Friday, August 22, 2003
Pick the “Falsie”
Rather than mine my latter-day (not Mormon) tales of drunken revelry for stories to trick you with today, I thought I’d go back a bit further . . . back to a day when yours truly was having apple juice and/or Strawberry Quik lunchbreaks.
Today, I’ll be pick-your-drink bathroom break. (You may notice a theme in my three stories.)
Now, two of these stories are true, and one of them is not true. Your job, gentle reader is to . . . Pick the “Falsie.” All will be revealed Monday.
Bored, young adolescents will do almost anything to entertain themselves—play tug-of-war with a dead snake, execute dangerous stunts on their bikes, perform horrific experiments with small animals. Well, one time, on a nice summer day, my best friend and I stumbled into my next-door neighbor’s yard which, at the time, was littered with piles of dog shit (most of it was dried). So, of course, my friend and I started throwing the dog shit at each other. Some of the older pieces even survived for multiple throws. The softer ones? Well, those splattered and/or ended up stuck to my next-door neighbor’s house.
Young children have a strange affinity for public nudity, don’t they? You’re always seeing naked kids running around without a care in the world. What about nudity combined with public urination? I once escaped from the house, fresh and wet from a bath, parents in pursuit. I ran to the Volkswagen Beetle parked out front and climbed onto the hood in broad daylight. Scattered people in yards nearby were watching me, perhaps egging me on. Maybe to my five-year-old psyche, it felt like a dare. And, just before my father could grab me off the car, I started to pee on the windshield . . . swinging side to side, ensuring full coverage.
When I was around seven or eight years old, I used to play with one of the neighbors, Lance . . . a 14-year-old of very bad influence and/or upbringing. One day, we were in his yard and there was this pile of dog shit. A fresh pile of dog shit. He had this brilliant idea that he’d hold his face a few inches above it and see if I could push his head down. When he told me to “Go,” I pushed his head down with one quick burst. And the tip of his nose dipped down into the shit. For a brief moment, he looked at me with disbelief and anger . . . the tip of his nose covered with shit. And then, with rattlesnake quickness, he grabbed my head and shoved it (face first) into the pile of shit. I ran home crying, my face covered with dog shit. My parents, to say the least, were not at all pleased. And I don’t think I was allowed to play with Lance ever again.