I was supposed to be here in December, but a little something called Mystery Malady sidelined those plans. Instead of being home with Maaa and Popi, communing over cocoa, I spent my holidays confined to a sickbed in Florida –my only respite from which was to visit a doctor who put her finger in my kiester.
…Because nothing says holiday cheer like a pointer in the patoot… at least that’s what I kept telling myself.
So finally, and at long last, I’ve made it north to Alaska. From sunny state to snow state, when I left Orlando it was a comfortable, 80 degrees. When I got to Anchorage, it was slightly colder at 6-below-effing-zero(!).
In case you’ve never experienced 6-below-effing-zero(!), it’s really cold. Like boogers-freezing-in-your-face cold. Like having-an-electric-plug-on-your-car cold. Like the-critics-reception-to-Mariah-Carey’s-Glitter (AKA “the crapperpiece”) cold.
So yes, having had this bone-chilling experience, I can safely say that it is only by the grace of God, and the Buick’s butt warmers, that I am here typing today, and not sitting on the tundra somewhere, a frozen organic-raisin flavored popsicle.
God bless the bun warmer –I may be little in the middle, but I got much (freezing ass) back.
So speaking of the Divine Miss Bovine - (I’m talking about Mariah Carey here, not my booty) - I was tickled when, standing in line at the grocery, Popi pointed to a mag with the Singing Diva on the cover and immediately began mocking it.
Indeed, dressed in a body-hugging lemon-colored shift, Mariah Carey looked so lardaceous, I can’t believe it’s not butter…
But I digress.
Anyway, for a minute or two, Popi and me, we had a grand old time. But then, as is his check stand custom, Popi felt the need to do his patented two-step-rip.
…And then fun and games were over, the cashier and several innocent bystanders left gagging in the wake.
You see, like Pavlov’s dogs salivating at the sound of a bell, any time - and I mean any time - Popi is at a cashier station he will inevitably rock back and forth on his heels, first lifting one butt cheek, then the next.
When Michael Jackson does this kind of fancy footwork, it’s usually followed by a crotch grab. When Popi does it, the finale is the firing of a stink torpedo.
When I was small, this heinous hoe-down was awfully embarrassing. Even on Mother’s day, his arms piled high with cake and confections, every year Dad somehow found a way to tip himself up and toot one out for an unsmiling teenager in a supermarket smock.
Because I’m grown, I can appreciate Popi’s eccentricities, and I wanted to laugh at his oh-so-predictable public blast of the trouser trumpet. But the thing is, it wasn’t very funny…
Mostly because I was standing downwind.
Oh man, it’s good to be home. ________________________________________________________
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