If this protocol makes no sense to you, it probably means you never played potato golf in our backyard. It is a truly disgusting sport, and tonight was a perfect night for it.
We started with some red potatoes ("I get the potatoes, the red potatoes," says Don Vito). These potatoes had been in our summer-warm kitchen for weeks -- all soft and overgrown with tuber sprouts. It was time to compost them. Or better. As you can see, we've done this before. Several times.
Notice how brown and crunchy our grass is? Been a hot dry summer. And yardwork is blowjhinsky.
Earlier today we stopped at Bob Evans for early lunch. Late breakfast, really. I like to order eggs over medium -- mostly because I prefer them that way, but also because it fascinates me how many places don't know what that means. I don't dislike the more common eggs over easy, and that's a good thing because that's typically what is sent out to me from the kitchen.
Anyway, we finished eating and went to the cashier to pay. The boys grabbed candy bars and lollipops and I said no and no. There was a cup with toothpicks. We each took a toothpick instead. As we went to the car the boys proposed keeping them in their mouths all day so they could look cool like the Ivan Vanko character in the Iron Man 2 movie we watched last night.
"Look cool? That guy looked scary," I said. I explained that I would prefer to flick the toothpick off the edge of my top front teeth the way Murdoc does while driving the dune buggy in the old Gorillaz video. So like a trio of dorks we stuck toothpicks in our mouths and drove to Lowes to buy a reciprocating saw (did I mention I have a lot of projects to complete during my week off?).
While entering the Lowes parking lot I finally got the toothpick propped vertically in the front of my open mouth. I tried to flick the top part forward. It worked, sort of. The fail started when I closed my mouth too quickly, sending the pointy top of the toothpick up into the soft underside of my nose, right between the nostrils.
"Aaaagh! I stabbed myself in the nose!"
Mojo was in the front passenger seat watching me; he had seen the whole thing. Meaning there was no use trying to deny what I had just done. And it was a good thing we were in the parking lot because lancing your nose like that hurts about the same as yanking a nostril hair -- I had tears welling up in my eyes.
So did the boys... from laughing so hard.