“What goes on in that crazy little head of yours?” she asked as sweet as pie. Her blank smile and fixated eyes looked right past me. Her brain was like a cross between Gracie Allen and Tammy Faye Bakker and I didn’t want to hurt her by telling her the truth, which was, “Nothing that an asshole like you would understand, my dear.” So, I didn’t tell her that.
Even a macho shithead can be a gentleman, and it was for this reason that I answered her instead by saying…”I was just thinking how nice it would be to do it in the gazebo, my little morsel.” to which she replied,
“You’re a real asshole, you know?”
Story of my life. But, then again, there we were in the gazebo 90 seconds later, so I guess she was right… I’m a real asshole. But, alas… happy! And glad to be limping.
So, that being the case, I limped out of the gazebo with a smirk on my face, twisted a rocket the size of a telephone pole, and hit the couch with a 12 pound bag of potato chips under each arm. It was time for…
“Monday Night Football!”
The remote controls and telephone lay before me on the coffee table like scalpels on a surgeon’s tray. I made my approach. In one move, I hurdled the end table, kicking the door shut as I landed. And then, without breaking my rhythm, and showing the grace and dexterity of an Olympian, I trampolined backwards off the couch, and while in mid-air, on the way down, pulled the curtains shut as I landed. Then I sprung forward, still in the same motion, over the back of the couch, and landed in the “Upright TV Position.” As I did, my left hand hit #1 on the memory of my phone, while simultaneously, my right hand hit “on” on the TV’s remote. As the TV picture came on, the party on the other end of the telephone line answered, “Tony’s Pizza, may I help you?”
“One large pizza…cheese and mushrooms…and a large coke.” It would be thirty minutes before the pimply-faced delivery boy would show up and I thought, “Too bad they don’t have delivery girls.”
Then, like the ceremonial lighting of the torch at the Olympics, I made the proceedings official by donning my 1985 Lakers Championship sweatshirt in beautiful bright purple, and telling my girlfriend over the intercom / speakerphone from Radio Shack…. “ Let me know when the pie gets here.”
It was hell to be my woman…and I knew it.
I turned around to find the imaginary board of judges in the room with me. As always, they were all holding up their scorecards high over their heads. It was unanimous! 10.0! A “perfect ten” in the “Monday Night Football, Remote Control, Curtain Closing, Phone For Pizza, Couch Hurdle.”
I was pumped. I felt firkin’ great…and not a moment too soon. Ten seconds to kickoff and counting.
9 seconds…8 seconds… Oh no! Not that! I heard the water go on upstairs… my girlfriend’s in the… S-H-O-W-E-R!!!
You fool! You idiot! What if the phone rings? What if the pizza guy comes!? I can’t move now!!! … . I’m the pilot!!!
7 seconds…6 seconds…5… “Ring! Ring!”
I knew it. I knew it! The shit-ass phone’s gotta ring now!...I’m on my way to get it….
“Hello?! #*%+ “
4 seconds… 3 seconds… “Ding Dong!”
“Oh no! The pizza guy’s here!” It’s a new world’s record for pizza delivery. What kind of a time is this for good service all of a sudden?
SSSSSHHHHHHHIIIIIIIIIIITTTTTTTTTTTT!!!!!!!!!!!
I slam the phone down and yell, “Hold on!” to the phone receiver and the front door simultaneously. I’m going for a rerun of the “End Table Hurdle”… Uh Oh.
2 seconds… 1 second…..
Kickoff!!
I turn in mid-air to see the TV.! The ball’s in the air! My front foot hits the lamp!
Oh no! I broke my concentration!...I wasn’t high enough!...I’m coming down… the lamp’s following me!...Can I do it?
I’m in mid-air…Air Jordan…the camera’s on me…Slo-Mo Deloxe-O…
I’ve got to save the lamp! It’s the destruction of all mankind if I don’t!
The judge’s eyes are all glued on me.
I catch the lamp by its shade with my back foot…I kick gently upwards and back…yes…Yes!
Oh my God…I did it! It’s up!...It’s back upright on the end table… the crowd is going C-R-A-Z-Y!!
THWONK. Head meets wall. I land.
Damage report indicates heavy casualties to northeast corner of den.
I’m up. The crowd cheers. I’m wondering who’s got the ball for the Bears and I’m thinking I’m gonna kill that pizza kid as I dart out of the den door, psyching myself for the hard left at the end of the foyer.
Oh no! The dog comes around the corner! He sees me running… He thinks I want to play! Here he comes…Barking and jumping… here’s the corner! I gotta turn left! Here’s the dog! I’m up! He’s up! He’s in my face! We’re going’ down!
KWOK.
Oh SSHHHIITTT!! There goes my new firkin fish tank… all over the damned Indian rug…. Firkin-Dirkin-Mirkin.
I’m up.
I’m pissed.
I throw Fido fifty yards for a TD in the kitchen. I make my final move…. down the “Frontdoor Hallway Straightaway.”
Oh No! Louise waxed the floor! I can’t believe it! I can’t believe I let my Yuppie girlfriend talk me into a maid… AND THIS… is my thanks!
WAX!! In the middle of the firkin’ “Hallway Straightaway” in the middle of the final lap! I hate you L-O-U-I-S-S_S_E_E_E_E!!!!!!!
He brakes! He’s sliding! He’s to the 30….. the 20… the 10………. Front door! KA-PLOW-EE. Touchdown……. Pain…. Silence.
The crowd is watching. I take a moment to cry. I want my bottie. I hate Louise. I gather myself. The endorphins kick in. I take a step back. I open the door.
I don’t believe it… It’s not the pizza guy. It’s two guys in white shirts and ties… on bicycles!.... Oh NO!!!! It’s… THE MORMONS!!!!???
“Have you been saved?” they ask innocently.
I can’t believe my will power. I don’t kill them. I’m amazing. I’m a superior being. They still live!
“Have you been saved?” they repeat. I answer, “I can’t be saved… I’m a musician.” I slam the door shut. It’s not my day….
Bullshit! It is my day! Monday Night Football is my “High Holy Day!” I’m pumped. Nothing will ruin this game for me. The GAME!!!
I turn! I’m off! I don’t notice firkin’ Fido under my feet with a half demolished cabbage patch poodle hanging from his slobbering, canine mouth.
He trips me. I’m wiping out…. I figure, “What the hell”…I’m turning it into the “Front Door Hallway Handstand Floor Exercise.” I calculate the adjustments in mid-air. I make my move. Too late. I hit the floor.
I can’t move. Severe pain. I hate firkin’ Fido.
The crowd hushes…they know I’m injured. I’m flat on my back. I strain to lift my head. The imaginary board of judges are all holding up their scorecards… 00.0!!!!!!! Oh my God, I’m ruined! But wait! The guy from Miller Lite is walking over to me…he offers me a contract!!.... They think I’m the next…BOB UECKER!
“What goes on in that crazy little head of yours?” she asked as sweet as pie. I turned my head and found her standing over me. Her blank smile and fixated eyes looked right past me. Her brain was like a cross between Gracie Allen and Tammy Bakker, but, who’s wasn’t? She wore a terry-cloth beach towel with nothing on beneath it, having just emerged from the shower. The view from where I lay on the floor was… encouraging.
“Do you have someone on the phone?” she asked.
“What phone?”
“Aren’t you watching the game?”
“What game?”
“You’re a real asshole, you know?”
“I know. Now get down here before Fido gets back.”

She did.