I'm trespassing here on DUD without my pal Jack's prior knowledge. Jack is a dedicated writer, and he's been busy lately doing some serious writing and editing. I, on the other hand--while a writer--have been doing nothing but flubbing off. Twiddling my thumbs while I wait for the inspiration to create the next great American novel. It's a good thing I'm a patient woman, that's all I can say.
Anyhoo, don't blame Jack for the content of this blog entry. The man can't be held responsible for this woman's wayward mind and sometimes uncouth sense of humor. He'll either forgive me when he reads this, or he'll quickly delete. I'll chance it, and see. I'm not working on an amazing novel like Jack is...but I AM brave. And just a little bit foolish, too.
Okay, gals and guys, grumblers and grinners! Have you read it? Have you scanned down through this article? Have you paused--lingered, perhaps--as the image seared itself in your mind, like it did mine?
Get it out!!! By all that’s hairy, shrunken, and shriveled, get it out! And I don’t mean get what’s hairy, shrunken and shriveled out of the CHAIR! That’s HIS problem! I mean get the image out of my mind!
Oh, for Pete’s sake! For MARIO’S sake!
There is so much wrong with this picture, this story, this newspaper article! First off, the question must be asked…what makes ‘news’. Hmmm? Seriously, is this ridiculous episode worthy of being memorialized in print? Distributed to thousands of unsuspecting readers? Will this man—this naked swimmer/sun-bather—ever be able to show his face in public, again? For, as sure as the sea is salty, the poor fellow’s nether regions will forever be associated with his name! Mario Visnjic! Is it fair to do that to someone who is, quite obviously, not all ‘there’. (Because some of him was trapped between chair slats, you see…)
Heh. What an idiot. And Mario, if you are a reader of DUD or GAG, I would say that to your face, too. I’d hug you while doing it (if you were dressed, that is), but I’d tell you true.
You’re a dipstick.
How long have you had those things? Most of your life, I would assume. Certainly long enough to recognize your little buddies’ vagaries and propensities! Holy smokes…
I’ve simply got to say this. IF I was a man, and IF I was brazen enough to go swimming in the nude at a public beach, and IF I was then so dim-witted that I’d sit in a SLATTED chair afterwards…well. There’s no doubt about it. If my Joe Fridays got wedged (good Lord!) between two pieces of wood, I would never—and I repeat, NEVER!—call Beach Maintenance for help. No way, no how!
Could the discomfort of being trapped in my chair ever compare to the humiliation factor involved when total strangers then have to cut me out of it? Because, of course, they couldn’t cut me out without LOOKING at me! Arrgh! I can picture it, now! And I shouldn’t! No! I should never have that image seared into my brain.
And what follows the looking, Mario? The LAUGHING!!! The rolling on the ground. The gasping for breath, the side-splitting shrieks. The cell-phone calls to REPORTERS who print your humiliation in the newspaper! Maybe, even, the photographs! Because, trapped like that, I would be powerless to stop them, right? Short of lunging at them with a heavy wooden chair swinging from my…gah!!! Holy moley…no way in the world would I suffer through that humiliation. No way!
Nope. What I would do is sit still. Wait for sunset. Pass the time until the dark of night brought--not only cold temperatures--but DARK! So no one would see me!! With my private parts (for they SHOULD be private, Mario) smooshed between the slats of a chair on a public beach! A chair where other people sit!!! Did you ever think about THAT, Mario? That other people might want to recline in the sun in the very same chair that your naked, hairy bum was plastered into? Hmmm?
Aw, man…have a care for the rest of us! That’s just gross.
So…my plan of action, if I was a man who had shown a tendency to be as numb as a pounded thumb, would be to WAIT. Until the night grew cold or hell froze over--whichever came first. I’d sit there anticipating the time when those little fellows shrunk back up again. Shriveled, withered, ascended. Slipped through those wooden slats all on their own, thlupp, and released me from my confinement and my mortification.
Problem solved. Chair in one piece. Dignity intact. (All right, all right… I’m trying to be generous, here. There’s no way you’ll ever be able to hold your head up in public again, but I’m a kind woman and don’t wish to add to your humiliation. Anymore than I already have, that is…)
Chances are good that this kind of thing will never happen to the men up here in Maine. For one thing, we have no nude beaches. For another, our men tend to have more common sense than our good friend, Mario, displayed. And lastly--and most importantly—we are hardy folk, and impervious to the cold.
Mario, my friend, don’t do that again. Ever. Learn from your mistakes. But if you simply can’t help yourself, if you just can’t swim on a public beach in a suit or sit on a towel like the rest of the civilized population does, then please, man. Please.
Disinfect the chair before you leave.
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