vituperation

June 5, 2003

In case I die on the operating room table tomorrow, this is what I looked like today.

Why no, I don’t know why I’m standing like a gunfighter.

Okay, yes I do. I was trying to show off my V shape, but it apparently doesn’t show off well when my shirt’s untucked.

My plastic surgeon, who surely knows more than any massage lady, commented on the breadth of my shoulders today as he was looking me over for tomorrow’s touch up.

"Been hittin’ those weights pretty hard, huh?" he asked.

So an emphatic hmph to the massage lady and her "Keep it up and you’ll get toned in no time."

Hmph, I say.

Time for a poll. We have the following tomato in our backyard right now:

However, Robyn and I have a difference of opinion on it. One of us thinks it needs to be picked now and allowed to fully ripen in the kitchen, while the other thinks it needs to be left on the vine to fully ripen there.

That’s where you come in. Surely someone out there knows the right answer, and you need to tell us. Please vote below.

Note: the dark blotch in the lower right corner of the picture above is Miz Poo’s ass, which is always in the way.

Will stood before me, laughing so hard tears were running down both his cheeks. He struggled to speak, fighting to control his mirth. A cigarette jittered in the corner of his mouth.

"I have got to tell you something," he said, "because you’re the only one here who can appreciate this."

We were behind the large pavilion at Montesano State Park, earlier today, part of the large picnic thrown by my company’s largest customer. There were easily over a hundred people there, milling about and eating burgers, hot dogs, and assorted other picnic foods. Everyone but me, that is, because I’m a freak about eating stuff like that when it’s not my officially sanctioned junk food day. I just mingled and tried not to draw attention to myself and my lack of a plate.

(Yes, I know I could’ve made today junk day, but I weighed all the options and decided I’d rather eat junk food after my surgery tomorrow. I shall be rightly pissed off if I die on the table.)

He dissolved into another gale of giggles. My curiosity was definitely piqued.

"What happened?" I asked.

He took a deep breath and told me he’d just been around in the front of the pavilion talking to a couple of co-workers when a third co-worker, trying to get up from a low-sitting lawn chair, had broken explosive wind from the effort.

"It was a classic fart!" he hooted, paused, and re-created the sound of the fart for me.

I was duly impressed.

"And you should’ve seen the look on her face!" He made a comical look of surprise, demonstrating, then burst out laughing again. We cackled together about the fart for several seconds, a middle-aged Beavis and Butthead, before he wandered off to get some pecan pie.

A big loud fart story. Out of all the people there, he felt like I was the only one who could appreciate a good fart story.

I don’t know if I should be honored or embarrassed.

On the way to my plastic surgeon’s office today I stopped at a convenience store for a pack of gum. When I pulled back into traffic, I found myself behind a maroon Aerostar van. Upon this van, on all four sides, the following was written in white shoe polish:

"Have mercy on me Lord, a sinner"

Additionally, on the back of the van "Jesus saves" and "I’m a believer" decorated the bumper. From the trailer hitch there hung a short length of cord with what appeared to be a crown of metal thorns attached, dangling just above the surface of the road.

I followed this car on Bob Wallace Avenue, watching it amble slowly down the road with its hazard lights flashing. When we got to the red light at Triana Boulevard, a most unusual thing happened. A checkered flag emerged from the driver’s window, followed by the five-foot pole to which it was attached, followed in turn by the driver’s arm.

The driver waved the checkered flag madly, whipping it from side to side and front to back in a frenzy for the whole time the light was red. When the light turned green the flag was pulled back into the van and he drove off.

You know, I never thought of Jesus as a Nascar fan.