johnnyfive

Some Focker Cursed Me...

or so it would seem, for after a Christmas viewing of the film, "Meet the Fockers" a series of unfortunate events ensued. As I shifted my weight to rise from my theater seat I heard a spine tingling metal-on-metal screech as the left side of the seat fell about a foot and pinned my sideways in my seat. The seat cushion had closed to an upright, acute angle trapping me in the seat like a pearl in a clam. I had to rock my weight and make a kind of leap out of the seat, which sent the whole monstrosity clammoring to the ground sounding like a wrecking ball in a china store. Hysterically and vociferously cackling my way out of the theater, I made my way to the bathroom where I made use of my well honed multi-tasking skills to relieve myself and check my cell phone messages. I took off my hat and tucked in under my arm as I used the shoulder of the same arm to cradle my cell phone, leaving both hands free to deal with other tasks at hand. Using my foot to flush at the same time that I reached up to punch in my code on my phone, I loosened my underarm grip on my hat too much and it plumeted into the flushing toliet. Fighting the tug of the spiraling ceptic suck was like fighting the drag of a heavy ocean current and with one desperate tug I dislodged the hat from the comode's whirlpool, and in turn flung a heavy mist of toliet water onto my face. The full moon was a safe day away and I was totally sober, so fear of my clumsiness settled like a weight in water. Carefully, I made my way home and hoped not to choke on air in my sleep.