I wasn't even pretending to work on cars this time. I was just shooting the shit with Reiner, literally, I guess. I had to poop, and I was finding novel ways and places to do so. I was discussing the pros and cons of selling unauthorized Honda swag, like stickers and things and at the same time defecating in the shower stall area of their public restroom and in other locations.
Reiner was setting out a bag of baby carrots for the customers, placing them in a bowl. I told him that those carrots had all been up my butt. That didn't deter him from leaving them out on the counter as a kind of disgusting courtesy snack.
We were listening to a podcast of some lady that was describing the odd situations that she would find herself in, such as riding a horse as a tsunami approached.
"The important thing is to stay on the horse," she was saying, stating the obvious.
She described the scene so well that I could visualize the entire event, from the sucking out of the tide to the slow surging of the amber, molten water rolling in like a thick, lava-like lager which swept the streets, carrying away everything in its path. I thought it was an interesting podcast, but that it was too bad that it was relegated to Sunday afternoon, which seemed like the least popular time slot for some reason.
We were in the middle of that street, Reiner and I, discussing the off-label Honda merchandise, such as country version of the Honda logo, complete with a horseshoe and old-timey western font on a bumper sticker.
A car was bearing down on us, barely keeping in its lane and ticking ever closer to heading straight for us with each flick of the steering wheel, as if the guy in the car was lazily playing a game of "she loves me, she loves me not, run them over, let them live."
Suddenly, at this moment, I was transported. I found myself squatting in the tiled shower stall, laying down a chocolate soft-serve with the precision of a cake decorator along the bricked tilework of the shower's perimeter.
Soon I woke up, in a fair amount of gut pain, wishing I could do just about anything to relieve it, even if it involved the kind of inappropriate nonsense that I was just dreaming about.
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I've changed my comments settings to allow for anyone to comment. All comments are welcome, even spineless potshots from anonymous posters. Please, by all means, give me the tongue lashing I so richly deserve. I promise not to hunt you down and melt your keyboard with my plasma cannon. I won't, however, promise not to pout and make that face you can't stand.