The Invasion of the Boobie Snatcher
August 5, 2012
For you young souls out there, and I will let you decide where the age break is between young, middle-aged and old, you have a tricky and mysterious journey ahead of you. When the age tricks first begin, it will seem after a while that “Today I shall expect the unexpected for every singled second of the day!”
Alas, five minutes later you will forget your pledge. If you are lucky, the mischievous incident that eventually catches your attention will not occur in front of witnesses. If you are like me, it won’t matter, you’ll squeal on yourself anyway.
The day stated out innocently enough. Alarm clocks are monsters in my world, young or old and my throbbing bladder steered me into the bathroom without my crusty peepers even having to open. They popped open quickly when my stubby little right foot felt a warm trickle it should not have been feeling.
“Not again!” I muttered, finishing my chore and stepping into the shower. Applying an extra ration of soap to my feet managed to put a little crick in my back, but I just figured it was my penance for clumsy aiming.
I managed to get dressed without wrenching anything else important and only changed shirts three times before I picked one that didn’t look ridiculous with green pants. It was a new polo shirt my wife Joy got for me, which caused me to look around the room in confusion.
Then it hit me. I never just get out of bed, shower and get dressed. The normal process is out of bed urinate without hosing the feet, put robe on, go get newspaper after grunting good morning to the little woman, return to couch with coffee, grunt again, read sports page while watching news, feed dogs, then begin the pre work list of chores that often make me presentable to the public.
There was one problem, no little woman. She was in Tennessee visiting her mom and I apparently woke up into a dysfunctional world.
I had no idea.
I got to the office without being dive-bombed by a buzzard or anything. Nor did I spy any 500-pound hitchhikers suffering from a wardrobe malfunction. Things were looking up.
After the computer cranked up without any sparks flying and I opened up the systems I needed for the morning, I headed to the upstairs office. It is The Lair of Women, but they allow us clumsy males to visit and rarely throw things at us.
While standing in the corner exercising my coffee lubricated vocals cords in the direction of one of the girls I happened to look down and notice a stiff, white, bristly hair poking straight out of my new shirt about two inches.
That darned Andy, I thought speaking of my male Papillon with the shredding problem. I reached down, observed closely by my speaking companion, grabbed the offending hair and gave it a yank.
“Yeow!” I cried, totally shocked to discover that the stray hair was attached to my left bosom.
The witness to my ridiculous escapade dissolved into laughter, and I quickly puffed out my shirt so that the porcupine quill my moob had sprouted would return to where it belonged. My face settled into a perplexed frown.
This was one situation my often-fruitful imagination could never have dreamed up. I did not think such a thing was possible and certainly never expected it of myself.
I have often commented that my hairy French ancestors were first cousins to the apes but I never though anything less than a fishnet shirt could be pierced by a bosom hair. It is a sad day in Carpenterville and it happened twice more that day.
The third time so frustrated me that I yanked the snake out by the roots.
I do not recommend yanking out hairs attached to this spot for they are as strong as steel cable and have a root system like an oak tree.
The shirt is hopefully extra porous though it does not appear so, or I am also cousin to the porcupine. Technically such a stiff hair could almost put an eye out which could result in being arrested for assult with a teat follicle.
That would really be a stressful and mortifying situation, not to mention historical. Yes, you can throw a hysterical too.
In case you are wondering there will be no shaving taking place either, anywhere.
Enough is enough.