Horror on the Hardwood

I rolled back over, closed my eyes, and counted to ten. As my eyes slowly opened like massive castle doors, my brain tried to convince itself that it was just a dream. Slowly, like your grandmother pealing open a sardine can, I removed the blanketed coverings from my quivering body. As my legs swung out to the left and shortly met the carpet, I trembled as I teetered on the edge of my full-sized bed. There my eyes remained forward as I feared to turn back around and look into the eyes of such unwarranted regret. Fear gripped me like the mighty Kong to his white-clad lady, as my shortened breaths craved for reassurance of false alarms. With the precision of a sniper my head rotated to the south, as an unbridled explosion pulsed until my head reached its 156-degree destination. There lying next to me my deepest suspicions were frightfully reaffirmed as I gasped and realized: I slept with my basketball.

I felt so used. Yeah, it was just a basketball, but a basketball belongs in the gym, it belongs in the trunk of your car, in the hallway closet just beneath your winter coats. Basketballs do not belong on your bed. Had it had been a book bag, a raincoat, or even an athletic sneaker, I would have just chuckled and tossed it aside without thinking twice, but not a basketball.

A basketball in your bed is like a Canadian in your home…it seems like just an accident but you KNOW they’re up to something.

Disrespect with an Elastic Band

Several days ago, as I ventured out my front door for my morning constitutional, I was greeted by what I believe to be dirty underpants. As if in an almost ceremonial hazing, like a burning cross in my lawn, there lay these dirty underpants strewn across my ‘Welcome’ mat. Though I didn’t have any at the time of the sighting, had any a.m. guests ventured to my door, I’m sure the last sensation the underpants would have created is a feeling of ‘Welcome.’
Perhaps in a different culture, underpants on your doorstep is viewed as a sign of respect, or maybe like the Jewish slaves of Egypt the underpants kept the angel of death from my first born. Maybe the underpants belonged to a single man who felt he couldn’t handle the underpants or he felt he wasn’t responsible enough to take care of them on his own thusly leaving them on my doorstep.
I don’t understand the method behind this madness, but it appears to be nothing more than a sign of the times. What kind of ‘free’ society exists that one can be allowed to leave dirty underpants, MENS underpants mind you, on another man’s doorstep? Not the free society of my father’s fathers that’s for certain. Had they have been lady underpants, some lacy number, well then I would just assume either my address is incredibly close to that of Tom Jones’, or I had a lady admirer who wants ‘to skip the small talk.’
In any event I’m not taking the situation lightly. If the underpants made it to my doorstep as some sort of ‘mistake’ (a mistake on par with the Hindenburg), I only hope what goes around does not then come around.

For all you dreamers…welcome to Hollywood.