Why One Should Never Cross Red Shoes with Jellyfish

Hi there,

Iowa, let's have a swap. I'll take ½ your cold and rainy weather, and you can have every other day @ ninety-five. Deal? Heck, you can even send me my brother for a weekend to sweeten the deal.

And that's my final offer.

So, as I may have mentioned I'm making Kombucha – but disaster has struck the home of the jellyfish Q in the form of a pair of red shoes.

No, I did not have the dance/dance fever in any of its evolutions.

My lovely wife used my kitchenware to dunk her "Ninja Shoes" in laundry detergent water. I tried to rinse the jugs, and they did look clean, however, my next batch of bucha was bubbly – not fizzy.

Horrors upon horrors.

So I'm trying to resuscitate my jellyfish, it sits in a fresh bath of healthy bucha, and pleanty, plenty of sweet tea. Meanwhile, I'm trying to ensure that I'm not drinking the laundry soap, so far all my batches de bucha have hit the sink. The mutant alligators in the sewers of boston have never felt so good!

As for my wife's ninja shoes (meaning they have split toes) I haven't seen them since the incident. Either they fear my wrath (which is just plain silly. Even I don't fear my wrath) or the Dred RaRa Blackskirt (haven't heard that one in a while eh?) booted them to duty at the Y, and I'll see them when her membership runs out. Yar, they'll rue the day they grumped up the evil that is teh Q. So help me bob, I'll make them dance on the bones of my dead jellyfish's water. (???) at least they're red shoes. That'll be easy for them.


Waffles!