I’ve got a nice shirt I really like. Excuse me, I had a nice shirt I really liked.
Yesterday, we had a ample-sized party at our house for many of our neighbors and friends. They’re wonderful people and it presents for me an opportunity to laugh my ass off for hours on end. Cool.
We put a huge bowl of Texas Caviar 'n chips out, as well as some Spinach/Artichoke dip and Wheat Thins. Expecting two dozen folks, I included a case of Cokes and Fat Tires in the cooler and opened a bottle of white and two reds. Time to relax.
Guests began to arrive and I wandered in from the patio to make sure all the air conditioning types are properly hydrated. I know many of these people and the fact nobody’s had a sip of wine is downright bizarre. Not wanting to be stuck with multiple bottles of good wine going flat, I turn to trusted friend Lonnie and suggest we switch from beer mode to grape. He concurred with a smile.
20 minutes later when he and I were only a half glass into our quest, my wife came out and said “Honey, where’s the corkscrew?” Huh? “We need you to open some more wine for us.”
Heh, I go back inside only to witness some of our most genteel, reserved neighbors with empty cups and shit-eating grins on their face. Ditto for the imbibers. For the next three hours we caught whiff of more neighborhood and spousal titterings and gossipy chat than you could imagine. Well, maybe you could.
Point is, everyone had fun and the impaired neighbors walked home while the impaired spouses were driven home by understanding husbands and wives.
In bed at 11:00, I awoke at 2:15 just wide-assed awake. No chance of going back to sleep. It really wasn’t a problem because today was to be a “research day” when I read up on coming trends so fellow employees can tell my dumbass how astute I am. Cool again.
Downstairs, I look out at my freshly slabed and rocked patio with the beautifully landscaped yard beyond and figure “What the hell, let’s empty that last third from the Cabernet bottle and appreciate some nature.” Did I mention that I was a dumbass?
Shortly thereafter, I laid down on the couch to slumber until dawn. I then immediately rushed to the bathroom to turn on the light and lift the lid. Just in case.
Ever want to get sick? Be an idiot and lay down again. I dare you.
We’ve all seen Olympic javellin hurlers. The style, the grace, the power, the distance. I embraced their form this morning. Leaping up from the couch, I reared back and began a vicious spring towards the kitchen sink, the bathroom being waaaay too out of reach. Keeping my knees high and my face locked ackwardly back in a 45 degree panicked stare, I sprinted towards the hardwood line to begin my toss. Approaching it, my body compacted forward and launched the purple projectile in a slow motion arc that met the back of the sink with the grace of a water balloon. It was at that point that things turned violent.
My garden hose has an attachment for disparate watering types. There’s Shower, Mist, Full and Spray. I’m going to rename * Spray* as Spew because it’s much more fitting. With the kitchen light on so all my sympathetic neighbors could see me, I did my Abs Of Steel wet heave spew routine into the kitchen sink for a baker’s dozen. Lovely. The garbage disposal even managed to muster a bit of resistance when employed. Then I crawled back into bed and kissed my wife goodnight.
So this morning I’m up making coffee and trying not to Weeble when said wife comes down into the kitchen. “You spilled some wine on your shirt” she says. “Oh” says I, the eloquent bastard. I walk into the bathroom to assess the damage and “Aaaaaaaarrrrgghh” see the purple effing “SPEW” stain on my left tit. Not a drop mind you, a permanent purple effing vomitous spray on my previously cream colored Banana Republic knit.
I don’t mind a little wine stain, even on a nice shirt. It’s what morphs them into yard workshirts and is completely acceptable. “Hey lieu, d’you fall on a grape?” “Naw Fred, I was enjoying a '94 with an exquisite bouquet while using the belt sander and… well… you know.” But strap me to a paint mixer and I couldn’t explain this stain any other way than I chucked on myself. I mean it’s a fan-shaped, empty cranium-originated spew of purple that would make Ahab wince. Gah.
When will I ever learn to avoid Barney tit?
Feh, drink white.
