hedges. I encouraged this but at the same time was leery. Sure enough, the hedges did not grow at all because Kirk had not used any peat. What are you going to do? These kids! We love Lankville.

Then there was the time that Sally’s youngest daughter Vera ripped her new pants and tried to repair them herself using hog wire. What a caper! Fortunately, Miss Grubers saw her trying to go off to school with the wire piercing her thighs. Miss Grubers really keeps us in stitches, you know. We love Lankville.

Mr. Vitiello and I have a close relationship. I admit to several intentional errors during the construction of the arena. For one, there is a vacuum in parts of the upper deck. Additionally, we installed a series of heat pumps that were designed to lapse into sudden, unannounced states of vapor lock. Thus far, though, Mr. Vitiello has not whipped me. I have seen him remove the top of his gold bourbon flask (the top is decorated with a little red glass decorative ham, the color of a ruby) and I have seen him remove the whip in my presence. And I have even asked, “Are you going to whip me?” to which he merely says, “that depends”. Nothing further has happened.

I also intentionally fall asleep on the sofa in my den. Sally wakes me up though.

We are married.

My Name is Mike Squatch

November 26, 2013 Leave a comment

By Mike Squatch
Architectural Correspondent
RobertReed
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.

My Name is Mike Squatch

July 24, 2013 Leave a comment

By Mike Squatch
Architectural Correspondent
RobertReed
File photo

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

My latest vague project has taken me to the beautiful Teets Island Chain.  I am to construct some sort of hockey rink for Small Pizzas GM “Inner Hammer”.  I took my wife Sally to meet Mr. Hammer at his office which was actually just a little hut on the beach.  Mr. Hammer was quite taken with her and he made some evidently inappropriate comments which I wasn’t listening to.  I had been distracted by some interesting men outside lifting free weights.

“He’s a pig,” said Sally, once we were back in the car.  I put on the radio which played a delightful relaxing string number.  We passed a meat store.  “Stop there, would you Mike?” she said in her sweet way.  “Buy the largest uncured pepperoni stick they have, please.”  “Oh boy, pizza tonight?” I asked.  “No,” Sally said.  She became distracted.

We love hockey.

Later, I passed Mr. Hammer in the hotel elevator.  “I’m going to meet with the engineers,” I announced.  “Yep, you do that.  Stay out for awhile, would you?” he responded.  He shoved a hundred in my breast pocket.  “Get yourself some fancy towels or some complicated posters or whatever the fuck it is you like.”

I didn’t care for his language but he seems like a nice man.

The engineers were waiting for me.  “This is just to satisfy a court order,” one of them said.  “It’s for brown children.”  I sketched out a design.  The foreman looked it over.  “Take out the boards.  That’ll save some money.  We’ll throw up some sheetrock.  This is a big can of fuck, as far as I’m concerned,” he added mysteriously.

I didn’t care for his language but he seems like a nice man.

I thought about Mr. Hammer’s request to stay out awhile so I got an ice cream and went up to the boardwalk.  I played a little shuffleboard but couldn’t make any balls jangle through.  I was just about finished when a guy came in and dropped two quarters in the slot.  The balls rocked and then came rumbling down the lane and into my outstretched hand.  He watched me a little while and then he said, “you tooling or are you galloping?”  “Oh, I’m just here with my wife and six children.”  He vomited slightly and walked away.  Probably too much bad food.  It’s important to stay fit.

We love hockey and we are married.

%d bloggers like this: