I sleep naked.
Woah! Is this the TMI Part 2 Post? This feels like the TMI Part 2 post! Calm down, Sparkles. It's very relevant to this story. And shit! I do need to finish that story! But agreed, it's not the ideal way to start a story. Or is it? It's so important that I'm going to say it again. I sleep butt ass naked. Stark naked. Sans clothes. In the buff. Nude. Betty White style. Come to think of it, it was the strangest transition ever. One day I was wearing little boy's Batman pajamas to bed and then, around 5th grade, I just decided I wanted to sleep naked. It was probably a rebellion against my grandparents, who insisted on giving me pajamas and tighty whitey underwear for all of my birthdays and nothing else. My little brother would get krugerands and amazing toys that I would headlock him for moments later just so that I could play with them as well. I honestly looked forward to his birthday more than I did my own. His birthday is 24 December, so it was also like a dry run warm up for Christmas the next day...where I would get socks. Apparently my grandparents felt I needed clothes that no one could see but me more than gifts that would perhaps build up my self esteem instead of completely fucking shredding it. Shitbrick would of course get clothes that could be seen in public and an actual Ferrari Testarossa. Fine, maybe they were matchbox cars, but from my perspective, it might as well have been a Ferrari. I'm sitting over there taking advanced Sock Puppetry 201 with those athletic socks with the red -green -red stripe at the top. Do they even make those anymore? I pretty much blocked those out of my consciousness. Again, Millenials, just google it. You'll see the great fashion trends of the mid 80s. I have such an aversion to undergarments that I try my absolute best to wear them as little as possible to this day.
Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know. You didn't come to be my therapist on my first world problems of getting utilitarian gifts on holidays. You came to be entertained and entertained you shall be. Back in the day, outside Kutztown, sat a tiny hamlet called Kirbyville. Kirbyville had around 30 residents. Life in PA Dutch country is so boring that a prime source of entertainment is to name places. If it had more than three houses together, it got a name. Mennonites aren't as creative as I am, so instead of naming this microvillage Statan's Cumspot, they named it Kirbyville instead. I like my suggestion better, don't you? Kirbyville had an upscale restaurant that was named...wait for it....the Kirbyville Inn. It was a colonial era stone farmhouse converted into a restaurant where the waitstaff wore red bowties and the barstaff took time to open the can of Coors Light BEFORE giving it to you. Yup, Waldorf Astoria level classy. It actually did make an attempt to be a little elegant, which is probably the reason why it doesn't exist anymore. Elegance and Kutztown go together like Sarah Huckabee Sanders and honesty.
Yours truly was a waiter at this fine dining establishment. Concurrently, I was also very active in the local Pot Smokers Union Local 420. This is also very relevant to this story. I actually started smoking pot before I started smoking cigarettes. Marijuana and I had a very close knit bond for many, many years - up to the point that I realized about half my brain cells were gone and I better start conserving the remaining balance if I didn't want to be bagging groceries as a 70 year old. But back then, the first thing I did when I woke up was smoke a bowl, and the last thing I did before I went to sleep was finish that joint I'd been saving.
Kirbyville is about 7 miles away from Kutztown, so that meant I scrounged rides with whomever else was working the same shift. One day, I must have woken up, smoked a bowl, and then went straight back to sleep. Who am I kidding, one day? Ok. It was every day. But I need to tell the story of this one particular day. This particular day I was awoken by the frantic honking of my ride. From a dead slumber, I shot up off the floor. Don't ask, dick. I put two and two together and realized that my ride was seriously pissed at me and about to leave. So I put on my pants; grabbed my shirt, bowtie, and shoes; and flew down the stairs and out the door. After 9 seconds of profusely apologizing, we all lit up bowl #1 of our pre-workshift ritual. This stuff must have been pretty good, because we all felt the need to smoke bowl #2 when we pulled into the parking lot before we had to get started for work.
I do not think there have been many more moments where I have been any higher than that night. I mean I was BAKED. I was so high that the Black Eyed Peas' "I Gotta Feeling" was playing in my head. But Derek, isn't this story based in 1992? Yeah, that's how stoned I was! I was singing songs from the future! "I gotta feeling.....that tonight's gonna be a good night..." People seemed extra friendly that night. Lots of smiles, great tables with great patrons. But every once in a while, when I was walking, I would feel this cold draft shoot right up my ass. Like for a split second it felt like Jack Frost was nipping at my sphincter, but then it would go away. I would reflexively reach back and feel around, but all I could feel was my pants. I remember making a note to ask Brian who his dealer is, because this weed was amazing. This strain crushed these newer strains like Here Comes Autism or Help Me Get Home. I was a couple hours into my shift, and I kept feeling this breeze, and it really started to freak me out.
One of the specials that night was sirloin beef tips in a burgundy mushroom sauce. Do you know why I still remember this? Because I was standing at a table reciting the specials. I felt the breeze again, and as I was explaining what delicious plates to choose from, I was frantically searching for the source of this plague. Just as I got the syllable "mush" out, my finger touched my butthole. My hand was not inside my pants. My hand was OUTSIDE of my pants. My finger was taking Intro to Proctology. I had ripped my pants and had been flashing the entire restaurant my bare ass all night long. I remember telling my table that I would be right back and walking very carefully away. Now if you were me, and not high out of your mind, where would you have gone to address this crisis? The bathroom, right? That's what any normal person would have done. Which means that is not where I went. Nope. I have no explanation of why, but I went to our walk-in cooler, where all the salads, desserts, and other things you want to keep cold are held.
Now I'm standing half naked in the walk in cooler staring at the seat of my pants. Sure enough, there's a rip the size of the San Andreas fault. People were starting to bang on the door, needing their salads. I told them to shut the fuck up and I'd be out in a moment. I needed to fix this problem. This may have been the first time where I really regretted smoking weed. I couldn't think of a possible solution to this mess. All I could do is laugh, but then an idea hit me. Yes! I put my ripped garment back on and rushed straight to the back office. I grabbed a stapler. This would probably be a good time to go the bathroom and address this stuation there, right? You clearly have never been blasted out of your mind on marijuana before. Because that is exactly what I did not do. I went straight back to the walk in cooler. Armed with a stapler and wisely placing ten salads outside the cooler - yeah, I know. I don't get how my mind works, either. Anyway, I was now able to fix this mess. So I started Betsy Ross staple sewing the crotch of my pants back together - except that I was so high I couldn't staple a straight seam. Eventually, this lazy S of staples started forming. Which finally broke me and I just started laughing hysterically. I remember thinking, "I am so fucked."
That night was one of the best nights of tips I have ever earned. I easily cleared $300. Which back in 1992 was a shitload of money. I solved my stitching issue by wearing two aprons around my waist, so I was basically wearing a long white skirt at work. My manager wanted to know what the hell I was doing. I think the look in my eye when I told her that she really didn't want to know was pretty convincing, because she pursed her lips and decided to go check the Kahlua inventory. Everyone was still smiling at me, and to this day I don't know why they were. Were they laughing at my bare ass being exposed? Were they laughing at my ludicrous apron skirt? Were they just happy that it was a lovely, summer Friday night? That mystery is one that I'd prefer not to know, honestly. However, on the way home, when the bowl was being passed around and it came to my turn, I did something that surprised even me. I said "No, I'm good." Lots of people have really fond memories of smoking weed. I remember I stuck my finger up my butt in front of people who were paying good money to enjoy their dinner. I had to sadly chalk that experience in the column of things to never repeat ever again. The only butts I'm fingering these days are cigarettes, and even then, I like them to fall into my hand. It's just too risky otherwise.
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