Bewlay Brother
04-21-2014, 03:55 AM
I got a wet one™ to wash away the blood from my mustache. From the glove compartment. My ex-wife put a packet of wet ones™ there during the 90s, she insisted we still needed them even though we sadly no longer had snot-nosed children. She
Waited for this day. This day when her foresight would guide us like a star, when I'd desperately need a wet one™ and BOOM, right there it'd pulsate in the windshield-magnified sun! I've used so many wet ones™ over the years, but I throw out the whole pack each time and replace it so she'll never know the difference. Sounds so spiteful, I know, but it was playful when it started.
For God's sake though, where would I be without wet ones™? All it takes is one spilt cup of coffee and I've got sticky fingers for the 80 mile commute to work. There is no worse feeling than sticky fingers. I'd wash my hands in blood if it meant they'd no longer be sticky. I'd wash our marriage in blood too.
The blood keeps pouring to near sitcom levels of overkill. Picture the assembly line scene from one of the early I Love Lucy episodes, but with a nosebleed instead. Well, more than just my nose is bleeding. When I hit that tree, the
Thud lasted five minutes. I swear, our brain chemistry dictates time. It's so obvious. Time never runs out, but brains do all the time. So do Wet Ones™, and there goes the last one. I must say, they make a rather aesthetically-pleasing pile of blood-soaked tissues. I mean, the only point of comparison I have is the pile that'd fester at the bottom of the cheap tin trash can in the household bathroom growing up during *that time of the month* with five sisters and a mother. I used to joke that on my deathbed I'd tell my ex-wife the truth about my secret affair with the Wet Ones™. But now this is my deathbed and instead of an ornate pillow I have a worthless pile of blood-laminated Wet Ones™, pulsating in the windshield-magnified sun as majestic proof that sometimes things really do work out perfectly.
Waited for this day. This day when her foresight would guide us like a star, when I'd desperately need a wet one™ and BOOM, right there it'd pulsate in the windshield-magnified sun! I've used so many wet ones™ over the years, but I throw out the whole pack each time and replace it so she'll never know the difference. Sounds so spiteful, I know, but it was playful when it started.
For God's sake though, where would I be without wet ones™? All it takes is one spilt cup of coffee and I've got sticky fingers for the 80 mile commute to work. There is no worse feeling than sticky fingers. I'd wash my hands in blood if it meant they'd no longer be sticky. I'd wash our marriage in blood too.
The blood keeps pouring to near sitcom levels of overkill. Picture the assembly line scene from one of the early I Love Lucy episodes, but with a nosebleed instead. Well, more than just my nose is bleeding. When I hit that tree, the
Thud lasted five minutes. I swear, our brain chemistry dictates time. It's so obvious. Time never runs out, but brains do all the time. So do Wet Ones™, and there goes the last one. I must say, they make a rather aesthetically-pleasing pile of blood-soaked tissues. I mean, the only point of comparison I have is the pile that'd fester at the bottom of the cheap tin trash can in the household bathroom growing up during *that time of the month* with five sisters and a mother. I used to joke that on my deathbed I'd tell my ex-wife the truth about my secret affair with the Wet Ones™. But now this is my deathbed and instead of an ornate pillow I have a worthless pile of blood-laminated Wet Ones™, pulsating in the windshield-magnified sun as majestic proof that sometimes things really do work out perfectly.