Jonquill's

This has nothing to do with showers…

In Uncategorized on August 20, 2010 at 11:41 pm

I’ve finally decided that there is only one way to adjust my shower into the pocket where I can stand comfortably without being scalded or rendering my nipples into a fine substitution for a glass cutter.

Yeah, that happens to guys too.  And it’s gross when it happens to us.

Stupid air-conditioning at work.  They had to stick me right under the vent, now all of the sudden…PING!  PING!

It’s not my fault the company’s A/C has two settings: off, and meat locker.  I’m going to have to start wearing a scarf to work.

But anyway, the shower. The method I’ve determined works is fairly simple.  In all honesty, I expected more people would have mastered this process long ago.  I worry sometimes that I may have stumbled onto a secret that some clandestine society has been keeping for years.

Should I disappear tomorrow with no trace, and only some kind of cryptic religious artifact doubling as a puzzle box left behind in my wake, I’ll give you a hand cutting to the chase.  It’s about the showers.  That’s right.  Fuck you, Dan Brown.

Anyway…Behold…

You simply touch the turny-button and think of it moving slightly to the left.  It’s a low level of form of telekinesis.  Kind of like working a Quija board, but without your creepy dead relatives hanging out in the room.

But I know what you’re thinking.  I know.

You’re thinking, ‘Hey Weird Bloggy Dude, were you naked when you took that picture?  After all, you were in the shower.”

Well, first of all, thanks for calling me weird.  It may be apt, but it doesn’t take away the horrible, horrible sting.

(Also, from now on I will be referring to myself as WBD, cause the kids like the acronyms.)

And second of all, I wasn’t naked.  Yes you can stand clothed in the shower.  It feels strange.  Like standing naked in the kitchen, but you can do it.  You’re allowed.  It’s okay.  Go ahead.  Go try it.  I’ll wait.  But if you need proof, here you go…

Boom goes the dynamite, peeps.  Clothed and in the shower.  I’m a mother fucking rebel, y’all.  I cannot be stopped.  I am a force of nature.  I am…wait…

Look at that t-shirt.  What the hell am I wearing?  Oh right, it’s a Dad t-shirt.

See my Dad sends me t-shirts every now and again.  And generally they are amongst the weirdest things that have ever been.  Here’s a small sample:

Sleepy’s lounge, an Inca mask, and, yes, of course…a Brooklyn t-shirt.  If you hadn’t guessed, I live in Brooklyn.  Of course I live in Brooklyn.  I’m writing a blog wherein I find a loose connection between t-shirts, shower taps, and the Knights Templar.  Did you really think I was dispatching from Miami?

Now, I can’t quite explain to my Dad why it is an inconsolable sin to wear a Brooklyn t-shirt within the comfy confines of the borough.  I could try, but I think he’d just nod.  Why do I say this, you ask?  And while you’re at it, oh inquisitive reader, you might as well ask…hey, WBD, it looks like there’s another shirt off to the right in that group photo of WTF.

You’d be right, good reader.  You’d be right.

That’s right.  He gave me two Brooklyn t-shirts.  Two.  No amount of irony will forgive the fact that I’m wearing my address on my chest.  In fact, the only reason I can figure that my Dad would ship these two bits of formal wear, is that he figures I may end up drunk and passed out on a corner, and at least if I was wearing this shirt, they’d know which L stop to dump me off on.

But back to the original t-shirt of WTF.  Let’s take a closer look, shall we?

What the fuck is that?  No really, what in the name of Ghostbusters, and all else that is holy is that on my shirt?  Even closer look required.  Zoom in, please!

I think, and this is only a theory, but I think that’s an EggMcMuffin with a face and hightops.  The googly eyes just class up the dude, don’t they?

But, still, I know what you’re thinking: “Hey, WBD, it looks like you took off that shirt so you could take pictures of it.  Aren’t you, at least, half naked now?”

First of all, you’re a perv.  We know that.  Stop going off on my theoretical nakedness.  (The only nakedness I’ll commit to is theoretical, actually.  I wear a dance belt in the shower most days.)

Secondly, I was actually wearing this underneath my EggMcMuffin t-shirt.

Ah, yes, the Rey Mysterio t-shirt my Dad got me.  Now, I know if you scroll up and look at the previous pictures it doesn’t look at all like I’m wearing two t-shirts.

To that, I say…

Shut up.

And, in the end, what is the point of this entire blog entry?

Simply this…

Thanks, Dad.

P.S. Do you think I could get away with wearing a t-shirt that bears the letters “11222?” Please use the comment section to discuss.

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