Saturday, September 12, 2009

All Cracked Up

Rumor has it that the easiest way to judge a great carpenter is by the size of his carpenter's crack (this also applies to plumbers, but for the sake of simplicity, we'll focus on the carpenter's crack). Supposedly you can tell a great carpenter simply by looking at his nether regions. The bigger or more pronounced the crack, the better or more highly skilled the carpenter is. Hey I’m not making this stuff up, I’m not that good. I’m just telling you what I've heard...and there is no need for me to tell you the circle of friends from which I've heard it.

I know it seems like a tall tale and a bit hard to swallow – especially when you think about actually looking at someone's carpenters crack in order to judge their skill level – but ask yourself these two things: 1. Who would really make something like this up? and 2. How could something this far out there possibly not be a fact?

As I’ve begun some investigation into this phenomenon, I’ve come across some people who would want us to believe that there is no significant correlation between the size of one’s crack and their skills as a carpenter. Then again, these are those same people, who would lead us to believe there is no significant correlation between the size of a person's head and how smart they are. They would try to tell us that bigger heads do not mean smarter people, which is completely false. We all know that people with bigger heads are definitely smarter then those with tiny ones. It's only logical.

These same people will try to persuade you that crack differences could be merely caused by outside forces such as: A) The carpenter's pants are just too big and accordingly expose more of the cheekage (if you’ll allow me to use that word) than necessary; or B) the carpenter's tool belt is overloaded and heavy and therefore causes a downward force over the buttocks. These claims are just not factual, and I have not thus far found any science to back them up.

However, I must make one side note. This rule does not apply to women of the trade. A woman who exposes her carpenter's crack while working is just considered trashy and such actions are frowned upon by others inside and outside of the business. Call it a double standard if you want, but that's just life.

But if what I've heard of male carpenters is true - and I wholeheartedly believe that it is - and bigger really does equal better, then it would behoove members in such a trade to consider enhancing their cracks. No, I’m not talking about natural enhancement by working out, which takes excruciating amounts of time and effort, or about any of those miracle creams you rub on at night before going to bed that guarantee to double your size. What I’m talking about is going under the knife…getting a butt augmentation…you know, a butt job, thus enhancing the crack cleavage, so to speak, for the purpose of attracting more business.

This would be a smart business move. It could be considered not only a business investment but a write-off as well. Logically, this makes perfect sense.

In fact I wouldn't be surprised to find out that such things are already happening in the industry. How could they not be? If carpenters' skills are judged solely on the size of their butt cleavage, then surely methods for increasing such said cleavage must be happening.

How horrible is that? Talk about false advertising. But what other options would you have as a flat-bottomed non-cracked carpenter? I don't blame the carpenters. Nope, not at all. Quite the contrary, in fact, I feel sorry for them. They must feel like a piece of meat up on display for the whole world to look at and poke while trying decide if it's something good enough to take home. The poor carpenters are a product of society and are left with few choices to make in the matter...go big or stay home. Because we all know they won't be finding work any time soon if they don't.

Take a guy like me for example, who has a relatively flat bottom. All right let’s be honest, I’ve got no butt at all. If what has been said is true and I happened to be a skilled carpenter, people might look at me and laugh, simply judging me by my butt crack and assuming I was a complete dud. My business would suffer because of it. I would be the perfect candidate for a butt augmentation procedure. I think I would at least want to look into what kind of enhancement options were available to me. You know, go into the plastic surgeon's office to look at some different crack pictures before choosing the perfect one for me. I'd probably want to stand up in a mirror holding the pictures to my rear end to see what they'd look like on me. Then after finding the right one, handing it back to the doctor and saying:

"That's it Doc, that's the one for me."

"Are you sure? Don't you want to look at any others, just to be certain?"

"Nope. This is the one. It has me written all over it."

I can only imagine what the guys would say after showing up to work with my new cracked out fanny and of course a brand new working wardrobe to show off my new assets (no pun intended).

"Oh my gosh...check out Jared's crack. It's huge!"

"Yeah, he just got it done."

"What do you mean? It's fake?"

"Yep. Top of the line implants. He says it's really increased business for him."

"Wow. It looks amazing! So Real."

"Yeah, it really does."

Now that I think about it I'm so glad that I'm not a carpenter and I don't have to worry about being judged by the size of my crack. I have a whole new respect for those who choose to follow that career path. It's a man eat man world out there and it seems clear that the man with the bigger crack, always wins.

