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My sense of humor has recently come into question by my guy.
This wouldn’t bother me so much if he hadn’t spent an entire Sunday afternoon attempting to school me in the merits of the Three Stooges, likely the most un-funny entity on the planet, right after the Blue Collar Comedy tour and that movie Nothing But Trouble.
I suppose I shouldn’t be writing this; I’m told there is a possibility of my guy being excommunicated – or whatever it is the Society of Guy Secrets does to a man who reveals too much.
It’s just that I wanted to understand the workings of one of the few remaining bastions of entertainment that has an audience almost exclusively comprised of men. Since, oh, I don’t know – birth – I’ve been shaking my head over it. Yet even after a bottle of booze, several DVDs, and an hour-plus discussion, I still couldn’t understand the Three Stooges, and deep down I suspect I’m better off for it.
“You have to watch for the reaction shots,” said my guy pointing out Larry or Curly, I forget which. “It’s the subtleties, not the slapstick that’s funny.”
Really? Because I fail to see the subtlety in yanking a toupee off someone, dropping it in Moe or Shemp’s (I forget who is who) lap, and the ensuing riot when someone yells “tarantula!”
Not funny.
My guy turned to me with a sorry, you-were-THIS-close-to-being-perfect look when I failed to produce the expected side-splitting chuckles. It was as if he doubted my ability to appreciate comedy.
I’m perfectly capable of identifying good comedy. For example: watching my guy pull a flaming wooden plank from the gas grill and wave it around wildly before throwing it on a pile of wood chips and attempting to douse the flames with my more-Jack-than-Coke mixture? That’s funny.
Not so funny? My guy’s snorts of laughter upon discovering I’d Krazy Glued myself to the kitchen.
This was entirely his fault, of course. For starters, he was the one who let me think it was okay to use Krazy Glue on a weekday morning after a mere four hours of sleep.
Sure, he offered to fix the sculpture I’d managed to stumble into and knock down a flight of stairs as I saw him out the door to work. But I’m a big girl, I can superglue by myself.
It was 7:12 a.m. when I pulled the Krazy Glue from its little safety container. I positioned the tube between my thumb and index finger and attempted to squeeze a few drops onto the hunk of wood I held in my left hand.
By 7:18 I was still squeezing the tube, waiting for something, anything to come out. There was glue in the container, that much I knew, because I’d just peeled a portion of the label off to check the contents underneath.
Had it been later in the day, or had I ingested more caffeine that morning, I might have paid more attention to the hardened glue clumps on the one side of the tube that I had to scrape through to get past the label.
I smelled the glue before I saw it. It was a noxious, octane sort of smell that wafted from my fingers to my nose in a vile stream.
“It must be working,” I thought, squeezing the tube tighter. What exactly I thought was working is beyond me, particularly when the mechanics of a tube of glue are reasonably simple.
But I kept squeezing like a moron, letting my thoughts drift to other things, like shiny objects and bouncy balls and rainbows.
At 7:21, I realized my fingers were stuck to the Krazy Glue tube.
Glue oozed from a hole in the side of the tube, drizzling in fine web from my finger tips to a little pool on the counter top. Vague disbelief slowly washed over me as I attempted to pry my fingers loose. Any normal person would probably head to the nearest source of warm, soapy water in this instance, but I, being ultra clever and astute, had a better idea:
Paper towels.
I reached across the counter and pulled a few sheets from the roll. Never mind the glue still on my fingers, which were still glued to the tube. And funny thing, the glue that had spilled onto the counter really didn’t wipe up so well. In fact, it kind of congealed into a fuzzy, hardened mass that I was forced to rip from finger tips, that were, mind you, still glued to the Krazy Glue tube.
At 7:26 a.m., I panicked.
“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!” I danced around the kitchen in a blind frenzy, waving my hands around and trying desperately to figure out what to do next. My spa robe, which never really stays closed to begin with, fell open, and would have slid further from my shoulders, had chunks of my hair not been glued to it.
That was what did it, of course. Not the threat of going through life with a tube of glue cemented to my fingers, and certainly not the wad of paper towels that would need to be chiseled from the counter top. No, what finally cleared my head like a slap to the face was the thought of losing any of my precious hair to the Great Glue Slick.
Fortunately, it is easier to remove Krazy Glue from hair than it is from skin. Unfortunately, it took half a bottle of nail polish remover and a quick dip in isopropyl to finally unstick the tube of glue from my fingers. I can only pray that no one lights a match near me.
My guy meanwhile, was treated to a breathless and irritated phone call as I drove in to work, still reeking and flaking bits of glue from my hair.
“I’m SO not okay!” I wailed into the phone. My guy composed himself long enough to extract quick damage control:
No, I hadn’t eaten any glue.
No, I didn’t inhale any, either.
Yes, the cat was fine. (I think. I honestly couldn’t remember whether she’d been in the kitchen during my glue-soaked fit or not and said a silent prayer that she wasn’t currently stuck ass-down on the tile floor.)
And then, at 8:01 a.m., the laughter started. Small sorts came first, followed by hysterical peals as my guy pictured me half-naked, hair matted, and stuck to the kitchen counter top.
“I can just SEE your face!” he sputtered, tears likely streaming down his face as he struggled to control his giggles.
“Oh, yeah?” I asked. “It’s just all in the reaction shot for you, isn’t it? Those fucking Three Stooges can SUCK IT!”
That just made my guy laugh even harder, and I knew I was officially doomed to a lifetime of ridicule.
So. Not. Funny.
October 14th, 2009 at 1:25 pm
You glued yourself together but do not care for The Three Stooges. I love irony.