Steve gets a shitty towel in response to vegetable molestation

 

Let's see how fast this gets flagged.

I was in the garage getting a bicycle pump to re-inflate the tires on my rusty beach cruiser, and I kept bumping into Uncle Steve, who was fetching some items for his booth at the farmers market. 

"Do you mind?" he said, showing irritation as he reached for a gas can to fill with water for his hybrid beet/tomatoes. 

"I'll bring it for you," I said magnanimously. 

I finished up with the bicycle and filled the gas can with water from a nearby hose bib. Steve exited the garage, tripping over a lawnmower and cursing my general lack of organization. He was in a foul mood, and having committed the great indignancy of merely existing in close proximity, I was well within the blast radius of his righteous rage.

Seeing that he was struggling with an armful of items, I grabbed a few of the heavier ones, and we toted them off to his tented cubicle in the market. We were setting up a table inside a curtained off area when I noticed a persistent pressure nudging me from behind. I turned around to find Steve with an elongated tomato/beet in his hand pointed at my anus.

"Just what do you think you're doing with that?" I asked.

"It needs a place to root," he said unapologetically, as if the ramming of produce into someone's rectum was an agricultural imperative, permissible through eminent domain, and could be performed without consent or even fair warning, based solely on the nutritional requirements of the plant.

I brushed away the partially soiled root fruit with the back of my hand. He chased me around with it a bit and made a few more lunges at me, its dirty little root tendrils clawing the air to get to my backside. He finally backed off when I let him know that I was having none of it. 

Later on in the day, I checked in on him. His booth was getting no customers, likely because it was walled off on four sides and had zero visibility to foot traffic. I greeted him meekly, but he just scowled at me.

"OK," I said, having finally had enough of his attitude. "Out with it. Why are you so pissed at me?"

"You took a SHIT in my TOWEL!!!" he screamed at me. "Do you know how expensive these towels are? Do you? It's imported! Do you even know what they're made of?" He went on and on, screaming about the thread count and exotic material and how I'd committed the gravest of sins, pooping in his precious towel.

"Well," I said, "You're wrong. I never pooped in your towel. I stand by this statement. Never. Did. I. Ever. Poop. In. Your. Towel. You'll find out one day, and you'll have to acknowledge that you falsely accused me, and you'll have to live with that. Good day, sir!" 

I don't recall pooping in his towel, but IF I did, and I will concede only that, while there may be an outside possibility that I could have slightly soiled a towel wiping my backside after the attempted tomato rape earlier, I feel it would have been justified. The whole incident is kind of fuzzy now, as I have probably trauma blocked parts of it.