A Goddamn IQ of 160

Last night, as I was tucking myself into bed and molestering my wife's ass, I flipped through the television, just to see what was on. As luck would have it, I fell upon AMC, which was showing Forrest Gump. I was immediately taken back to my freshman year of college. Oh look! Acne and broken hearts! What a fabulous time to relive!

Again, as luck would have it, I came upon the movie roughly midway through, but since this is a movie that I really, really like, I watched it through the end. AMC, in a flash of marketing brilliance, decided to play an encore presentation, in what they called "Can't Get Enough Gump Week".

"What a terrible name," my wife murmured as she was drifting off to sleep. "It sounds like 'gumpweek' is one word. It's like something you'd weed out of the flower bed. 'Gumpweek'. Ugh."

"They must have a lot of gumption to try something like this," I retorted.

The awkward silence cricket showed up.

Now, as I was tucking myself into bed, I was laughing to myself in my head. "Brain," my mind says, "We sure are smart. Look at us! We're not staying up until 1:00 tonight! We won't wake up tomorrow and be all tired and cranky and stuff. Nope, not us!"

And then my brain proceeded to shit upon my mind and got hooked on watching the China/Canada women curling match, as well as the replay of Forrest Gump, which, I might add, I fucking own (albeit on VHS) and can be viewed without commercial breaks.

"I'll just watch through to the point where I picked up earlier." Which is what I did. Unfortunately, the goddamned Curling match went into extra innings.

Time I turned off the television? 1:15 am.

*sigh*

Being that I was an idiot and stayed up late last night watching a movie about an idiot, I thought I'd tell you a little bit more about my idiot day yesterday.

My wife sent me to the store to pick up victuals for the week. When I left the house, it was around 1:30, and I had not eaten breakfast or lunch, so I decided I couldn't go another moment without sustenance of some kind. I opted for Taco Bell.

Insert the audio clip of the old knight from Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade here: "He chose...poorly."

I got my food and continued on my way, horfing delicately eating a beefy burrito as I moseyed on down the road. Finished, and not yet quite sated, I reached into the bag and pulled out my cheesy bean and rice burrito. Things were going wonderfully, until I got toward the butt end of the burrito, which decided to rip asunder and spill its contents onto my shirt front.

Cue the sad trombone here. (Many thanks to Adam L for turning me on to that beauty!).

"Fuck!" I said. "This is..." I scraped the oily, cheesy mess off my chest (and then ate it...I'm classy like that) "...fuck!" There was a huge gray and orange mess where the droppings had hit.

"Fuck!" I said once more, for good measure, "I refuse to walk around Target with this thing on my chest. I will not have everyone looking at me saying, 'Well, what do you know? There's a fat guy with a Taco Bell stain on his shirt. What are the odds?'"

My conversations with myself in the car are fucking awesome.

It was 65 degrees by the time I got to Target, so I didn't have a jacket, which meant that I had to address the situation straight forward. I did what any man on the cusp of middle-age who is facing public humiliation would do: I went running into the store with right arm pressed up against the stain on my shirt, so as to hide it. And, as I dashed to the men's department, I refused to move it, so I'm running around like some kind of twisted moron, desperately searching through the clearance racks for an XL shirt. I canvassed the entire department with the prerequisites that the shirt be XL, long enough to hide my high-riding ass-crack, cheap, and socially acceptable. No "Pussy Inspector" shirts for me.

I finally settled on a green shirt that had a shamrock and an Irish flag and the words "Made in Ireland." It fit my needs (and my paunch) and so I dash back up to the front of the store...still with my right arm over the stain, refusing to budge. I pay for the shirt and--here's another moment of brilliance from yours truly--instead of going to the restroom which is ten feet away, I go running out into the parking lot to my car where I very awkwardly peel off the grease-laden shirt and pull on my "Made in Ireland" shirt.

No one asked me about it, but I was hopeful someone would call attention to my shirt. I was going to respond--in as poorly-crafted an Irish accent as possible--"As far as I can tell, I was made in Indiana, which would explain the fooked-up accent."

Ah well, I guess there's always a chance that will happen the next time I make a run for the border...