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Things that make you go “Gah!”

Oh man. I’ve been such a slacker. Don’t worry. I’ve already had a concerned email from Roadie wondering if perhaps I had been thrown in jail after our ballyhooed trip to the Bad Bar. Nah. Just lazy. I’m pretty sure that’s not against the law yet.

First of all, the grossness.

I’m warning you right now. Proceed at your own risk. Keep your hands inside the vehicle at all times. You must be this tall to board this ride.

First, for lunch, I brought some lovely snooty deli hummus and snooty deli bread for lunch. I felt very smug and self-righteous, as though Martha Stewart’s little kitchen gnomes had kneaded my Au Pain loaf just for me.

And I was chewing and you know when you’re chewing bread and there’s like a hard spot that just doesn’t….erm…. dissolve? Yeah. I had one of those.

So I freaked out and spit it out.

GAH!

It was some kind of curled up larval thing. One of those flour wormy things, all smooshed by my incisors.

Never in my life has the word ‘GAH!’ been more appropriate.

As God as my witness, I’m never going to eat another flour-based product as long as I live. Or at least until I get a jones for a snickerdoodle or something. I’m not a robot!

It just might be one of the most disgusting mouth moments I’ve ever had. Right up there under the time that I rode my bike to the gas station and bought some lime green Hubba Bubba bubble gum and popped a huge hunk into my mouth, then rode off on my lime green Schwinn with the ape hanger handle bars, the white and pink daisy covered banana seat and the basket off the front with psychedelic daisies on it, and as I was happily chewing to get the gum to optimal bubble-making consistency. I had read about a bubble-blowing contest in Bananas magazine and I had dreams of going to Columbus Ohio, home of the World’s Biggest Bubble competition and scoring myself a lifetime supply of Bubblicious myself. Which I would then sell for pennies on the dollar and buy myself Hubba Bubba, which didn’t stick to your face and was preferred by bubble connoisseurs worldwide. Anywhoo, I’m working my wad (Oooh yeah, baby, yeah! Wakka chicka wakka chicka!) when suddenly

OH MY GOD! VOMITOUS BILE TASTING CRUNCHY WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT IN MY MOUTH SPITEW! SPIT! SPIT! GAH! SPITCH! PPSBBTS!!!!

I spit out the gum and then recovered, mentally and physically after coasting to a stop. Then I started to wonder. I hadn’t been stung or anything but WHAT WAS IT? I peddled back but the wad was gone. It’s a mystery even to this day. I was pretty certain that a bug had flown into my mouth but now there was no macerated bug amidst ABC gum as evidence. There wasn’t even any ABC gum? Had it been a particularly tenacious bug which had survived the chewing due to my rather bad pre-orthodontist overbite? Was there a sticky wad of Hubba Bubba flying low around the neighborhood at that very moment? Along with the ‘How Many Licks’ Tootsie Pop mystery, the uncertainty, the mystery of the entire event plaued my childhood. Because I knew that it couldn’t have been an isolated incident, I wrote to Leonard Nimoy to do an ‘In Search Of’ on the whole thing. He sent me a reply ‘Dear Whita Bixt, Thank you for an interest in Mr. Nimoy. Watch for him at Star Trek conventions around the country. Enclosed you will find an autographed picture of Mr. Nimoy, signed especially for you Whita! Live long and prosper! Sincerely, Kenneth T. Stanton, President, Leonard Nimoy Fan Club’

Ok. Maybe I made that part up. But it was still the grossest thing I’ve ever had in my mouth. Even in college, when my sage roommate Kassandra warned me to never put my mouth on anything that pee came out of and I blatantly disregarded that advice, even THAT wasn’t as bad as the gum incident.

But the larval worm in my bread. Gah. And it’s not like it was cheap either. It was a $5 loaf, good for maybe eight slices. You’d think that for $5, it would be a pretty sure thing to get an infestation free loaf. But no. Not to be.

I had a bunch of other stuff to write about but I think I’ve exhausted my ambition today. It’s summer. It’s not my fault. I’m a slacker in the summer. I didn’t even put on underwear this morning because I couldn’t be bothered with walking over to the dresser and opening the drawer and who really needs underwear anyway? It’s not like I’m a boy and have skid mark problems or anything. And besides, I was not only avoiding unsightly panty lines but also decreasing the amount of dirty laundry I would have to do, thereby giving me more unmitigated slacking time. And Esteban likes it because when he goes for a surrepitous feel up my way-too-large shorts, he is unencomubered by girly panties. See? Everyone’s happy. It’s all good. Well, except maybe for my Mafia Grandma whose theory is that we do things to prevent bad things from happening and we wear clean underwear so that we’re not in an accident and taken to the hospital and then embarrassed because we have dirty underwear on. Well, I’m thinking in this case, maybe the doctors would be like ‘Whoa. No underwear. This one’s a curvy round sex kitten. We’d better save her life because hey, she will be really grateful and maybe want to, you know, wink wink nudge nudge wakka chicka bow bow.’ Because in my world, all the doctors act like Joey Tribiani aka Doctor Drake Ramoray.

Bah. I’m going back in the pool now. Enjoy the rest of the weekend. More later if I don’t get sequestered when I report for Jury Duty tomorrow morning.

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