Humor: At Least I Saved My Boots

As I was writing the last post, I realized that I don’t really write funny posts on here. I write witty or clever updates on facebook and twitter sometimes, and I make comic statements constantly. Most of my evaluations revolve around how I’m entertaining or fun, but that never made it over here to the blog, and I think it’s high time I do something about it. The following event features some low-brow themes and language if anyone’s sensitive. Names have been changed to protect public images, and details have been changed for the sake of entertainment.

“Hey, want to run over to the C-Store? I want some jerky.”

“Yeah, hold on a second. Let me put on my boots.”

Freshman year of college, this was a typical conversation between Mike and I. We mostly talked about video games or food. We might occasionally talk about a class, but those were rare. I’ve thought since then that our conversational priorities might have been an indication that I would end up with a 3.0 GPA, but you know what they say about hindsight.

We’d both graduated with fewer than 100 people in high school, and were both the “good kids.” So, naturally, college was a time to sleep late, slack off, and eat whatever we wanted. Since then, Mike has mastered the art of George Foreman grilling and microwave-steaming vegetables, whereas I have become a journeyman chef and baker. Before our current days of respective marital bliss, however, were long nights filled with 44 oz “buckets” of soda, chocolate donuts, and teriyaki-flavored jerky.

Yes, Mike and I were definitely taking good care of ourselves, and probably riding by in the express lane to heart attack junction. Surprisingly, though, it wasn’t heart palpitation that changed our dietary habits.

“Dude? Boots?” he had asked, drumming his fingers on the door handle.

“Oh, right! Sorry, spaced out for a second. Besides, you can wait, Gordo. Isn’t this like your fifth bag of jerky in the last three days? You’re gonna mummify from all that salt.” I took my time, still hunting for where his girlfriend had kicked my boots yesterday.

“Shut it. Besides, I’m washing it down with a bucket every time, so I’m still getting plenty of fluids. Like you have any room to talk, Mister Half-A-Dozen-Brownies-A-Day.” He smirked at that.

“Hey now, my brownies are no worse than your chocolate donut things.”

He mumbled something that was meant to besmirch my mother’s honor, but I let it go. He looked hungry enough to start chewing on my arm. He was also a little bit paler than usual, but that was probably just a side effect of low blood sugar.  Still drumming his fingers, but more slowly now, a look of discomfort crept down his features. I asked “Mike? You seen my boots?”

Without saying a word, he hopped around my desk and grabbed for the bathroom door. The handle jiggled slightly, but wouldn’t turn. “Oh, forgot to tell you. James locked us out again.” I believe the look he gave me is the same look that made peoples’ heads explode in “Scanners.” He dashed rapidly past my desk, out the door and into the hallway. Moments later I heard the public bathroom door slam forcefully. His cell rang, so I grabbed it off his desk and answered “Mike’s cell phone, this is Scott speaking, how may I direct your call?”

“Scott? Where’s Mikey?” It was his mom. Of course.

“Hey Louise, he sprinted for the bathroom a minute ago. Food poisoning maybe? I dunno. I’ll have him give you a call when he’s available again, yeah?”

“That’ll be fine. Thank you Scott.”

“No problem.” Click.

I wandered down the hall toward the bathroom. “Mike? You good?” I laughed, knocking on the door. “Your mom called. I didn’t tell her you’d died this time, but you’re supposed to call her back after you’re done yurfing up your lunch.”

There was a brief pause before I heard a barely audible, “Uh, that might be a while. I ran into a snag. Oh God…” His voice was quiet, and he was slightly out of breath.

“What kind of snag? Is the door broken again?” It hadn’t been too long since one of the girls down the hall had been locked in there, but facilities had said they fixed the lock this time.

“No. I, uh. Christ, how do I say this. Well, you know how sometimes you just really have to go to the bathroom? Like, immediately?”

“Are you telling me you just shit yourself?” There was another pause, one that was very nearly punctuated by heavy laughter on my part.

“It was an endless torrent of doo-doo butter! It wouldn’t wait!”

At that point, I couldn’t help it anymore, and started laughing hysterically. “Okay, okay, What do you need, skidmark? New jeans? Underwear? Boots?” There was a shuffling noise from the bathroom, as well as the sound of something wet, like a boot getting pulled out of mud.

“No, boots are okay. But the other two would be cool. And a mop.”

“So, if I correctly interpreted that statement, you need underwear and jeans for you, and a mop for the floor? Is it safe to say you didn’t make it, then?” He peeked his head out the door at this point, looking like a sheet-white caricature of Jack Nicholson.

“And the walls.”

“What about the walls?”

“The mop. I need it for the walls, too. Just go!”

When a man asks you for fresh jeans and a mop, you can’t exactly say no. I certainly made fun of him for it later, though. So I went back to our room, got the supplies he’d asked for, and decided to toss in his cell phone, too. I’m not a brave man, and I didn’t look in the bathroom, but it smelled like wet lettuce, coffee grounds, and dead mice.

I went back to my room to play Super Smash Brothers for a while. Eventually he came back, looking haggard and smelling unpleasant, with the phone in one hand and the mop in the other. He sat down at his desk and stared silently into the middle distance for a few minutes before opening his phone. “Hey, Mom? Yeah, it’s me. No, it wasn’t food poisoning, I just really had to use the restroom.” The lines on his forehead deepened as his mother talked, and the muscles at the sides of his jaw hardened.

“Mom, look. I’m fine. But I need to get a new pair of jeans. Yeah. Yes, that’s what I meant when I said that I had to use the restroom. No, the laughing in the background is just Scott. Yes, he thinks it’s hilarious. I’m not sure why.”

He looked like he needed something to laugh about, so I contributed to the conversation. “I think it’s hilarious because a grown man lost control of his bowels and turned a public bathroom into a war zone.”

“He says—no, mom, I didn’t lose my wallet. Or my pocket watch. Yes, it was just the jeans, it’s really not that bad. I’d had those since like eighth grade anyway.  No, mom. My boots are fine. Yes, really. I know they’re brown, I double-checked and they really are okay. No, I couldn’t have saved them. Yes, I know that jeans are washable, thank you. You’re not understanding the sheer volume. It was like a war zone!”

He grinned at me, obviously pleased at his mother’s reaction. I piped in, “The least you could do is cite me on that, man. I DID bring you new jeans. I think that’s worth something. Also, maybe once you’re done on the phone you could take a shower? Just saying, it’s something to think about.”

Mike continued over me. The stony look on his face said that he was getting tired of discussing biological waste with the woman who had changed his diapers years ago.  “Mom, I have to go. Scott says the smell is filling the room, and making it unlivable in here. I know, you’re upset. But look at the bright side; at least I saved my boots.”



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