HAIRSHIRT
Helping You Get the Most Out of Your Misery
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HAIRSHIRT Helping You Get the Most Out of Your Misery |
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Monday, July 21, 2008And for My Next Trick, I'll Slip on This Banana Peel There are certain aged, crusty comedic gags that I love beyond measure. I once wrote a sketch that told the story of Hamlet entirely in spit-takes. I have, twice in my adult life, taken a pie to the face. There are some bits of shtick, however, that I've never cared for, especially when they happen in real life. I was walking my dogs this afternoon. My older, larger dog, Ben, decided to hold off on taking a dump until he could find a parked car with someone sitting in it. For some reason, he seems to really like someone watching; maybe he's extremely proud of his feces and feels it ought to be shared with as broad an audience as possible, I don't know. Anyway, Ben does his large, squishy business and I squat down to pick it up when I hear something rip. I wasn't sure what the hell had just happened, but I had a task at hand, so I continued bagging the leavings and then started making my way down the sidewalk toward our apartment. As I was walking, something felt...different. Breezy. So I paused a moment and reached around to investigate my posterior. And I found that my shorts had ripped open from belt to crotch. I did a quick search of my pockets to see if maybe I'd left a knife someplace in my shorts, like they were a loaf of Subway bread. But no. My shorts had just...ripped. Spontaneously. This is not, I should say here and now, a gag I've ever found that funny. There are always boxers or some other form of undergarment under the ripped pants, so the victim's balls never pop out and swing freely. Plus, the ripped shorts bit is often used to indicate that the character is hugely fat. I'm not hugely fat. I'm no Kenyan runner, but neither am I the Micheline Man. So this wasn't a girth-split. I think my cheap Old Navy shorts just finally gave way. Which makes sense, as I've been wearing them about half the time this summer. They had, you see, just the right amount of pockets. Dammit. I managed to get back home with limited embarrassment, partly because my boxers were the same basic color as my shorts. And also because so few people would bother to look at my ass. If the guy in the car outside which Ben dropped his load noticed, he was polite enough to not snigger. But now I've got to buy a new pair of favorite shorts. Dammit.
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