By Bob Senitram
Just some guy who has no idea what he’s doing….
Back when I was young, I lived by the motto that a man’s word is his bond.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t real big on discretion. Turns out, there’s a difference between being a man of your word and being too damn stupid to know when to shut up.
This is another tale of how that little misunderstanding didn’t work out in my favor.
This week’s story pre-dates me an the ‘ol lady.
Back in my college years, I was pretty much broke all the time.
I wasn’t smart enough for scholarships. And I didn’t qualify for no student aid. Just loans and work, that’s how I paid fer it.
Looking back, it probably weren’t the greatest investment. I spent a pile of money on college and, judging by what I learned, I might’ve been better off buying a really nice television.
After one year into it, I started havin’ issues with my wisdom teeth.
Both bottom ones were growin’ in sideways, shovin’ all my other teeth together like they were tryin’ to fit a family of six into a two-man tent. Before long, my teeth were so twisted and mangled I looked like a tenured professor from Great Britain.
After a while I knew I had to do sumthin’.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have dental insurance. My options were pretty limited, so I went down to the university dental clinic and volunteered to be a guinea pig for some up-and-comin’ dentist.
A couple hundred bucks later, I figured I’d have my teeth fixed and be on my merry way.
That was pretty much all the money I had, too, so I was putting a lot of faith in a guy who was still learnin’ on the job.
I got numbed and they pushed and pulled and yanked out those buggers.
No after care was included, just a prescription of pain pills.
Due to my chain smokin’ habit, I got dry sockets and my lower jaw swelled up like a squirl who’s carrying a bunch of walnuts in his mouth.
I called the dentist, who helpfully suggested I put tea bags on the incisions and wait for things to improve.
Tea bags.
It was the day after the swelling that I got a call from my girl friend at the time.
“So I just wanted to remind you, we’re having dinner with my folks tomorrow.”
Now, I knew damn well I wasn’t in any shape to go visitin’. My jaw hurt, my face was swollen, and I was about one bad decision away from spending the evening face-down in a pillow.
But, a man’s word is his bond.
“Yeah, sure thing,” I said.
So, an hour before I met her parents for the first time, I doubled up on the codeine.
Because apparently, when you’re in no condition to keep a commitment, the sensible thing to do is take twice as many drugs and hope for the best.
And like the trooper I like to think of myself as, I’m off to dinner.
You’re probably thinkin’, “You shouldn’t be driving with all them drugs in you.”
And you’re right.
Luckily, havin’ the reputation of being a dimwitted alcoholic college student, the ‘ol lady planned ahead enough to plan to drive my sorry ass to her parents.
Turns out, I’m allergic to codeine.
Doubling up on it wasn’t exactly my finest moment. In my defense, this was how I found out I was allergic to the stuff.
Well, we show up and the room’s already spinning around like I just drank 8 beers or so. But I’d been around alcohol long enough to know how to act sober when I wasn’t. I figured I could fake my way through a meal. Smile, nod, make small talk. Maybe compliment the potatoes.
That is, until it was time to eat. Now if you’re just booze drinkin’, usually food is the best. But if you’re on pain pills that you’re allergic too…food is less of a friend and more of an accomplice.
Instead of less spinning, it was double vision and spinning…I felt the food rising from below.
I politely asked to be excused and went to the restroom.
I just closed the bathroom door when old faithful decided to blow. I ran to the toilet and projectile vomited so hard that water from the toilet splashed out onto the floor. I heaved for a while, then got a towel and mopped up the floor.
Checking that I didn’t have any puke on my shirt, I exited and pretended like nothing happened.
Of course that didn’t work, because luck had it that the bathroom is about two feet from the dinning room…everybody knew.
I stepped out, trying to look casual, when my girlfriend’s little brother looked up at me and said:
“Wow, you must have really loved those mashed potatoes!”
I was embarrassed, but I still have trouble understanding why?
Was it because her parents now thought I was a drug-addicted alcoholic?
Or was it because they thought I was a drug-addicted alcoholic who couldn’t even hold his liquor?
I mean, there’s a difference.
Not a particularly flattering one, mind you, but a difference nonetheless.
One thing’s certain, though.
I kept my word.
And I gained a new nickname…
Mashed Potato Boy.
AND NOW YOU KNOW!!!
Song in my head:
COMING NEXT: Sorry, I haven’t thought that far ahead!
Crap Considered is posted each Friday.
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