This is a true story. I am not making this up.
Years ago, nearly a lifetime ago by some standards, I chanced to be at ground zero where some chihuahuas were on fire.
I was on the water-polo/swim team. We would swim before school, go to classes, swim during 7th period, and then swim after school until 6pm. It was a lot of hours in the pool. 14,000 meters a day at times. There were days that even with goggles your eyes would burn so bad you’d bathe them in milk to try to stop the burning.
Note: On our team milk was a folk remedy for burning eyes. Not sure how well it worked but milk was cheaper than visine.
Note #2: It’s never been proven that when nobody was looking Coach whizzed in the pool from up on the deck. It was never disproved, either.
I remember the day like it was yesterday. Sixth period was over. I put my books in my locker and sucked in a hissing breath. I knew that Farley the janitor had gone through all our lockers and removed our pictures and contraband. To this day I believe the man was perpetually stoned in spite of the fact that he never bought weed in his life.
Kim Morris – Miss March of ’86 was gone. Farley had stolen Kim. You just don’t know what teenage angst is until you’ve lost Ms. March of ’86.
With a sob I slammed my locker door and took off. There would be time to grieve later.
The daily game plan was to scream down to the pool between periods and rush to get out on the deck before the official start of 7th period. Normally you’d run over an old lady or two – Ms. Ineedaman the lunch-ticket seller or Mrs. Butch’sMom – and sometimes you’d run over a farm animal or two; 4-H had a strong presence at my school.
But this day started off difficult as I immediately careened off of a couple who could have been the template for RichandAmy in Jeremy Scott’s Zits comic strip; They were post-natal siamese twins, forever joined at the hip(s). What now? Glissade across the scree of homemade confetti being made by the Teen Harpies. Pirouette around Son-of-Troglodyte (he was huge). Duck beneath the clothesline prom banner. Break right to avoid Mrs. Formaldehyde’s opening door. Up the Incline of the Penitents and another hard right through the Gate of Despair. Through the Parking Lot of Hip Flasks and over the hood of Compensating-for-Something’s beautiful Chevelle. Bounce off the chainlink of the tennis court and squeeze in the closing door to the pool.
There will be burning chihuahuas in this story, be patient.
I threw my locker open, grabbed a towel and twisted it into a rat tail, striking out just as the supersonic tip of an identical rat tail connected with a sharp crack against my thigh. A welt and just a small dab of blood. D&D Hero had managed to wet the tip of his rat-tail in a puddle of water and so he won that day. There’s another tale involving rat-tails but we’ll save that for a later date.
Shucked my clothes and threw on my two suits – in Water Polo it is best to wear a backup suit, trust me. We fought each other for pole position as we ran out on the cold wet deck for warmups.
The sun had managed to peek through the clouds and illuminated the deck through an ancient floor-to-ceiling window, giving the entire deck area a dreamlike glow. We moved through our stretches with the ease of long practice while absorbing the times and distances of our workout laps written on the board.
I got about a third of the way into my lane assignments and only peripherally did I realize that things were not quite right down there. As I continued to read I noticed that it was kind of uncomfortable – as if I had plunged my privates and ass in some ice-water but it was warm at the same time.
By the end of my study of the lane assignments I was in true discomfort. My chihuahuas were on fire, “Herman” was in acute distress, and the crack of my ass had some icy lava coursing through it. I endured the still worsening sensations for what was perhaps three minutes but felt like thirty years. Then I realized that everyone on the swim/polo team – guys and gals and the coach – were watching me intently.
Note: By now you have figured out that I’m mocking Mickey Rourke’s statement about petting his chihuahuas (see yesterday’s post). It’s such a delicious euphemism, I can’t help but use it. – LK
Confused, I looked at each person’s face in turn and then faced my coach with true pain. I was dancing/hopping from foot to foot as I said “Uh, Coach…”
He grinned his most evil grin (which was quite evil indeed since he was the spawn of Satan) “What’s the matter, Lemur? Need to get in the water?”
“Yeah, Coach… bad.”
“Go on, swim it off.”
I hit the water just as my privates – chihuahuas and Herman – flashed into so much ash and partially melted my suits.
The physical scars on my chihuahuas are gone but the mental ones remain. I’d like to think I’m stronger for having endured chemical burns to the scrotum but we’ll never know for sure.
Note: Icy Hot removes hemorrhoids about as well as you can imagine that a soldering iron would. – LK
Obama is such a hypocrite… Mr Blackberry himself is going off on technology:
Obama, who often chides journalists and cable news outlets for obsessing with political horse race coverage rather than serious issues, told a class of graduating university students that education was the key to progress.
“You’re coming of age in a 24/7 media environment that bombards us with all kinds of content and exposes us to all kinds of arguments, some of which don’t always rank all that high on the truth meter,” Obama said at Hampton University, Virginia.
“With iPods and iPads and Xboxes and PlayStations, — none of which I know how to work — information becomes a distraction, a diversion, a form of entertainment, rather than a tool of empowerment, rather than the means of emancipation,” Obama said.
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