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

I'll Cry if I Want To

There are very few things that make a grown man cry. In fact I can only think of five. Here they are in no particular order:

  • The movie "Old Yeller" (come on, it is a movie about a man's best friend)
  • Watching your favorite sports team lose in a close, hard fought game.
  • Having to buy your wife or girlfriend feminine products and then to running into someone you know while at the store with said products in hand.
  • Finding out the person you're in love with is a vegetarian.
  • Discovering a new all-you-can-eat buffet where you live.

Yep, I think that about sums it all up.

Monday, August 24, 2009

Wrong Number

Have you ever been so bored sitting at home that you actually get excited when the phone rings? Then you find out that the person on the other end accidentally dialed the wrong number but you still try to keep them on the line just so you don't have to go back to being bored?

"I'm sorry you have the wrong number but do you want to talk anyway? Please just talk to me for a little while. You don't understand, I'm bored. No, No, wait, I'm only kidding. This is Bob, I was just joking with you. I swear it is. What's my last name? Come on you know what my last name is. No, please don't..." CLICK! "...hang up."

It's no wonder 1-900 numbers get so much business. You're bored out of your mind sitting at home with absolutely nothing to do...and...well...

"Helloooo, this is Rachelle. What's your name?"

"Umm, err, this is Bob, and don't ask me my last name."

Thursday, August 13, 2009

Homeless and Poor

He held a sign that read “Please Help, Homeless and Poor.” I sure was grateful that he cleared up the confusion by adding the part about being poor, because if he had been Homeless and Wealthy I was just going to roll down my window and yell, “Go buy a damn house, then!”

I suppose I am a little uneducated in the homeless department because I had always just assumed that if you were homeless it was because you were poor. Then again, you can be poor and not homeless, so maybe you can also be homeless without being poor. Now all of a sudden I started feeling bad for the guy because he had it really bad. Double whammy…homeless and poor. And to think for a few seconds there I was going to offer to pay him 5 bucks if he would let me add the words “and lazy” to his sign.

I often wonder why these guys aren’t working to make some money. I know some people say that they have a disability or something that prevents them from working, but I mean come on…they are already standing for 10-12 hours a day holding their signs! They would make ideal Wal-Mart greeters. I mean, they are already seasoned in standing in one place for long periods of time. If it was too uncomfortable to actually greet the Wal-Mart shoppers, perhaps they could just hold up a sign that read, “Welcome to Wal-Mart.” I’m sure it would go over great for Wal-Mart’s public relations perception. They could even change their slogan to “Wal-Mart…putting America’s homeless to work.”

I know for sure that these guys could get a job for at least four months of the year with Liberty Mutual. It would be a perfect gig for them, holding up a sign and waving it at passing vehicles on the side of the road. Isn’t that really what they are already doing anyway? Liberty Mutual should just run around the city and dress the homeless in Lady of Liberty costumes and pay them to hold up their signs. Besides the cheap advertising, think of what a great tax write-off they could get.

The only other question I had about the homeless people that stand around holding signs is, where in the world do they get the markers to make their signs? I know at my house I can never find a marker when I need one, so how the hell are these guys getting them if they don’t even have a home to begin with? Plus, the markers they use aren’t those cheap ones. Oh no, they aren’t those flimsy old fine point ones. They use those “fat boy” ones that make lines big enough for passing vehicles to see. Those markers aren’t cheap! If they were smart, they would be selling the markers they use to people like me who can’t find them anywhere in my house to save my life. I would pay a pretty penny for one of those.

Needless to say, even after the homeless guy got me thinking about all these things, I still couldn’t help but feel bad for him and I gave him 5 bucks. As I was walking away I realized that he probably made more money than me if everyone that passed by felt the same way I did. But then again, his sign did say Homeless and Poor…so probably not.

Saturday, August 8, 2009

Trust me. I'm an Expert.

In the game of golf there are good golfers, there are bad golfers, and there are Experts. A person who is good at golf is someone who can score really low...period...and a bad golfer is one who typically scores quite high, but who will score low enough just often enough to keep his golf habit alive. But one of the things I most love about golf is that a person doesn't have to actually be good in order to be an Expert. An Expert at golf is someone who can coach or critique others in the sport but may not necessarily be good themselves. I've noticed through the years that there are a lot of Experts in golf. I should know...I am one myself.

