Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Spankus Interuptus, Act Two
Part Two of our story describes how, in my besotted state, was presented to Angela by her best friend, who was also a police officer.
My alcohol-sopped brain suddenly recalled that, shortly after we had met, Bernie had entered the police academy. Apparently, she had decided to engage in her profession of choice right here in the town where I lived!
“How’s it going, Bernie?” I exclaimed. Or rather I tried to exclaim. Bernie related to me later that what actually came out of my mouth was something like, “Hozi go eh brrrrnnee.”
Apparently, Bernie had, by this time, recognized me, too. “Jesus fucking Christ, Frank,” she started, “you smell like fermented puke! What the hell have you been doing?”
“Celebrating!” I attempted to say.
“Celebrating what?” she asked. “The existance of beer?”
My knees started to buckle again, so Bernie strenghtened her grip on my collar and hauled me toward her car. “Get in!” she ordered. I wobbled toward the front door. “Not in front!” she shouted. “You smell like fucking puke, and I don’t want your puke covered clothes making my squad car smell like fucking puke! It’s bad enough you got your fucking puke all over my pants.” Such language from an officer of the law. Bernie uncerimoniously dumped me in the back seat.
As she climbed into the driver’s seat, I asked, “Are you taking me to jail?”
“No, you fucking idiot, I’m taking you home.”
“That might not be a good idea, Bern. Angela will probably kill me.”
Bernie mumbled, “I hope so,” and then started to drive. I slumped down and promptly fell asleep.
To give you some perspective at to the state of my inebriatedness, I later learned that the “parking lot” that I had pulled into was actually the median of the enterance to one of those snooty neighborhoods with a ubiquitous name like “Whispering Oaks” or “Rolling Pines.” Not only did I not walk, I had not even exited the car. I had just passed out. Bernie noticed me because my car had three wheels over the curb.
When I awoke, I was still in Bernie’s car, but she was not. It was pitch black. I slowly sat up and felt my stomach lurch. I prepared for another round of barfing. Fortunately, I was all barfed out.
Suddenly the car door opened. I heard Bernie say, “Here’s your fucking, puke covered husband!” She reached in and hauled my out of the car. My legs were a little steadier so I was able to stand with only a little assistance. As my head cleared, I clearly saw in the moonlight the face of my lovely wife. I went toward her to give her heartfelt hug. “Ewwww!” she said and jumped back. “You’re covered in barf!” Rather than a hug, I got a face full of ground.
“Stand back,” Bernie said to Angela. And then it started to rain really HARD. And really cold! Bernie has turned the hose on me! I thrashed, sputtered, and struggled to regain my footing, but mostly just flailed until the hosing stopped.
“I have to get back to the station,” Bernie said. “I have to get the fucking smell of puke out of my fucking unit. If my seargent finds out that I picked up a drunk and just took him home he’ll kick my ass!” With a wrinkle of her nose, she jumped into her car and drove off. When she reached the end of our drive, she stopped, stuck her head out of the window, and shouted, “I parked his fucking car a little ways up on the street where I found him. Hopefully, the next patrol will think it belongs to someone in that neighborhood and not have it towed away!”
Angela was very nice to me that night. She undressed me, cleaned me up, and put me to bed, albiet in one of the guest rooms. As she was leaving the room, I said to her, “Thanks for not being mad.”
“Oh, I’m mad, all right. Your just too drunk to do anything about it tonight. When I’m ready, you’ll get what you deserve.”
Now, my friends, you’ll probably recognize that as one of those little euphimisms for “You’re going to get a spanking.” However, at my level of intoxication, I didn’t really catch her meaning. I promptly fell asleep and forgot all about it.
Part three will explain why I should never forget what my dear wife tells me.
My alcohol-sopped brain suddenly recalled that, shortly after we had met, Bernie had entered the police academy. Apparently, she had decided to engage in her profession of choice right here in the town where I lived!
“How’s it going, Bernie?” I exclaimed. Or rather I tried to exclaim. Bernie related to me later that what actually came out of my mouth was something like, “Hozi go eh brrrrnnee.”
Apparently, Bernie had, by this time, recognized me, too. “Jesus fucking Christ, Frank,” she started, “you smell like fermented puke! What the hell have you been doing?”
“Celebrating!” I attempted to say.
“Celebrating what?” she asked. “The existance of beer?”
My knees started to buckle again, so Bernie strenghtened her grip on my collar and hauled me toward her car. “Get in!” she ordered. I wobbled toward the front door. “Not in front!” she shouted. “You smell like fucking puke, and I don’t want your puke covered clothes making my squad car smell like fucking puke! It’s bad enough you got your fucking puke all over my pants.” Such language from an officer of the law. Bernie uncerimoniously dumped me in the back seat.
As she climbed into the driver’s seat, I asked, “Are you taking me to jail?”
“No, you fucking idiot, I’m taking you home.”
“That might not be a good idea, Bern. Angela will probably kill me.”
Bernie mumbled, “I hope so,” and then started to drive. I slumped down and promptly fell asleep.
To give you some perspective at to the state of my inebriatedness, I later learned that the “parking lot” that I had pulled into was actually the median of the enterance to one of those snooty neighborhoods with a ubiquitous name like “Whispering Oaks” or “Rolling Pines.” Not only did I not walk, I had not even exited the car. I had just passed out. Bernie noticed me because my car had three wheels over the curb.
When I awoke, I was still in Bernie’s car, but she was not. It was pitch black. I slowly sat up and felt my stomach lurch. I prepared for another round of barfing. Fortunately, I was all barfed out.
Suddenly the car door opened. I heard Bernie say, “Here’s your fucking, puke covered husband!” She reached in and hauled my out of the car. My legs were a little steadier so I was able to stand with only a little assistance. As my head cleared, I clearly saw in the moonlight the face of my lovely wife. I went toward her to give her heartfelt hug. “Ewwww!” she said and jumped back. “You’re covered in barf!” Rather than a hug, I got a face full of ground.
“Stand back,” Bernie said to Angela. And then it started to rain really HARD. And really cold! Bernie has turned the hose on me! I thrashed, sputtered, and struggled to regain my footing, but mostly just flailed until the hosing stopped.
“I have to get back to the station,” Bernie said. “I have to get the fucking smell of puke out of my fucking unit. If my seargent finds out that I picked up a drunk and just took him home he’ll kick my ass!” With a wrinkle of her nose, she jumped into her car and drove off. When she reached the end of our drive, she stopped, stuck her head out of the window, and shouted, “I parked his fucking car a little ways up on the street where I found him. Hopefully, the next patrol will think it belongs to someone in that neighborhood and not have it towed away!”
Angela was very nice to me that night. She undressed me, cleaned me up, and put me to bed, albiet in one of the guest rooms. As she was leaving the room, I said to her, “Thanks for not being mad.”
“Oh, I’m mad, all right. Your just too drunk to do anything about it tonight. When I’m ready, you’ll get what you deserve.”
Now, my friends, you’ll probably recognize that as one of those little euphimisms for “You’re going to get a spanking.” However, at my level of intoxication, I didn’t really catch her meaning. I promptly fell asleep and forgot all about it.
Part three will explain why I should never forget what my dear wife tells me.
