Cold-Blooded Killer

I admit it -- it's true.  I've killed another vacuum cleaner.  Unfortunately, this vacuum cleaner, who met such an untimely demise, belonged to someone else.  I'm not even sure what kind of vacuum he was.  But he's dead.


Please believe me when I say I certainly didn't intend to harm Mr. Vacuum, not any of his parts, not even his screws, his clutch or his belts.  Matt (my son) and Moe (my friend), however, left me alone one fateful, late summer day in the capital city at my son's off-campus apartment to clean the long-forgotten, rotting potatoes left behind weeks before. Indirectly then, the death of the vacuum should be attributed to them for leaving me by myself.  Yes, it's Matt's and Moe's fault...this time.

The turn-your-stomach stench permeated the apartment to such an extent when we first opened the door that the two of them quickly volunteered to go forth to seek cleaning supplies at the local French store, known as Tar-zhay.  I stayed behind to tackle the problem.  

As a super mom, I began efficiently cleaning the fermenting taters and their sticky, stinking slime, which had encompassed everything in the oozing goo's path.  I eventually contained the offending odor-ridden spuds and the sopping paper towels in a garbage bag I stashed outside the open apartment door since the smell could knock your socks off, and I needed to air out the humble abode.  


The two allergic-to-foul-odor sissies had still not returned, so as I glanced around, I decided to help out and bring more clean to the college kid's living quarters.  


I scooped up two dozen gum wrappers littering the desk and surrounding floor.  I tried to organize the oddities on the desk, and then dusted most of the living room.  Next I decided to vacuum the zillions of black specks sprinkled on the cream-colored carpet from the eroding faux leather of the desk chair.  


Surprisingly, the vacuum cleaner didn't even blink at me as I gingerly opened the closet door.  Surveying his apparatus and appendages, I felt confident I could suck up the black dots easily.  


As I began, I hummed "Hang on Sloopy" and daydreamed.  I remember thinking what a great mom I am.  My thoughts continued along the same vein.  My son is so lucky to have me as his mom.  Heck!  He would probably fall to his knees and kiss my feet when he saw how wonderful I made his apartment look.  Moe would be impressed with my domestic skills.


Then it happened.  I reached under the corner of the futon to retrieve something protruding from under one corner and did not notice the impending doom lurking nearby.  It was already too late.  By the time I smelled burning rubber, I turned my distracted gaze back to the beastly vacuum, only to discover he had sucked up part of the futon cover.  He began making gurgling, suffocating sounds.


I couldn't save him.  Even though I quickly pulled the coverlet out,  the mechanical monster only emitted a deep sigh before collapsing in my arms.  Horrified, I tried to restart him, but he could no longer suck.  He made pitiful noises to warn me it was the end.


I can't get that day out of my mind.  I feel so guilty.   I didn't even know him. He belonged to my son.  I thought I had put my past behind me, but mental pictures of Hoover, Kerby, Sharp, Bernina, and other unnamed victims, floated before me.  If only a stiff drink could obliterate these haunting ghosts from the past.


I'm a Killer.  I've killed before, and I'll probably do it again.  Please help me.  I don't want to harm another vacuum cleaner.  Can anyone recommend a competent counselor?