I Blame My Bad Behavior On Vampires

A Colorado woman claims she wrecked her SUV last weekend near Grand Junction because she was startled by a vampire in the middle of the road. Her unabashed honesty has prompted me to reveal that vampires and other assorted members of the undead community are responsible for my behavior too.

According to Colorado State Troopers, the woman saw the vampire, threw her SUV into reverse and crashed into a canal. She escaped unbitten. Troopers do not suspect she was using drugs or alcohol, and neither do I.

Vampires are real, and the ones at our house are plenty scary.

Take, for example, the vampire who has lurked for three months near the hedge trimmer in the dark corner of our garage. I haven’t been within 10 feet of the trimmer until last Saturday when Vanessa assured me I could grab it without being attacked. She didn’t use those exact words, but I knew what she meant.

There is a three-foot stack of dirty laundry in my closet that needs to be dry-cleaned. A mess like that bothers me, but it bothers me less than getting a hickey from the blood-sucking immortal that hides in the shadows between my winter coats and bowling gear. To play it safe, the laundry stays put.

We have vampires in the cluttered office, jam-packed storage room and overgrown weeds at the bottom of the hill. I sleep peacefully because I forget about them, at least until Vanessa mentions one of their hiding places.

The vampire in the closet under the stairs is a cool ghoul. He keeps Coors Light in a damp, chilled coffin and makes an appearance at sunset on Friday or Saturday nights. When I mention him to Vanessa, she shoots me a look scarier than the goblin who prowls the backyard near the broken gate in the fence.

Coincidentally, the third movie in the “Twilight” saga opened last night to sell-out crowds. I’ll skip it. I won’t waste my money to see fake vampires when I have the real deal at home.