After Thanksgiving dinner at my parents’ house, I was standing in the kitchen as they packed up the leftovers. I opened a drawer to put back a pen I had been using and saw a small pink plastic brush in a box towards the back. The brush was clearly leftover from my days of playing with dolls, and was probably meant for a Barbie or other small toy.
“Why do you still have this thing?” I asked my mother, as I impulsively began combing the brush through my hair.
“Oh,” she replied, “I use it to brush the fringe on the throw rug in the foyer.”
Does that mean you have fringe bits from the throw rug in your hair? Eww. Gross!
Orrrrr really hot!?
Love the name of your post!
I got one for you.
Having ingested enough turkey to choke a small dog on Thursday, I slipped in to a tryptophanian coma and dreamt…
We were 13 klicks northeast of the Mekong Delta when the platoon (“peloton”, if you care for the Spanish derivative and to keep it at least somewhat cycling related) encountered a sizable contingent of VC who evidently had an ax to grind after learning of the hastily executed shake-down we’d performed on some of the locals; one yielding little viable intel…but a decent body count. Anyway, they were ready to rumble and we’d be forced to spend the next five days fighting tooth and nail in a life and death struggle to prevent our positions from being overrun.
The nights were excruciatingly long. And though both sides adhered to an informal cease-fire after sundown, we were incessantly tormented by a zipperhead we’d named “Charlie Chan” who’d bark taunts at us in broken English well into early mornings.
“Richie Nixon is asshole!”, he would say over and over and over again, etc…, and so forth.
This all became too much. So on the third night, I ordered Private Reginald “Two Pump” Chumpton to breach etiquette in the interest of getting the men a decent night’s sleep. True to his namesake, Chumpton cocked his grenade launcher twice before loading a live round and methodically tilting the barrel to an angle he deemed worthy. A percussive thud signaled that the projectile had been volleyed, followed by several seconds of silence before a distinctive boom echoed through the bush, announcing that the laws of physics and machinations of chemistry had interacted harmoniously to wreak havoc on the physical plane.
The jungle fell deadly quiet. Not a word passed between the men until it became clear Two Pump’s “wad” (see what I did there?) had neutralized the Chanster, his shitty accent and shittier even propaganda horseshit. I mean, everyone knew Nixon was an asshole…
This small victory called for a celebration, so I lit what would prove to be the most satisfying cigarette I’d ever tasted; its sweet Carolinian tobacco transporting me to the porch of my parent’s summer home outside Asheville where my good friend Billy Bob Duncan often flexed his know-how with an old .22, regularly picking off vermin from hundreds of yards away.
Now, like then, I simply acknowledged my respects by saying, “Get some.”
Fin.
Hm, reminds me of the time I plucked my eyebrows with your toe-skin clippers. Love you.
I told that story to my parents over Thanksgiving dinner and they thought it was hysterical.