Sometimes bad things happen to good people
One night, not so long ago, my friend Brad and I decided to while away our evening by pounding a case of MGD apiece, a half bottle of Cuervo, and several 4 AM Del Taco bean and cheese burritos. After a few hours sleep, we headed where everyone with a wonky stomach wants to go: Roscoe’s Chicken and Waffles. Where I proceeded to dump a plate of red beans and rice, collard greens, a fried chicken breast and a bottle of hot sauce onto the previous evening’s beer festering in my guts.
On the way home, I felt a tug, as I often say, but managed to slide into my parking space without being accosted by the Burbank cops and began slowing waddling the hundred yards to my apartment with my ankles clamped together to keep a brown levee from breaking. Somehow, and I honestly can’t remember how, I made it up the steps and to my front door, keys shaking and brow sweating. And…. Dropped my fucking keys.
Again, this may be battle fatigue, as I only remember bits and pieces of the trauma, but the keys ended up in the lock, probably by using The Force, and the door swung wide. Just as I tripped over my shoelace.
I’d liked to think the sense of calm I experienced was not unlike a near death experience as I fell slowly through the air.
Then hit the floor.
And shat myself on impact.
In my doorway.
Within arms reach of the toilet.
The lesson here is that sometimes bad things happen to good people. That, and always keep a roll of Charmin in the glovebox and be on the lookout for wooded areas.
