You all know that what comes around goes around, and my little world isn’t exempt. Of course had I gotten a tick (see post below) on one of my naughty bits, like my old man did, I’d have gone to the grave that way before telling anyone I needed assistance. After all, I know how these Lane people are about stuff like that.
While building my in-law’s deck, my back got tired of bending. Once I had enough deck boards laid to rest my ass, I plopped it down. After installing another board, I’d have to inch my way closer because my arms couldn’t reach. Instead of getting up and walking a step or two, I opted to scooch.
When you scooch your toosh on wood, you might get a splinter on your butt cheek. And if you happen to be married to a guy who had a tick on his dick, and you might have teased him unmercifully, you may think twice before sharing your pain, or asking for help with the removal from said husband. This splinter in my ass is going to be kindling when they cremate me.
There were some other little mishaps right out of the gate that next morning. Wanting to beat the 115 degree heat that was coming our way for the second straight day, Mr. Lane and I decided to work on the deck as soon as we woke up. By 6 a.m. the sound of our drills echoed across the lake.
Running down the hill to get more wood, I stepped right into a pile of dog shit. Only, I didn’t notice right away. I did feel my feet sliding a little more on my way back, but figured it was because I was carrying a heavy load across the morning dew covered grass. Boy was I wrong.
I got back up on the platform, sat with my legs folded, and began to think, “Man, we haven’t been working hard or long enough for either of us to smell like shit.”
So I asked, “Does it smell like shit up here or what?”
“Yeah, but it’s not me!”
“Well it’s not me either!”
While my old man’s head was turned, I gave myself a little sniff just to be sure it wasn’t me. And it was! First, I looked at the bottom of my shoes. They were somewhat clean. Then I realized I was sitting with my feet folded under me. I looked at the back of my pant legs and sure enough they were covered in dog shit.
“The dog isn’t even up. What’d she do?”
“She shit right where I walked!”
“Hahaha! Sucks to be you, Poopy Pants.”
“Eat me, I’m a danish!”
“Whatever. Fucking dog!”
“Hey Poopy Pants, hand me some screws.”
“Hey Ticky Dick, bite me.”
“Don’t get shitty
with me. It’s not like I was the one who crapped on your pants.”
“You are about as funny as Lyme Disease.”
Heading into the house, he asked if I was done with coffee or if I needed a refill.
Being the smart ass that I am, I tried to chug the half of a cup I had in front of me, so I could get a fresh cup out of him. As soon as my mouth was full of coffee, I felt something on my tongue. It was not coffee. It was a big ass horsefly, which I tried to spit back into my cup. But I was so grossed out by the fact that I almost ate a bug, that my spit missed its target, and went down the front of my shirt instead.
“So, I need to go shopping to buy Depends… and a bib for you?”
“Kiss my poopy ass, you bug infested wanker!”
“Hey I don’t have bugs… anymore.”
“It probably wasn’t even a tick on your dick. It was probably a loin lobster.”
“And I got him from you.”
Showing off my fly spit shirt.
As you can tell, our day was starting with a bang. We work well together, my old man and me. We cut up and made the time go by quickly. As the day came to a close, the one-liners flowed freely, and I finally got all of the spit and shit off of myself.
We finished all of the major building on that second day, sorry there is no before picture. I forgot to take one before we started.
We started gathering the scrap wood to clean up and prepare to stain. He took the top of the hill and I took the bottom.
A few days earlier, I built a fire pit out of huge chunks of limestone we found where the deck was going to be built. I wound up moving about twelve wheelbarrows of rock. Because there was too much for just the fire pit, I opted to outline the base of one of the trees. It looked good, but man it was a lot of work.
Anyhow, we carried our scrap wood to the fire pit. As I gathered the last of what was at the bottom of the hill, my arms were like noodles, tired and wobbly. In a hugging fashion, I carried the last of the scraps toward the pit.
“I smell shit again!”
“It’s still not me, Lo. It’s okay to admit you have a problem. It’s the first step in recovery.”
Dryly, I said, “Oh, you are funny.”
Mr. Lane was roaring. His laughter was so out of control, I thought he was going to shit himself.
“What is so funny?”
“Hey Poopy Pants, I think you just shit out of your tits.”
He could barely get the words out he was laughing so hard. I looked down and saw dog shit all over my shirt. Apparently the scraps were tossed into yet another pile of dog shit.
(A picture of the culprit. She totally looks guilty doesn't she?!)
“Oh man! Fucking dog!”
“Oh God! Hahahahahahaha!! The look on your… oh my God!!! Hahahahaha!!!”
Mr. Lane was crying from laughing so hard. Mr. Lane looked like a vein was going to pop clear out of his forehead. Mr. Lane ended up rolling around on the ground and right into… a pile of dog shit.
“Have I mentioned how much I love your dad’s dog, honey?”
“I hate you!”
“I hate you more!”
“I hate you infinity!”
I asked, “Wanna go clean the dog shit off of each other?”
“Yeah! We’ll just tell Dad and Ma that we are trying to conserve their water.”
“Think they’ll believe us?”
“Probably not. But when we tell them we are having a hot dog
roast over their fire tonight, I think they’ll believe that.”
In unison, we looked at our shit-coated clothes, then at each other, shook our heads and said, “Fucking dog!”