A Bob Wire Classic™
Summertime Musings
(First published 6.15.06)By Bob Wire, 7-03-10
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| I love summertime! Um, anyone seen the Benadryl? | |
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Man, why do they have stickers on apples? Used to be a time when a cashier was skilled enough to tell a Braeburn from a goddamn Red Delicious.
You know you’ve been married for quite awhile when you understand this question from your wife: “Honey, did you go to that place? To see the guy? About the stuff? For the thing?”
I love it when a business advertises that they’re open “seven days a week—including Sunday!”
I have found that gargling with Jaegermeister actually can improve your singing voice. No, really.
Next time you’re at a wedding, go up to the bride and say, “Oh, sure. It always has to be all about YOU, doesn’t it.” That’ll make her day.
When I was in junior high school I thought oral sex meant when you talked about it.
Last summer I was at a skatepark, trying to break a bone or two, and I struck up a conversation with a 10-year-old kid. He showed me how he could drop in off the edge of the halfpipe, and tried to teach me how to do an Ollie. I asked him his name. “They call me White Chocolate,” he said, and skated off.
My kids and I drove out to Missoula’s Bark Park this afternoon, a large, fenced-in area where dogs are allowed to mix it up off the leash. We thought Houdini would love it. We got there and looked around, and nobody had remembered to bring the dog. So I made the kids run around in there for awhile. I mean, it was like a 20 minute drive, man.
When I was in high school I used to think that group sex meant you were using both hands.
You know you’re in trouble when your 7-year-old can recite the paragraph on the Budweiser label word for word.
Every day is laundry day, man. I was halfway up Mount Dirtyclothes, putting handfuls of stuff into the washer. My wife hears the washer filling up, and yells from the bedroom, “What kind of a load are you washing?” “Pants!” I answer. Silence.
Just about the time I’m starting to think this town is becoming less of a jerkwater, some dipshit car dealer in a radio commercial starts talking about all the VEEhickles he has on his lot. Cripes.
My wife and I will celebrate our 11th anniversary this summer. A friend recently asked me if there was some secret to making our marriage work. I told him that right before we got married, we agreed that I would handle all the major decisions, and she would handle all the minor ones. And I have to say, in 11 years, we haven’t faced a single major decision.
Our neighbors down the street are out of town, and I’m letting their cat in and out of the house for a few days. She cracks me up. I’m more used to the responsiveness (or at least acknowledgement of my existence) from a dog. I go down there and sit on the porch, make little “kitty kitty kitty” noises, and hold out my hand toward this cat. She gives me no sign of response. Nothing. Nada. Then, all of a sudden, it’s LOOK AT MY ASS. The ol’ whale eye. I suppose that’s some kind of feline greeting. Man, can’t they just nod, like we do?
It’s that time of year when I make the switch from whiskey to gin. Tanqueray and tonics in the backyard are outstanding, but a nice martini once in a while is a beautiful thing. We’ve got these martini glassed that Barb’s cousin gave us for a wedding gift. Three shots big, thin as a spider web, balanced like a fine pistol. Unbelievably, I’ve never broken one. Yet. These days I’m digging Plymouth Dry, which is a very clean gin from London. Light on the botanicals. It’s what Travis McGee drank in all those John D. MacDonald books. No vodka martinis. Those are for pussies. Yeah, after a long week, when the kids are in bed on a Friday night, I’ll haul out all the ingredients and enjoy the ritual. Crushed ice. Half a capful (if that) of dry vermouth. Three or four glugs of giggle soup. Shake it up in that big chrome shaker like I’m backing Desi Arnaz at the Copa. Poured into a chilled glass, then finished off with three fat olives speared on a round wood toothpick and deftly spun into that sublime liquid.
Wow, is anyone else thirsty?
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