Ack. So, last I posted I was lamenting how pitiful my life was. Aww, screw it. I’m blessed, and I know it.
First, my Aunt Sandy succombed to my pleas for cash prizes and attention and took me to the movies to see Without a Paddle. It was even better than I expected, primarily because I wasn’t out a dime except for the drive down. Depression has its advantages, and campy movies concerning homoeroticism and marijuana-induced fantasies are high on the list. Also, the movie theater sold candy-covered almonds at the snack stand. Candy-covered almonds, usually called Jordanettes, are delicious and should be one of the four food groups. They make my tummy all rumbly.
Sandy and I were unusually obnoxious throughout the movie. Wait, that’s not quite true. We were unusually obnoxious compared to everyone else in the theater, but really quite subdued in comparison to our regular personalities. We yelled at the screen and made vaguely related Buffy references and guffawed. I never heard anyone guffaw until I actually did it during this movie. Turns out guffawing is a real thing. Who knew?
Earlier today I spent a couple of hours with my niece (seven months) and nephew (three years). As per usual, I performed my most mystifying magic trick: that of producing Magic Stink. Magic Stink, of course, is when you pass gas into your own hand and then unfurl it on the unsuspecting, right under their noses. My nephew finds this hilarious, and he will darn near poop his pants to match my Magic Stink superiority.
But it all backfired on me just a bit ago. (And I’m pretty sure that if I’d tried hard enough, I could have turned the word “backfired” into a tremendously hilarious pun, but I’m sort of tired.) At any rate, I just went outside to smoke. (For those of you not in the know, I’m a smoker and my parents are not. I have to go outside to indulge, which isn’t such a bad deal since I live here for free and all.) So I’m sitting outside on the asphalt driveway, reading last weekend’s Parade magazine from the Sunday edition of the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette as I smoke. It’s worth noting that I’m one of those people who pretty much has to read all the time if I’m not otherwise engaged, so it doesn’t matter what I’m reading. FDA requirements on the breakfast cereal, river levels in the daily paper, Buffy fanfic from a questionable site. (Oh, who am I kidding? I seek out quality Buffy fanfic for my pleasure and enjoyment.) Anyway, I’m sitting there on the asphalt reading an article in last weekend’s Parade when I feel the urge to pass a little gas. I do so without much thought, as it’s 11:30 p.m. on a Wednesday night in a subdivision of a small town in rural Arkansas. But after the excess air had passed through both my lungs (due to the smoking) and my anal sphincter (due to my gaseous state), I happened to look up from the less-than-engaging Parade article, only to spy a lone pedestrian on my otherwise deserted street.
I’d like to say that both I and the walking man were sufficiently surprised and embarrassed by my, ummm, outburst, as to… you know… let sleeping dogs lie. But it was not to be. The man laughed as he continued on his way. At first it was a bit of a giggle, but the further he moved from my house, the greater his laughter grew at my ill-timed booty burst. I feel certain that the considerable anal acoustics provided by the meeting of my bottom and the asphalt beneath were to blame, but I could be wrong. At any rate, I’m sure my Aunt Sandy is peeing her pants right now.
As well she should.