I love those little commercials that they run during the closing credits of game shows. You know: “Promotional consideration provided by…” and then they have these four-second commercials. There isn’t enough time to do anything so the message goes like this –

Ext. Outdoor Restaurant. Day.

Two elderly women sit at some sort of an outdoor restaurant eating some sort of outdoor restaurant meal. One woman, VIRGINIA puts down her fork and looks up at the other, MARGE with a depressed look.

VIRGINIA

Marge puts down her fork and gently pats Virginia on the shoulder. Marge and Virginia fuzz into the background as a close up of the product enters (stage right).

ANNOUNCER (v.o.)

The close-up product shot exits (stage left) and the camera again focuses on Virginia and Marge. They still aren’t eating their meal, but now they are both squealing with delight and throwing their hands up in the air as if on some sort of new-fangled geriatric roller coaster. In the two seconds that have passed since we were able to see the ladies clearly, Poopitol has obviously won back some semblance of continence on Virginia’s behalf and the ladies feel like celebrating with matching seizures.

The screen then quickly returns to informing me of the name of the gay man that happened to have gotten Alex Trebek dressed that day while synthesized trumpets blast the title theme of quiz show I had been watching. Virginia and Marge are gone forever as quickly as they came and I am left lying here on the living room floor, staring at the television with my mouth wide open, wondering just what in the name of Sean “Puffy” Combs had happened…Weird.

So I was hanging out with a friend one day while my wife and kids were away on another planet, and he offered me a beer. Then we started playing video games, then we had some more beers, then we played some more video games, then he gave me a whiskey sour, then a beer, then suddenly a CD was playing and I started having trouble seeing the screen, then another whiskey sour, then everything went away for a while. The next thing I knew, I was at Party America wearing a “Bob the Builder” party hat while debating with my friend at an elevated volume on the subject of the sexual preference of one Spongebob Squarepants.

At about the same time that we finally decided that the scientific impossibility of a krab fathering a whale required the Spongebob viewer to suspend disbelief far beyond the bounds of reason, therefore it could not be assumed that the title character would subscribe to any of the conventional sexual preferences known to the world outside of Bikini Bottom – I stumbled (literally) across this kickass imitation Italian Bracelet thing that only cost $4.99. For about a quarter apiece, you could get separate little panels that you could use to personalize your bracelet – you know, put your name on it or a little tennis ball or something…

I giggled at the idea of presenting my friend with the gift of preadolescent girl jewelry (complete with the appropriate filthy message) as I fumbled my fat, drunk fingers through the trough of letters. I had to find just the right ones.

What must have been a half an hour later, I had the proper letters collected in the palm of my hand. I closed it into a fist and shook the letters so that the filthy message would be sufficiently jumbled and headed to the checkout, leaving my friend behind.

On the other side of the counter was a large and surly woman. The look on her face told the story of a long series of poor life choices. With the full understanding that I had been loud and obnoxious in her store – coupled with the fact that I no doubt smelled like her alcoholic grandpa – I suddenly wanted nothing more than to get out there. I never wanted to Party America again. She silently rang up the stupid hat I was wearing and the bracelet as I got out my wallet with my free hand. She asked if I had anything else.

I had only meant to open my hand and let her count the little charm letters. Of course, as my fingers straightened, the charms spilled forth on the counter. I wished I had been rolling craps in Vegas. The charms landed in the perfect order (upside-down facing the clerk) to spell the filthy phrase I had intended for my friend. The clerk gasped as she read it.

After a second or two, I was able to sweep the letters off of the counter and back into my hand. She rang them up and told me the total in a hushed and angry tone. I handed the clerk a ten and slurred, “Sorry, it’s for my friend…Kreg Ipcuf…what an incredible coincidence.” I took my change and ran to the car at top fat-guy speed.

We laughed for days…and the Kreg Ipcuf bracelet is still displayed proudly in the home of my old drinkin’ buddy.

See you next week.

Love,

JRM