This morning, when I went to put on my pants which had just come out of the dryer -- hadn't even bothered to fold them or anything, that's such a waste of time -- it felt like the pocket was rolled up inside the back of the them, which sometimes happens if the dryer had given it a good beating. So I stuck my hand in the back pocket and, so I thought, straightened it out. Good times.
Went about my business of getting ready for the day. Got downstairs into the garage and wheeled the garbage can out to the street. Sat down in The Colorado, and I stood up immediately because it felt as though I'd sat down on something. I examined the seat. Nothing there. Hmm. Must be stuck to the ass cheek of my pants. Felt the pants...(I interrupt this regularly scheduled reading of Polyfro with this important note. I'm really bad about leaving stuff in my pockets. I bet I've washed my wallet at least a half dozen times, and that's just the times I can remember -- and just with my current wallet, which is two years old. Its a running tragedy. It happens so much, I've stopped getting mad about it and just laugh it off that I'm "laundering money". You bet. Now back to your regularly scheduled reading of Polyfro already in progress.) and the flaming inferno was out of control! I quickly grabbed the jaws of life from under the back seat of The Colorado and tore the vehicle apart, saving the occupant from near certain death.
Clearly the most thrilling part of that story was lost during the interruption. That's too bad, it was quite a story.
Anyway, the guilty party was IN MY PANTS. But this was no party in my pants. It was a folded piece of literature from Dave & Buster's VIP night. I had this wonderful -- and rare for so early in the morning -- flashback to last Tuesday night, when I folded up that brochure and stuck it in that pocket. Apparently I'd left it in there, and now having been laundered, it was reduced to rubble. Just a big ol' heap of destroyed paper, wadded up in my pocket. It was like when you leave Kleenex in your pockets, only this was 80 pound glossy stock printed 4/4 and folded in thirds -- then folded in half once more by me right before placing it in its casket for burial in my back pocket. Just a real shame.
So there I stood in my garage, pulling tiny shard after tiny shard out of the pocket, all over the floor of my garage. It just kept coming, like three-legged alien attack machines from a bad Spielberg movie or something. Quite a mess for me to clean up later. You bet.
But at least the wallet didn't go through this time. There's a fake tattoo in there that I'll be needing to refresh my current one when it finally wears off, and that thing would've been a tragic casualty, lemme tell you.
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