When someone hits a bad shot it is easy to point to something that may or may not have contributed to the genesis of the poor shot. The mere mention of these observations of another's swing is what makes one appear to be an Expert. You see, the golf swing has hundreds of components and pieces that must come together with perfect complexity in order to make the right connection of the clubface hitting the ball and therefore creating what we call in golf lingo, a "good shot." It takes just one of those pieces to be missing or misplaced and you end up with what golfers would call a "bad shot," which also goes by other creative pseudonyms such as, "damn it", "why?", "where did that come from!", "I hate this game", or for the worst of all bad shots, "I quit."

There is never a shortage of reasons for why the bad shot happened, nor is there ever a shortage of fellow golfers who are willing to point out what caused it. Your stance was too narrow. Your stance was too wide. You had your clubface open at impact. Your clubface was closed at impact. You're swinging too far away from your body. You're swinging much too close to your body. Your arms were too bent. Your arms were too straight. Your weight was all on your toes. Your weight was back on your heels. Your head popped up, your butt was out too far, your hips swung out...blah, blah, blah. Oh yeah, and blah.

Never mind my score. Forget the fact that you are actually beating me. What I'm telling you will change your game and take you to that next level. Trust me, I'm an Expert. I have an eye for these things.

That's why I think being a caddie would be such an easy job. You're not playing, you're just telling the player what to do.

"Go pitching wedge. Definitely pitching."

"Are you sure? I was thinking a strong nine. I don't think I'll get there with a pitching."

"Trust me, it's the pitching wedge you want. It'll put you right in the center of the green."

"All right."

The ball is struck and falls ten yards short of the green.

"See. I told you I should have gone nine."

"No, it was the right club. You just had the clubface closed a bit at impact and were swinging off of your toes. Trust me. I'm an Expert."

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

Would You Like Fries With That?

There are, in this universe, established laws of science that are considered universal and invariable facts of the physical world - laws so irrefutable that the mere mention of disproving them would bring scorn and ridicule from even the lowliest of scientists which helped to establish them. I'm talking about laws such as the fact that the earth circles the sun and not vice versa, that gravity is the force that causes the apple to fall to the ground instead of floating off into space, E=mc2...and the fact that french fries have a limited window of time in which they must be eaten before they are no longer deemed edible.

In my years of college, mission, and as a young newlywed, I've become quite a connoisseur of "fast food" (AKA: I'm too lazy to make my own meals, food) and therefore, quite the connoisseur of french fries, or "fries" as I will refer to them through the remainder of this article in hopes of appealing to the cooler crowd who might happen upon this blog entry.

If given even the slightest period of time to consider this most important law of nature, most, if not all of you reading this will probably agree that fries have a very small window of time in which they must be eaten. You all know what I'm talking about - the inevitable shift from hot, crispy, salty deliciousness to tepid, rubbery, unsavory awfulness. From the time you first receive your little carton of goodness into your loving hands, the stopwatch has already begun its inevitable countdown. And unfortunately for all of us proud owners, fries have a very short lifespan.

Sure, it's no big deal when you're dining in. Anyone can eat their fries within the allotted time it takes to snarf down lunch at the local greasy burger joint and never worry about reaching that awful point of no return. But it's a different story for the many of us who get it to go and therefore waste precious minutes transporting the precious cargo home to eat. The way I have it figured you have 12, maybe 15 minutes tops, from the time they're almost too hot for your mouth to inedible and disgusting.

My problem is that I live at least 10 minutes away from the nearest McDonald's, which leaves me and my family very few minutes left to devour our fries before they turn. I've had many nights of heartburn and upset stomach as a direct result of having to swallow my fries whole in attempt to eat them within the time constraint. This happens even if I tell them at Mcdonald's that I want the fries to be loaded at the last possible second. Even if I tell them I want them fresh out of the fryer, molten hot. Even if I tell them to eliminate the middle man (the fry tray under the heat lamps) and to just load them directly from the fryer into the fry carton. All of that might, and I stress the word might, save me an additional three minutes on the drive. Which, don't get me wrong, I'll take whatever additional time I can get, but it still leaves me in a serious race against the clock. Tick. Tick. Tick.

I would be lying to you if I told you that the thought of running a red light or calling in for a police escort has never crossed my mind. I mean they do it for organs being taken to a patient all the time right? Isn't this equally important? After all, I paid good money for those fries.

