Sunday, January 13, 2013
Shake Hands With Beef!
January 27, 2006
Howdy folks, I’m lakrfool. I was flattered by an email from our own Internet funnyman Jeff Kay where he asked me if I would like to write a column for the WVSR. After wiping away the tears of joy tinged with shame, I accepted, and treat it as a high honor, Summa Cum Funny. I would first like to thank all of the little people that made this possible…Mr. Barty, Mr. Villachaize, Muggsy Bogues, the Oompa Loompas and the Lollipop Guild.
I currently utilize public transportation in the Dallas Metropolex, where I too am an ugly American living on the cusp of a mid-life crisis, with the Missus, a he-cret and a little she-crette in tow. When I’m not shaking my fist at the TV pleading for Kobe Bryant to pass the basketball, or trolling the Internet for images of shirtless lumberjacks, I will share with you some of the tales I have accumulated over the years in and around this fine state, along with observations on the mundane and dangerously retarded, and some rants worthy of giving an auctioneer with Tourette’s Syndrome a run for his money. It seems I made my mark in these parts with some painstakingly detailed toilet humor, so until I get my sea-legs with this column, I’ll stick with the tried-and-true formula for my first offering.
I came home recently one fine day for lunch break, and to my surprise no one was home. The peacefulness of the empty house paired with lunch on the horizon made it seem like a good time to expel the Jethro Bodine sized bowl of Grape Nuts Flakes I had enjoyed earlier that morning.
With Sports Illustrated in hand, I set about my business. The articles were entertaining, and the mission was seemingly a swimming success, until I cut my eyes over to the toilet paper holder, and I could see there was going to be trouble. Wrapped tightly around the cardboard tube, I could see there was only about 3-4 plys of TP to be had, and any full-sized man can tell you that’s not going to be NEARLY enough for the job. Fate was plotting against me, as there was no one else around to beckon for a fresh roll.
Using some creative folding paired with skilled multi-directional wiping techniques (Wu Tang style,) I was able to do a fair job with the available paper and avoid an all out smear-a-thon, but there were still some Klingons that needed to be evacuated from the neutral zone.
I pondered the always fun exercise of going through the house with your pants around your ankles in search of some sort of wiping implement, but decided against it. There was always the off chance that my wife could be hosting some sort of impromptu Tupperware party, and they would be opening the front door just as I was making a break for it. And then there’s always Jeff’s fear of becoming a Fark link…I could just see the CSI team in my living room, standing over my half-naked lifeless body after I tripped over my pants and broke my neck on the coffee table, with David Caruso probing a piece of toilet paper with metal tongs, saying something like “there was no sign of forcible entry or foul play, but this guy DID have corn-on-the-cob and something with pimentos in it for dinner last night.” No, that wasn’t going to be an option today.
Now we have two bathrooms in our house, Men’s and Women’s. The he-cret and I share the one with the shower, while the Missus and the she-crette share the one with the bath for convenience and sanitary considerations. (*ahem*) The young Jedi has still not mastered his light saber and is not the 'neatest' person when it comes to toilet related activities. For that purpose, we keep some baby wipes handy for him to do some spot cleanups when necessary. But alas the wipes were not at their station on the back of the toilet, nor were they stashed under the sink… the Dookie Gods were conspiring against me….I just knew it.
At this point, the McGuyver instincts kicked in and I started to scan the bathroom for some makeshift TP. The trash can is always a good source for a TP substitute, so that's where I first checked. Eureka!! Therein was what appeared to be some discarded baby wipes whose moisture had evaporated. Upon closer inspection they appeared to be quite clean, so I deemed them worthy for the task 'at hand.'
Success. The “all clear” siren sounded, and I returned the SI to its rightful place, flushed, zipped, buckled and was on my merry way. However, my Spidey sense was tingling, and I knew something was awry. Turns out my Spidey sense was nestled in my ass crack, and the tingling quickly escalated to a burning...a fierce, violent burning at that. What could it be?? It must have been....NO!!! Please God no!!!
I returned to the scene of the crime...the bathroom trash. I remembered there were other discarded wipes...but these were no baby wipes! After more rummaging, I spied at the bottom of the trash an empty towelette dispenser of Orange Kleen, so those were not harmless kiddie wipes but cleaning sheets that had once been saturated in that oh-so-effective Orange Kleen citrus cleaner!! The Missus must have cleaned the Men’s room recently, and there lay the evidence! The vigorous rubbing had activated the dried citric acid in the wipes...if you have ever been eating an orange and you accidentally bend the peel to where the citric acid squirts in your eye, imagine that burning times 100… up your ass. Sweet Lord, the pain was not showing any signs of leveling off. For a moment there, I wished a lit a match and burned the residue off instead of trying to wipe it clean.
I undressed in what must have been less than 10 seconds and bolted for the shower. With the cold water on full blast, I bent over to receive its sweet cooling glory...when it initially 'hit the spot' I swear I heard it sizzle. So there I was spread eagle in the shower, humming Johnny Cash to myself, as the BTU's in my ass eventually lowered to an acceptable level. I dried myself off very gingerly, and put on my underwear, which at that time housed the cleanest asshole in three counties, if not the world itself.
So let that be lesson to you. I created this little couplet that you too can use to avoid such a situation: Before you have a seat on the bowl Look around and check for a roll.
You and your ass can thank me later.