I’m not much of a gambler. I don’t play fast and loose with money, I tend to heed the food pyramid (except on weekends when it’s more of a portly sphinx), and I never attempt splits during dance contests. So when I tell you that I decided to bring the trash out to the curb this morning in my bathrobe – my very purple, very fluffy bathrobe – understand that this decision was one of the biggest gambles of my life to date. What makes going outside your house in a bathrobe a gamble, you ask? Well, if you make it out and back without being spotted, you have just saved yourself the aggravation of having to don socially acceptable clothing for something as unceremonious as retrieving the mail (my mail doesn’t care what I look like). BUT, if a neighbor sees you braving the elements in a purple sloth tuxedo, you will be forever referred to at block parties as The Guy Who Goes Out in His Robe. There is only one scenario that is worse than being caught outdoors in your bathrobe by a neighbor, and that is being caught outdoors in your bathrobe by a neighbor who is also in a bathrobe. That, my friends, is the Holy Grail of coincidental mutual shame. At that point, you might as well fire up the grill and invite them over for a bathrobe-a-cue. But back to The Biggest Gamble of My Life To Date. You’re probably wondering if I won or lost, and the answer is… TO BE CONTINUED.
It burns. I am referring to the sixteen ounces of hot sauce I just drank straight from the bottle, not the rash on my legs. That’s a horse of a different color; a horse that went rustling through a forest of poison ivy to retrieve a Frisbee. Stupid horse! Stop playing Frisbee and get back to doing normal horse things! You don’t even have opposable thumbs! YOU’RE A HORSE! [shameful silence] I’m…I’m sorry. I really need to stop taking my own expressions literally. Back to hot sauce! Man, I put that stuff on everything, and I mean everything! From counter tops, to cabinet shelving, to dining tables: give me a level surface, and I WILL put a bottle of hot sauce onto it. Don’t believe me? Why, just yesterday, I put a bottle of Colonel Custard’s Cajun Catsup…on top of my bookshelf! [starts laughing] I know! I know! Who puts hot sauce on a bookshelf?! [stops laughing, deadpan] I do. When you love hot sauce as much as berating imaginary, Frisbee-playing horses, you want it to be readily accessible. That’s why I keep a bottle under my pillow, one in the center console of my car, and one on the shampoo rack in my shower (WARNING: do not reach blindly for the hot sauce while covered in suds, as you will wind up with a mouthful of lavender body-wash). Hey, all this talk about hot sauce is making my mouth water! Hand me that bottle, would you? Yes, the one in your pocket. I put it there about forty-five seconds ago.