Saturday, March 15, 2008

How Cinnamon the Skank stole my innocence.

Last night, that treacherous minx Insomnia bested me yet again, and I was left tossing and turning, thinking of the leftover mindwaste my conscience would not - thank God - permit me to kick around during normal waking hours. For some reason, my brain the traitor returned to a time when a hoochie named Cinnamon defiled my carefree days o'purity and left me instead with the hardened shell of a jaded second grader.

My painful memory begins innocently enough on a warm Spring day. Looking back, I realize that my sister skipped home from school that fateful day just a little too big for her britches to be trusted. It is obvious now that the little spring in her ten year old step was clearly the work of a greater force; I now comprehend that Mephistopheles himself likely handed my sister that plastic-coated-metal, upside-down-water-bottle-holding, cedar-chip-and-classified-ads-filled cage that was the conveyor of Satan's little minion. My sister introduced that lovely little excrement-hued guinea pig to us as "Cinnamon." Cinnamon would have to live at our house now, as the tainted little tart had become knocked up, and, obviously, a hussified rodent is a little too unseemly for my sister's fifth grade gifted classroom.

My sister had brought Cinny the Sinner home about 50 days into her 60 day gestation period (for more information on the zany breeding habits of guinea pigs and much, much more, click here!), and all was seemingly satisfactory. Cinnamon's baby shower was well attended and preparations for the upcoming briss went swimmingly. When the big day finally arrived, my sister and I gathered 'round Cinnamon, chanting and panting her Lamaze exercises and applying cold compresses to her forehead. After all the laborious commotion, Cinnamon begot a beautiful pink then later ebony baby boy. There was some contention in my household over this event when my sister won the naming competition with her lame-oh contribution of "Midnight." I guess looking back, we probably would have gotten some looks as we walked little Cinnamon and her son I wished to name "Blackie" on their leashes through the park, but, when you're young, the harsh ways of the world sometimes slip past you.

Anyway, life was going pretty auspiciously with Cinnamon and Midnight for a while (save the fact that my sister's room now smelled like a hot den of sin), despite lil bastard Midnight's difficulties growing up in a single parent cage. But, one day, my sister and I couldn't help but notice that Guinea Spice was starting to eat a little bit more than her share of pellets in the old domicile. She was gaining weight at an alarming rate, and we began to grow concerned for poor Midnight being robbed of his share. One morning, my sister and I prepared some french toast, sausage, and some bloody marys to put some meat on Midnight's bones, and we went to deliver the breakfast with a smile when we walked in on one of the more disturbing memories my contaminated mind still imprisons. Cinnamon the Skank was, again, pushing forth babies from her tiny guinea vagina. We had no preparations. We did not see this coming. But, Cinnamon and her boy Midnight were now the proud parents of four wrinkly, pink, accursed victims of their parents' carnal sin. I don't blame Midnight. No, no. He was young and could not grasp his abomination.

But, that is not where this story ends. My innocence was shaken that morning, but it was not lost. Until that afternoon. My sister and I went to school that day distracted by the earlier bewildereing events that had transpired in the lust cavern, and upon our return, we tiptoed into her room, as our nagging curiosities got the best of us. When we went to get a closer look at the offspring of the devil pig, our cores were rocked. You see, my friends, when we peered into the cage, Cinnamon sat in the cage, an empty container of Tums in her claw; Midnight sat in the cage, one rodent hand down his pants, his eyes glazed over. But nowhere, nowhere to be seen were the four spawns of hell. I was confused. I was amazed. And then I got it. Cinnamon and Midnight had feasted upon their young, and they gobbled down my innocence with them.

My friends, nothing for me would ever be the same after that day. Cinnamon and Midnight hit the Sinners bus outta town within a few days following their shameful feast of disgrace. I don't doubt that the hands of a lower power were involved in rocking everything I knew about love and furry animals during those few short months when I was seven. But, Satan, you will not fool me with your rodents of hell again. For I am here to educate, and readers, may you never get conned by a wayward guinea evicted from her grammar school classroom. Sometimes, it just might be better to provide no room at the inn.
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3 comments:

kev said...

This story has warped my fragile lil' mind.

(in a good way)

Richard said...

I can imagine the dialogue that took place that fateful morning.

Donzer: Cinnamon, where are your children?

Cinnamon: I ate them with some fava beans and a nice chianti.

what's a donzer said...

Sorry, Kev. I hope it doesn't take you twenty two or so odd years to come to terms with your trauma as it did me. I'm here if you need to talk.

And, Richard, it is like you have read my psyche yet again. You probably even know about the junk- tucking cat affectionately known as Buffalo Bill that lived in our laundry room for two blissful years, huh?