He Shoots He Scores

Anytime you are faced with a story that begins in the bathroom you have to suspect that it might be exceedingly odd, perhaps even a tad unpleasant. If you like ‘odd’ then read on Macduff, otherwise race away swiftly like the wind until you are a dot on the horizon, then turn and wave with your ‘hands’ or at least rotate your blank, curved surfaces. You’re a *dot* fergodsake; give us something!

Bathrooms have a number of functions – some straightforward some less so – but I am particularly fond of their use as a reading room, a place to catch up on the latest politico-thriller involving rogue states, or to peruse an old copy of Home and Garden containing perhaps, in the interest of time, a story of spies hurtling through the recently planted and pruned rose bushes in sleek black sports cars.

Consider the lowly reading glass. This humble invention has single-handedly laid waste to an army of squinty eyed loons who refuse to accept the gracious gifts of Father Time. Squint all you want grandpa, it ain’t happenin’. So there I am with my cheap Walgreen glasses reading this book which suddenly has incredibly clear text; I kid you not; the little letters practically leap off the page like a 3D version of Bambi in the movie, um, Bambi. Reading glasses rock.

The flush toilet is another great discovery of our time right up there with the wheel and fire and the wheel, and….. other stuff okay? I suppose one might mount one on wheels and set it on fire but what would be the point other than some moderately cool YouTube video?

Anyway time to depart the reading room, exercise the flush toilet and hey, what’s this? My belt’s little hooky thing is caught in the throw rug and now my pants have been pulled down and strangely locked so that I can’t stand all the way up. I have imprisoned myself in a full body version of the Chinese finger trap. I become aware that everything is really blurry and I realize I am still wearing my reading glasses, which whilst excellent little devices for reading, render one effectively blind otherwise. I reach up to remove them but in my bent over position misjudge the distance to my head and succeed only in knocking them off directly into the (thank god) recently flushed toilet. I instinctively grab for them but with the belt-rug-pants situation unresolved I proceed to exercise the rarely attempted Crab Dive and collapse slowly to the floor. Fortunately I catch myself on the edge of the toilet bowl only to have my hand slip off and plunge directly into the (recently flushed!) bowl. I now have my glasses.

At this point I become quite still, intuitively understanding that further motion from me could trigger a giant sinkhole and conceivably bring down the entire house. Try explaining THAT to the insurance guy.

I slowly unhook my belt and free myself from the infernal rug. Standing, I move carefully to the basin and wash my glasses and hands twenty three times with a caustic soap compound designed to remove the upper few layers of skin as well as all recent images from my visual cortex. How you handle your visual cortex is entirely up to you, however I suggest raucous laughter.

You might be asking yourself; why would Mike tell us this story? And my answer would be; I have NO idea. However I seek your help in petitioning the Committee Who Accepts Petitions to award me a medal for my Crab Dive and reverse the 5.4 given by Pavel Sturgeon, the obviously biased and corrupt Lithuanian judge.

Then, like a belt-less Mr Magoo, I will proudly assume my rightful place upon the medal stand, avoiding throw rugs at all costs.