The only thing known to man in the slowing down of mother nature when it comes to the aging of fries is of course the heat lamps they're placed under when they first come out of a fryer. Unfortunately my car doesn't have one of those, but I do believe it should be an option on all newer vehicles. Could you imagine the time and heartache you'd save if your car had one of those babies tucked right in under the stereo?

I once had a friend tell me to just pop them in the microwave when I got if that somehow would magically rejuvenate the limp and lifeless fries. Uh, yeah. No. Let's just say he is no longer my friend. I mean these things are like nachos. They can't be reheated! French fries are untouchable that doesn't matter how badly you wish they could. And let's just call a spade a spade. The's just an appliance. It's not a miracle worker.

Nope, once the fries have met their time limit, it's best you pass on them and just chalk it up as another loss to the fry gods. They're gone. They're toast. They've given up the ghost and no matter what you try, you'll never resuscitate the things. And even if you could, what would be the point? It would be like trying to resuscitate a 95 year old man who died peacefully in his sleep. In the end he's still 95 and pretty much dead.

Nope, my suggestion to you is to enjoy them while they're hot. I know we're all busy with life and that things get hectic - so busy in fact that it seems like we never have time to stop and enjoy the fries, so to speak. Might I suggest to all of you, when it comes to eating these heaven-sent strips of potato, salt and grease, to stop, take but a moment of time (12 to 15 minutes) out of your busy life, and allow yourself to enjoy the fries.

Friday, March 20, 2009

Love Story

Some of you will laugh at what I’m about to tell you. Some may even want to ridicule me for it. And I’m ok with that. Despite what the consequences might be I’m willing to share something very personal with all of you. The thing that I want to tell you is…that…I love the Taylor Swift song, “Love Story.” I don’t know why but I’m a sucker for a good love story, and her song is no different.

Maybe it’s because of the music. It might be because of her voice. Or maybe it’s just that I can totally picture Taylor Swift singing it, but for whatever reason, I really like the song. Ok, I love it.

Now, I'm sure that some of you are probably laughing at me. I'm sure the men who are reading this are. You’re probably thinking that by admitting my love affair with love affairs, I have somehow lost my manhood. Let me just assure you that I lost my manhood long ago. The last straw was when I decided, being in a house of all girls, that it was easier to pee sitting down instead of standing up...a process that allows me to leave the toilet seat down and something my wife and girls appreciate greatly. So yeah, my manhood went down the toilet, so to speak, right after I flushed in the sitting position.

The thing is, for as long as I can remember I’ve always loved a good love story. It’s not anything that has come on suddenly. I’ve always known I was bit different from typical guys in this part of my life, and I kept it secret from my family and friends. I didn’t want them to know. I was afraid of being ostracized, or worse, that they might be ostracized because of me. I think many of them suspected but never said anything about it, wanting to avoid the topic altogether. It hasn’t been until recently that I have decided I am tired of running from who I really am. It's time for me to stand up for myself. It's time to embrace the person I am: I am a romantic at heart.

My all time favorite movie is Braveheart (which is really a love story if you think about it being about a man who is avenging the murder of his wife) followed closely by Sweet Home Alabama, Juno (if you didn’t realize this was a love story, you're crazy), Knotting Hill, How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days (how can you not love a story about two love cynics who fall madly in love with each other?), You’ve Got Mail, Sleepless in Seattle, 10 Things I Hate About You, or any other romantic comedy to come out in the last 20 years. Now don’t get me wrong, I still love a good action movie as much as the next guy, but only the best of those will warrant me to see it more than once, while I can almost always watch a good romantic comedy over and over again.

I have it bad. So bad in fact that when I watch a romantic comedy that doesn’t end the way I expect or hope it to, I get pissed. I’m devastated. I put it up there with the way I feel after BYU loses a football or basketball game to a team like Utah, only I don’t stay upset for quite as long afterwards. It’s so bad that counseling has crossed my mind on more than one occasion. The worst part is that it hasn’t gotten better over time. It's gotten worse. I’m more of a sucker for a good love story now than I’ve ever been before.

I’d like to blame it on my almost 9 years of marriage, or on the fact that I live in a house of all girls. But I can’t. Maybe it’s from the countless hours I've spent inhaling fingernail polish fumes while painting my girls' fingers and toes. Then again, maybe I’m just trying to find something or someone else to blame, when in reality it’s my problem and nobody else’s. It’s my addiction, my problem. I’m sure there’s help out there...but I don’t know if I want it.

