Jerry's Dink
By Jerry Daila Enema
At first I was excited.
I actually started to laugh at the grotesque nature of my limp predicament.
But, slowly, ever so slowly, I began to enjoy myself.
At one point, I put on some old Frank Sinatra ballads. But breathing became an issue and I pondered, "Can an ancient bald guy die trying to well, you know?...What an incredibly stupid way to recapture my youth.
How would my family take this act? The papers will never let me live this down.
It all started last Saturday when I was watching the Playboy channel. My wife, the mummified Judy Sphinct, was having her nails done. It was late afternoon and I felt stirrings I hadn't felt since the Mets won in 1969. I decided to run a bath after popping my little blue friend.
Now I must confess that I love bubble baths because they hide my furry beer belly. In fact, I poured every bubble bath lotion imaginable into my hand in order to capture that elusive feeling. I was feeling powerful...I was feeling potent...I was just about to...
"Honey I'm home," my wife Judy said as she opened the bathroom door. Thinking on my ass, I slid into the water and tried to hide under my rubber ducky. That's when I freaked out. The more I moved, the more I slipped into the water. The bubbles covered my signature glasses and I lost all feeling from the waist down. Bathus interruptus!
When I came out of the bathroom and told my family of my near-viagra experience, they took one look at the wet copy of Playboy by the bathtub and they knew what I was trying to do. "We should just hire you a hooker you dirty old coot," said Judy. My son B.J. said nothing. I could read his mind: "What was Dad really doing with his rubber ducky?"
My daughter Messy gave a better summation. "If you ever pull a stunt like that again, Dad, and I won't let you throw any more slumber parties with my friends."
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