I'm laughing...now

You know what sucks? Embarrassing moments. Not the ones where you bend over at work to pick-up your pen and forget to clench your rectum so a fart slips out, or you answer the phone mid-yawn, and it turns into a yawnburp that the caller clearly heard. Those things are embarrassing, but they're not "OhmyfuckinggodIwanttodie" type shit. H-Bomb likely disagrees with this assessment, as she is anti-discussion about anything that comes out of the ass. Ask her how mad she got when I farted in Anastasia Beetlehausen and she had to turn down Dave Matthews to yell at me about it. I've had my share of humiliating situations, but there are a few stand-outs.

I live in Chicago. Chicago has "beaches". Sand, Lake Michigan water and waves and shit.  It's not Miami, but in the summertime, it does the job. My younger sister and I used to frequent the beach when we still had those competitive 18 and 22 year old beach bodies. Back in those days, I had much bigger boobs, too, and favored the strapless bikini tops (that might as well have been dental floss), with the plastic clasp in the back that looked like this:

One fine July day, we were sunning our Swedish asses at Oak Street Beach. For those of you who don't know, back in the day, Oak Street was the South Beach of Chicago. It's where all the young hotties went to get their sun, drink, and fuck on. There was a group of hot guys a few towels away from us who, unfortunately, had the requisite looks and bodies, but the game of 13 year old boys. Cat-calls, whistling, howling, etc. Chicks dig that shit, right? Yeah...'scuse me while I fall over with my fucking feet in the air. Anyway. My sister and I decided to go for a swim. After doing our best Sports Illustrated model-run back to our towels, I made a little forward diving motion to lay down on my stomach. Yeah...those little plastic clasps up there? No match for my big, fat titties and man-like lats.  That plastic clasp snapped like a fucking twig, and my top flew across the beach, slingshot-style. The towel boys REALLY let it fly then. My rack got full-blown applause from half the City of Chicago. I should have been flattered. Instead, I was mortified which, for me, turns immediately to anger. I let those fuckers have it: "SHUT UP you assholes!! Haven't you ever seen tits before?? Enjoy it while you can, because it is NOT gonna happen again!!" Meanwhile, my sister is trying to fix the fucking top while simultaneously trying not to piss herself laughing. The madder I got, the harder she laughed.  Fucking asshole. You can probably guess what happened next...

You guessed it. My sister's awesome repair job failed, and the same goddamn thing happened again.  This time while I was just standing there. Sister Fuckface couldn't even help me. She was laughing so hard she was in danger of respiratory fucking failure. Thanks again, asshole. This time, I got so pissed, I said "That's IT. We're LEAVING." I gathered up my shit and tried storming off the beach. Do you know how hard it is to "storm" through sand without looking like an asshole? Me, neither. As I made my exit, there was more clapping, shouts of "Bravo!," "Wait! Don't go!" and "Can we come with you??" I again couldn't decide whether to be flattered or pissed, so I just stayed pissed. It was a long drive home.

Then there was the time at another beach way the fuck out in the Southwest 'burbs. It was more of a water-hole than a beach, really. The biggest difference between this beach and Oak Street was that you could drink at this motherfucker. And drink we did. One side of the water-hole was all sandy beach, and that's where the families hung out. The other side was a grassy slope with volleyball courts at the top of the hill. We did some fine, fine work on that muhfuckin' hill, yo. Drinking in the sun is not for rookies and that is surely what I was at barely 21. I found myself having to take a leak, so I trudged up the hill to the bathroom and handled my business. On my way back down the hill, my sister turned around and busted out laughing. Why does this bitch take such pleasure in my humiliation??   Evidently, I failed to properly tuck the string of my cotton pony into my suit bottom and that shit was hanging out like a ripcord, just begging to be pulled. Her laughter, of course, drew the attention of every fucking guy on the beach, who found it just as amusing as she did. They called me "Pull Start" for the rest of the day. Do you wonder why I hate people?

Finally, I think my worst moment was when my grandparents came to stay with me one summer. I prepared for weeks - I cleaned out my closet and dresser and moved into my kid's room, I cleaned my house like the fucking King and Queen were coming to stay; flipped the mattress, washed the sheets, all that shit. I was ready. Or so I thought. Foolish mortal.

About 2 days into their month-long visit, I came home from work to find them both lounging in the living room. Grandpa on the couch, chain-smoking like a chimney and Grandma knitting. Always with the goddamn knitting. Grandma was all weird and attitude-y and pursed lips and shit, which made no sense as I had been gone all day. What could I possibly have done to annoy her while I was at work?  So, I said, "Hi. What did you guys do today?" Grandpa let out a little snicker. Grandma says, "Well, we did...blah, blah, blah...then we came home. Oh, and we flipped the mattress on your bed." I totally fucking panicked. Grandpa's snickering turned to giggles. My immediate reaction was, "WHA...WHAT??? WHY? WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?" At that point, Grandpa couldn't contain himself any longer -  he was doubled over on the couch, wheezing like a 300 lb. hooker on her 3rd lap around the block. I was certain he was going to stroke out from laughing. I think y'all know what single girls keep between their mattresses, and what fell out and hit the wood floor like a cement block while Grandma and Grandpa were "helping". Grandma was horrified, Grandpa was overly-amused and I was without a vibrator for 28 more days. Oh, yeah, did I mention she threw it away?   Grandma was a fucking hater.

Fuck. My. Life.

L-Train