I mean is it really so bad. But just ask yourself, with everything that’s wrong in the world, are we really so worried about a guy who loves a great love story that we’d want to change that? For now I’m happy where I am. I’m comfortable with who I am. And I’m not really sure I want to change. So leave me alone and let me sing my heart out to Taylor Swift’s “Love Story” while driving home from work. And who cares if I’m excited to go test drive minvans this weekend? They’re great vehicles with lots of room for the family. And many of them come with built in DVD players standard, which makes it that much easier to enjoy a good love story.

Saturday, January 31, 2009

The Flip Side of Twilight

For the past year or more, it seems the entire country has been caught up in Stephenie Meyer's Twilight series. I have to admit that I was excited to read it myself as soon as the first book was released, upon excellent reccommendations from trustworthy sources. But disregarding the fact that I felt like I was perpetually trapped inside the mind of a teenage girl, I was seriously concerned that the book lacked both sides of this uniqe love story.

So, being a guy, I decided to present what I feel must have been Edward's side of the story.

This particular exerpt begins on page 218 under the chapter called Complications. First I’ll quote Stephenie Meyer’s words and then I’ll give Edward’s version, and afterwards you’ll understand why the chapter is entitled “complications.”

Stephenie Meyer's version

Mr. Banner shoved the tape into the reluctant VCR and walked to the wall to turn off the lights. And then, as the room went black, I was suddenly hyperaware that Edward was sitting less than an inch from me. I was stunned by the unexpected electricity that flowed through me, amazed that it was possible to be more aware of him than I already was. The crazy impulse to reach over and touch him, to stroke his perfect face just once in the darkness, nearly overwhelmed me. I crossed my arms tightly across my chest, my hands balling into fists. I was losing my mind.

The opening credits began, lighting the room by a token amount. My eyes, of their own accord, flickered to him. I smiled sheepishly as I realized his posture was identical to mine, fists clenched under his arms, right down to the eyes, peering sideways at me. He grinned back, his eyes somehow managing to smolder, even in the dark. I looked away before I could start hyperventilating. It was absolutely ridiculous that I should feel dizzy.

The hour seemed very long. I couldn’t concentrate on the movie – I didn’t even know what subject it was on. I tried unsuccessfully to relax, but the electric current that seemed to be originating from somewhere in his body never slackened. Occasionally I would permit myself a quick glance in his direction, but he never seemed to relax, either. The overpowering craving to touch him also refused to fade, and I crushed my fists safely against my ribs until my fingers were aching with the effort.

I breathed a sigh of relief when Mr. Banner flicked the lights back on at the end of class, and stretched my arms out in front of me, flexing my stiff fingers. Edward chuckled beside me.

“Well, that was interesting,” he murmured. His voice was dark and his eyes were cautious.

“Umm,” was all I was able to respond.

“Shall we?” he asked, rising fluidly.

I almost groaned. Time for gym. I stood with care, worried my balance might have been affected by a strange new intensity between us.

He walked me to my next class in silence and paused at the door; I turned to say goodbye. His face startled me – his expression was torn, almost pained, and so fiercely beautiful that the ache to touch him flared as strong as before. My goodbye stuck in my throat.

He raised his hand, hesitant, conflict raging in his eyes, and then swiftly brushed the length of my cheekbone with his fingertips. His skin was as icy as ever, but the trail his fingers left on my skin was alarmingly warm – like I’d been burned, but didn’t feel the pain of it yet.

He turned without a word and strode quickly away from me.

Now let’s explore the exact same scene, seen through Edward’s eyes. Let’s not forget that this scene took place right after they had lunch together where Bella had asked Edward to eat some of her human food. He of course did to show her that he was able to.

Jared Palenske's version

Mr. Banner shoved the tape into the reluctant VCR and walked to the wall to turn off the lights. Then, as the room went black, I slid my seat closer to Bella. Being the huge baseball fan that I was, and with my family it was hard not to be, I was hoping that today might be the day that I made it to second base with her. Damn it, if only I could read her thoughts. I just wish I could know what she was thinking. This really made things more difficult and created a slight obstacle, but there was no way I would let it prevent me from wooing Bella into making out with me. Still though, I really wished I could read her thoughts, and I was getting a little pissed off that I couldn’t. Wouldn’t you know it…the one girl that I had really fallen for and I couldn’t even use my gift to know what she was thinking. Advantage: Bella.

