I’m tending bar at the pool yesterday. A couple (mid-60s) is sitting at a table nearby. She calls me over.

“Excuse me.”


“Is that a roach there?”

She’s horrified while pointing to something brown on the ground. Now, my eyes suck. No denying it. But, I could easily tell it was not a roach. My first instinct was to pick it up and eat it. Then, I thought, “Well, fuck, it could be a bug.” I began considering how to recover if it were, in fact, a bug. We’re outside. Bugs are outside. There’s no fucking dome over the pool.

I squatted down to inspect it.

“No, ma’am. It’s a piece of bark.”

I picked it up to show them. Her husband just smirked.

“Ew. OK. Right.”

“Honest. It’s bark.”

“Well, give it to him.”

I handed the piece of bark to her husband. He looked at it, looked at me, then tossed it down her top. This made my week. Actually, her reaction made my week. She screamed, jumped up, and pulled at her top until it dropped out.

I know it’s kind of fucked up of me being amused by the terror of another. Yet, if someone overreacts to something, they are opening themselves up to being the target of pointing and laughing.

Her husband is my hero in that I could see a part of me in him. I was a mischievous little prick. In fact, I still am. I recall eating M&Ms on the sofa next to my wife years ago. She made some comment I can’t remember that kicked in my prickery. It didn’t take long for the brilliant idea of what best to do with an M&M crossed my mind. I sprung to action. I took an M&M between my right thumb and forefinger, then inserted it into her left nostril like she were a vending machine. She happened to be inhaling at the very moment, which sent the M&M deep into her nasal cavity.

Now, a good husband would spring to action by helping her dislodge it, then apologizing and offering reparations in the form of a foot rub. I was not a good husband. I was and still am a joker.

All I could do is practically wet my britches while rolling on the floor laughing my ass off. She eventually blew it out and threw it at me. Then she kicked me. My ribs ached — not from the kick — from my laughter.

I’m sorry. I’m just a horrible, immature dickhead most of the time. At least life with the joker is less bland.

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About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.