On the day that I turned 35, my wife called to tell me that her 10-year anniversary ring and her wedding ring had been stolen. I don't want to get into too much detail, other than to say that the cops have been SUPER helpful, in that they couldn't assign a detective to it for three weeks because "the person who assigns cases is out right now". But once a detective was assigned, they got right on it. And then immediately off of it. The rings are gone, our insurance likely won't cover the full cost and no fucking body cares. In the meantime, some asshole has fucked with something that is very important to my wife and I and I'm simply left with an extreme amount of pent-up rage. I hope the son of a bitch gets cancerous herpe-aids. The lingering kind.
Less than a week later, while jumping off of a cliff into a lake (with Sundance), I lost my own wedding ring. Well, I guess "lost" is a subjective term. I know pretty much right where it is, 60 feet below the surface of the water, in some mud and fish shit.
My mood really improved later in the week, when my cousin Toby told me about an email that he sent at work that got him kicked off the project he was on. He told me that when a client tells you that he wants the truth, he is lying. Never, never, never tell the client the truth. He doesn't want the truth. He wants a more realistic lie.
Toby told me that news on the first day of my five day vacation. Things went downhill from there. At pretty much the exact moment that Toby got the news that he was kicked off the project, I got sick and spent almost the entire vacation on the couch, sweating and hacking and blowing.
However, I was determined to not let my broken-down body get the best of me, so I decided to spend some time sitting by the lake. Maybe the fresh air would help. I threw on my swimming suit and grabbed a lounge chair and fishing pole and headed down to the dock.
As I was baiting my fishing line, I felt a bit of a gassy build-up from my banana-strawberry smoothie from breakfast. I looked around and didn't see anyone within a half-mile of the dock. Surely nobody would hear me let out a little toot. I'm just gonna let it squeak out here...
Oop.
Soft-serve chocolate ice cream. In my pants.
Correction. In my swimsuit.
He's 35 years old.
Oh, and now the hook from my fishing line is stuck in my finger. Let me tell you, it's tough to concentrate on removing a hook from your finger when you've got Ben and Jerry making Fudgy-Dockside Surprise in your pants.
For those of you who may not be "In-The-Know", men's swimsuits often come with a mesh lining. Such as I was wearing. So, essentially, I had just created the worst Play-Dough fun-factory ever.
Without going into too much more detail, let me just say that a shower was needed. Let us never speak of it again. Never, ever, ever again.
The next day the doctor told me that I had strep throat. I assume that shitting your swimsuit is a symptom of strep. It is. Fuck you.
I spent the next week on the couch or in bed. Swallowing food became an adventure in cringing.
Last week, I had to go to Boston for work. It was cold and rainy and Bostony. My wife called on Wednesday to tell me that she needs to have a root canal.
Yesterday, just after I'd finished my morning shower in the hotel, I opened the shower curtain and noticed that it directly faced the large mirror above the bathroom sink. There I was, in all my glory, wet and lumpy.
And then the hotel fire alarm went off.
I just stood there. Looking at myself.
This is thirty-fucking-five years old.
I slowly began to dry off, the alarm shrieking on the wall like a howler monkey trying to hit the high note from Vision of Love. I glared at it. It remained unfazed.
Fifteen minutes later I walked through the hotel lobby to the smell of burnt waffles.
Well this is it motherfuckers. I'm back. No more bullshit luck. Things are going to start happening to me now!!
Watch the fuck out.
