I hate zippers!
I hate zippers! Who in the hell thought of such a stupid thing as a zipper? As far as I am concerned, they’re ugly and useless. They’re nothing but trouble. They break all the time and it doesn’t matter what kind or size, or what they’re zipping. They always break when you don’t want them to and they never break when you want them to. (i.e. a tight blouse.)
The worst thing about zippers is that I keep zipping my little thingy into them. Well, to be precise, it was the little hood thing on my thingy that got caught. At this point in time, I have to tell you how very, very, painful it is to get the hood of your thingy in a zipper. Every time I get my thingy caught all I can do is look up to the heavens and say, “OOOoooo!”
Talk about pain! It was almost too much to bear. Not only that, it was gushing blood! So to summarize, I don’t like zippers and my thingy doesn’t like zippers. I guess that makes it u-nana-nana-mana-mouse. The really sad part of this story is the fact that the deal is only half closed. If I were a lawyer I would say that the case is still pending.
So the story goes that when you get your thingy caught in a zipper, it’s only natural that eventually you will have to get it out of the zipper. Getting the thingy out is worse than getting the thingy in. Ten times worse! What’s really sad is the fact that none of this is my fault. The damn thingy has a mind of its own. I don’t have any control over it and most of the time I don’t even know it’s there.
It used to be that if I got it caught in a zipper, I could look down at it and it would look back in a proud sort of way. It used to be that it didn’t mind a few scars because it gave it a little character. I used to play like it was a little gangster, sort of like Scarface or something like that. Now my belly is in the way and I can’t even see the darn thing. Looking at it in a mirror just isn’t the same. It makes it look so sad, like it’s ashamed or something.
Once the thingy is in the zipper, there’s no easy way to get it out. OK, I’m a big tough guy and I’ve been through a lot of crap, but when I look at my thingy in the mirror, tears come to my eyes because it looks so sad. It’s like being in a minefield with one foot on a Bouncing Betty. You know that at some point in time, you’ll have to lift your foot off of the mine but at the same time, you know that it’s going to hurt.
Oh, I could walk stiff-legged over to the emergency room and have a doctor get it out but sitting in the waiting room is not fun at all. Nobody will sit by you and no one wants to talk to you. Instead, they all gather in groups and chuckle at the stupid thingy in the zipper jokes. Christ, will the pain never end?
So, now I’m walking stiff-legged, right-foot-left foot-right-foot, out to my truck to get two pairs of pliers. Now it’s right-foot-left foot-right-foot all the way back to the house and the mirror that I forgot. Once there, I have the choice of either pulling the zipper down real slow or just yanking it like a baseball player after a grounder. I have tried it both ways and I’m not going to talk you through that.
OK, now the thingy is out of the zipper but it’s gushing blood all over everything. This is when it really gets bad because as I’m standing there checking out the cute little thingy in the little mirror, I see a tick on one of the thingy’s two buddies. I mean, how much is a guy supposed to endure? I make a mental note to spray some Raid on myself when I’m working at the creek.
So I guess the little guy looks a lot worse than he really is. A guy with a sore on his thingy is not so popular in the pool hall, if you know what I mean. Now everybody in town is going to think I have syphilis or something. Maybe it would be smart to keep him out of sight for a while. No need to embarrass the little guy, right?
There’s only one thing worse than getting your thingy in a zipper, and that’s getting it caught in a buttonhole on button fly jeans. If that ever happens, I’m going to slap it around a little bit. Get tough with it, so to say!