The Itch

It’s getting close to summer here in Phoenix, when you can fry an egg in your pants just by walking outside (this is why I no longer trust IHOP). Because of this, I’m forced to take my post-lunchtime walk across the street in the air-conditioned confines of our local mall. It’s a pleasant, comfortable walk as long as you can avoid the assholes selling helicopters and are able to mentally block out the sight of unfortunate ass-crack. Seriously, what is with all the ass-crack? If you’re so big that you can’t find pants large enough to cover your ass-crack, you need to run over to a sporting goods store and buy a god damn tent because no one who isn’t being paid in some capacity should ever have to see that shit.

Anyway, I was walking near a young couple when the man’s attention was captured by something and he veered off to the right. The woman sidled up to me and, obviously thinking that I was her husband, leaned close to me and said, “God, does my vagina itch!”

Me: I’m sorry.

Her: Oh, God! … Oh, God!

Me: Hahaha, you know I’m going to have to tweet that, right?

Her: Oh, God!

Me: (pulls out phone)

Her: Wait! Are you really going to tweet that?

Me: Uh-huh.

Her: Oh, God!

I felt a little bit bad for her, but it’s not like I was going to take a picture of her or reveal that her name is Shauna Fitzpatrick and lives at 3201 N. Spring Ave, Phoenix AZ 85044. I just tweeted the encounter:

[blackbirdpie url=”https://twitter.com/DogsOnDrugs/status/329679748525596674″]

Still, I felt bad for her. I’ve said things to people who I thought were someone else before. One time I was convinced by a girl to go to a bar that I knew I wasn’t going to like. I’d been there about five minutes, and nearly 100% of the clientele was the steak-head, backwards-baseball-cap, bro-type dude that has an IQ in the teens and a regular roofie-dealer. Standing at the bar, I leaned close to what I thought was my date and said out of the side of my mouth, “I want to set every person in this room on fire.”

An equally horrified voice replied, “No shit. What the fuck?”

I then noticed that this woman was not my date, but a total stranger. She then turned and realized that whoever she thought she was replying to, it was me instead. We both jumped, paused, then broke out into laughter. I had to fight off the urge to buy her a drink because, really, how do you explain that to your date? “No, you don’t understand, honey! It’s ok! We both want to set everyone on fire!”

(I should have bought her a drink anyway. My date was way too comfortable with the lunkheads in that bar, and after I realized that the mouth-breathers actually had a nickname for her, I decided to put an end to the date. She all too happily replied, “Ok. I’m going to stay here, is that ok?” It was ok-fine by me.)

Later that evening…

Awkward random public encounters are common to us all. For instance, I’ve done this before:

Waitress: Ok, enjoy your meal.

Me: You too!

Durrr… The only thing worse than that is trying to correct yourself afterward.

Me: I mean, when you eat later on… You enjoy that too, ok? … I am retarded.

Another good one is when someone waves at you in public and you respond, only to realize a split second later that you were not the intended target. So you end up doing that mid-wave correction and try to make it look like you were just brushing your hair aside in the most flamboyant way possible. Yeah, that fooled everyone, Einstein. Way to go.

The only consolation in an awkward encounter such as this is that everyone, and I mean everyone has had it happen to them.

Stranger: Oh my GOD! Look who it is! I LOVE YOU!

Robert Plant: Oh, thank you, I like hearing from…

Stranger: (running right past Robert Plant) It’s Ryan Seacrest!!!

Robert Plant: Ahhhh, shit…

The only difference is that we go home and feel foolish, while Robert Plant goes home and feels foolish on a giant pile of money.

Fuck you, Seacrest. Let’s see you do this well when you’re 70.

Another embarrassing thing is when your brain just up and decides to make you look like an idiot. Ever forget how to perform basic math functions?

Cashier: Ok, sir, that will be $18.33

Me: Here you go. (hands cashier a $10 bill)

Cashier: Uhhh, the total is $18.33…

Me: Ok.

Cashier: You only gave me $10.

Me: OH! (hands cashier a $5 bill)

Cashier: …

Me: What?

Cashier: Does your ward attendant know that you’re missing?

You too!

Remember the band Puddle of Mudd? Yeah, me neither. No one remembers those guys, and for good reason: They sucked. Anyway, one time I was in line behind their lead singer at the register at a diner, waiting to pay. He had some vacuous-looking bottle blonde by his side, and when it came time for him to calculate the tip, he was totally thrown.

“What should we tip?” he asked his special lady friend.

“Twenty percent,” she said.

“Umm, that’s like…” he sat there for a few moments and then wrote something down.

“No, you can’t tip her 47 cents! It’s more like six bucks.”

“Oh,” he said, sounding like he was both embarrassed and relieved. But then he had to add the six dollars to the price of the meal and got thrown again.

“What are you doing? Just add six bucks to the total!” said the suddenly less vacuous-looking bottle blonde.

“Goddammit!” he whispered, pulled out a handful of twenties and flung them on the counter. “Let’s get out of here.”

I got quite a kick out of that, as did the cashier, who informed me who the guy was. “Wes… something or other. He’s the lead singer of Puddle of Mudd.”

“Haha, I guess he doesn’t get paid to add numbers, huh?”

“I guess not, hahaha. Ok, sir, your total is $21.04.”

“Keep the change,” I said as I handed her a twenty. Durrrr…