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 FlashpantsPosted 01.07.2008 by Anomalous Coward (690)
Most days, I just can't win at home. My lovely wife nearly always comes out on top. She has a cool, unflappable demeanor and she never does anything stupid that might give me opportunity to get a laugh or two at her expense. I, on the other hand, seem to provide an endless source of amusement with my misadventures. But on the evening of Christmas Day, I finally won one. Thanks, Santa!
We had enjoyed a wonderful holiday, the kids were asleep, and my wife went upstairs to get ready for bed. I was seated on the couch just enjoying the peace and quiet. Wifey came down in her usual bedtime attire of nothing much at all and perched demurely on the other end of the couch. She is a serious tease, and she seems to enjoy watching me get all hot and bothered before she has her way with me. I feel so used. Just in time to save me from her feminine wiles, the phone rang. I looked at the caller ID. It was my brother. Now they're ganging up on me. Willy calls every holiday from the wilds of western New York and gets all sentimental and maudlin before remembering something that usually ends up embarrassing me. I answered, trying to look absorbed in my conversation while surreptitiously enjoying the view from the other end of the sofa. Then because I'm lazy, I put the phone on speaker. True to form, Willy began by mentioning how sad it was that so many family members and loved ones from our childhood are no longer around, and how much he misses them at Christmas. He blathered on for a while before mentioning that he ran into a former babysitter of ours at the mall a few days before. "Remember Elaine? She useta baby-sit us when Ma and Dad went out." "Elaine? Sort of." "Well, I saw her the other day. We talked about the old days, and blah, blah, blah --" "Hey, remember the time she watched us and you burned your underpants up?" A snort came from the SLV (Sexy Little Vixen) on the other end of the couch. Damn! A crack has appeared in her armor! She snorted! Yes!! I went on and recollected at length about the time Willy smoked his shorts. Our parents had asked Elaine to watch us while they went to Buffalo to pick up our uncle. I was around eight at the time, and Willy was ten. I was sitting on the couch with Elaine watching TV like the perfect little angel I was. Big bro went to the bathroom, complaining that his stomach hurt. Our house was a long, narrow affair, with the bathroom at the end of a hall. The acoustics were such that, under the right circumstances, whatever happened in the toilet echoed out through the rest of the house. Those circumstances all fell into place that evening: the bedroom doors flanking the hallway were shut, and Willy (who is still quite claustrophobic) was parked on the can with the door open. From the living room, the sitter and I heard what sounded like a really loud blast on a contrabassoon, followed by a wet splattery, splashy noise. The aforementioned acoustic effects amplified the sound so that it seemed right up close and personal. A dreadful miasma wafted down the hall to assail us. Obviously something terminally ill had crawled up Willy's poop pipe, died, fermented, and was now oozing back out with a vengeance. Moments later, the unmistakable smell of sulphur became apparent. My first thought was that deadly demons of air and darkness had possessed my brother's bung. The pattern repeated for some time: a loud fart, followed by the squish and slap of diarrhea hitting the bowl, a ghastly aroma, and the smell of sulphur -- until the pattern was suddenly interrupted by Willy saying what sounded like "Matt's burnt underpants fur!" and then the odor of something burning. Our sitter ran down the hall to see what was transpiring, with me at her heels. There in the bathroom sat Willy on the throne in all his bare-assed glory, a book of matches in one hand, his jeans and tighty-whities in the middle of the floor, his undies blazing away merrily. Elaine grabbed a towel, got it soaking wet in the tub, threw it atop the pants pyre, and stomped the flames out. What Willy had said was, "I dropped a match and my underpants are on fire!" (That was a relief. While I didn't know who Matt was, I could never wish his underpants fur to be burnt.) Willy had been lighting matches, trying to mask or burn off the horrible smell. When a cramp hit, he held a burning match long enough to singe his fingers; but he accidentally dropped one on his drawers and they caught. Cool, huh? When Mom and Dad got home, Elaine (who was still somewhat shaken) tearfully told them the saga of the flaming briefs. Dad roared with laughter, and Mom asked if it ruined the towel. Elaine never babysat for us again -- I don't know if she feared for her safety in a house full of stinky shitting pyromaniacs, or if my folks weren't too sure about the qualifications of a sitter who let a ten-year-old torch his undergotchies. By the end of my reminiscing Willy felt the need to hang up before I remembered anything else. The SLV was laughing so hard she slopped some eggnog down her chin, her chest, and...wow! I love egg nog! So of course I helped her clean it up. Post new comment
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