It wasn’t long into the movie when I first noticed the grumbling in my stomach. “Oh, no,” I thought to myself. “This isn’t good.”

I knew what was coming next. It had happened once before when I had attempted to eat a whole gallon of ice cream on a bet with Emmett. I won, of course, but paid for it later. Stupid human food. Never has sat well with me, and I could already tell that the pizza Bella dared me to eat was going to be no different. I was hoping that the little bit that I ate wouldn’t have been enough to affect me, but I could tell that my hopes were in vain. Oh Bella, why?...why did you have to dare me to eat that wretched piece of pizza, and why did I have to try to be so macho and prove that I could do it?

My stomach was really starting to roll then and the gas pains were becoming unbearable. I was beginning to wonder if I was even going to be able to make it through the movie or if I would have to make a trip to the bathroom before it was over. I knew that if I got up to leave I wouldn’t be able to explain it to Bella. And there was no way I could just leave without talking to her…I might end up making her mad, especially because it seemed like it could have been that time of the month for her.

There would be no chance at all of getting to second base if I made her mad, that’s for sure. Nope, I was simply going to have to have to tough this one out no matter how much it hurt. Sheesh, the things you do for love. I hope someday Bella will realize how much crap I had to deal with just to make her happy. It gets pretty old having to always put on a show just to win her over. Oh well, if we end up getting married then I’ll be able to be myself, until then though I would have to continue putting my best foot forward.

Whatever it takes to get her to make out, I thought. But what if she doesn’t want to make out? Damn it…why couldn’t I read her mind? The gas pains were absolutely killing me by this point and I felt like I was about to explode. I knew my chances at scoring with her would surely be ruined unless I held it in. It was my only choice.

I crossed my arms tightly across my chest and balled my hands into fists. I was losing my mind but it was all I could do to hold off the pain and keep from screaming out loud. I quickly glanced over at Bella to see what she was doing, hoping she couldn’t tell what was going on.

I noticed that she was sitting the exact same way I was. I began to wonder if she was teasing me when I noticed her smile. I grinned back, my teeth clenched tightly to trap the scream that was begging to escape. Maybe she knew what I was experiencing and smiled to let me know it was okay. Was she trying to tell me it was okay to fart around her? Maybe she was cool with it. If only I could read her thoughts! It was much too difficult to try to read what she was thinking from her expressions alone. No, I couldn’t chance it. It was too risky, and besides, what was knocking at my back door was much more than gas, I was afraid. I was just going to have to fight it. I could almost feel myself sweating even though it was impossible for me to do so.

The hour seemed very long. How long could a stupid biology movie go on for, anyway? I realized that I hadn’t been paying the least bit of attention to the movie because every ounce of my lifeless body was preoccupied, wrestling my irritable bowel syndrome. I tried unsuccessfully to relax, but the rumbling that seemed to be originating from somewhere in my lower intestine never slackened. The overpowering craving to race to the bathroom refused to fade, so I continued to crush my fist against my ribs, my fingers now aching from the effort.

I couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief when Mr. Banner finally flicked the lights back on at the end of class. Relieved that class was finally over, I couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Well, that was interesting,” I murmured, still wondering if she knew my secret.

“Umm,” she mumbled. Not a good sign.

“Shall we?” I asked, jumping up as quickly as I could, hoping that some movement and being on my feet might help relieve a little pressure.

I walked her to her next class even though I wanted to have some quality time with the toilet. I wanted to say something but was in far too much pain to talk. So we walked in silence.

When we got to her class she turned to face me and that was when I noticed a small piece of food stuck to the side of her cheek. It was obviously left over from lunch. We stood there staring at each other, her at me and me at the piece of food on her beautiful face. What was that, anyway? I wondered to myself. A chunk of pizza, or maybe it was a bit of apple. Whatever it was, I for sure had to remove it before she went to her next class. She would have been so embarrassed and mad at me if I didn’t remove it, but how could I without her knowing? I had to be careful. Very careful.

I slowly raised my hand, hesitating slightly, worried that she would realize what I was doing. Then quickly I reached towards her cheek and brushed the particle of food along her jaw line causing it to fall harmlessly to the tiled floor below our feet.

Embarrassed that she may have known what happened, and about to explode in my pants, I quickly turned and headed for the nearest bathroom. Second base or not, I had to get the bathroom…fast.

Life is just too funny to be taken so seriously