Aa-and ... Bob's yer uncle.
It's been ... quite a while since I posted. Quite a while. Now, it just seems appropriate.
Bob Morris is not my blood uncle, but is in any other way that matters. Not least of all because of the hilarious stories and toilet humor. If Bob ever heard a fart that wasn't funny, then it wasn't really a fart in the first place. Some folks wouldn't consider that much of a compliment, but as far as I'm concerned it should be some kind of godamn medal. He should've received the US Medal of Honor for Uncommon Flatulence years ago. Bob, "blonde" as could be and rural as you like, was the first person to introduce me to Latin: "Et toot, Brute?"
Bob was in construction. In specific, a roofer, but damn near anthing involved in building something--just ask. Electrical, plumbing, drywall, Bob's yer man. I have often enterained the idea of drafting a home that Bob would build. Seriously. I'd trust the fucking thing to stand up to most things short of an H-Bomb. And if we had a few weeks to work at it, even that could be shrugged off.
I don't overstate, all that much. Bob's just that fucking good.
Be that as it may, Uncle Bob has been one of the biggest understated cut-ups of my life. I don't think there's ever been a time when I did not come away from being near Bob feeling, at least emotionally, exponentially lighter than before he showed up. There were plenty of times I felt physically heavier, but that was mostly due to putting away a lot of good food, and sometimes a significant amount of alcohol.
But I was going to pass along an Uncle Bob toilet humor tale, right? So-o ...
Bob and my Da were working a roofing job down in Lexington, KY one early summer. They were putting a copper roof on some city government building or other. This was, like, five storeys or so from ground level. Which mean they, almost obviously, were up there with no means of cooling themselves other than whatever errant breeze happened to pass, laying down a roof that is not only a metal but highly reflective, day after day through the early summer.
Fucking. Hot. