Speed Typer

So, StandardChuck readers (I can't believe there are any of you left after I abandoned this page) here's an amusing story to tide you over. Well, not a story as much a tidbit. Well, something tidbit-ish...

I missed a movie (Iron Man, specifically) because I stepped in dog crap.

Yeah, that's right, I just Tarantino'd ya'll by telling you the ending. I guess I could go more esoteric on you by simply recreating a voicemail that I left on my pal Tobe's cell phone ("I'm at the theatre, there are two showings, I don't know which one you guys are in, but it doesn't matter, because I stepped in crap. The crap smells like vomit. I'm going home.")

Back it up. First scene, calling Tobes because we're both movie nerds. Sure, he could watch any drivel with things exploding (i.e. those FiOS commercials with Michael Bay..."awesome grill.") and not have one major critical problem, but still, who better to watch a movie with than someone who actually loves watching them...as opposed to those who go for the popcorn (e.g. me) or those who go to snog, or mack, or schtuck, according to the parlance of our times.

Anyway, we're going to go see the movie...at 9:20pm. Great, enough time for the ELV and I to get some dinner at my place. We're cooking...then eating...when we get a call at 8:40 that the movie is actually at 9:10. Crap-hole, that's what I get for thinking I can make a 30 minute drive in a 35 minute window. Anyway, we run out to the car and make our way up to White Marsh.

As we drive, ELV keeps sniffing around like she's got a beat on some brie. Sorry, baby, not implying that you are mouse-like...more an admission that I love brie and have the cheese on the brain. Anyway, she keeps asking variations of "do you smell vomit?" I reply that I don't, mostly because I've got the impacted nostrils of allergy fun. Well sniff away my bride-to-be does, and finally she uncovers (after we turn the car's vent system to the feet areas) that I must have stepped in something.

We get out of the car in the movie theatre parking lot, and lo and behold, I've got some gooey organic mass on the bottom of my...gulp...right sandal.

That's right, crappy crap. Tried rubbing it out on the grass, no luck. It is like some messed up crap epoxy that Elmers decided to test out on my tooties. Maybe it came from a dog who had some rotten chewing gum stuck in it inside butt (a great new referential name for your internal gastrointestinal track...inside butt...thanks, ELV).

Anyway, that vomit smelling crap inspired me to miss a movie that I actually wanted to see.

So, cut to interior of Barnes and Nobles. I walk into the men's room. Enter stall with paper towels, intending on scrapping it off. As soon as the paper disturbs the crap, a wave of vomit ass strikes me in the nostril, at which point I gag like (insert fellatio job).

Right, sucks.

I walk out of the stall, looking ill. Guy walks into the bathroom. As I approach, I realize that I've got some of the crap on my finger. Another gag while making eye contact with the just-walked-in guy.

So, what would you do if you saw an asian dude walking and looking at you, gagging?

Yup, he walked out of there...post-haste.

And, that, my friends, was a Friday night in Chuck land.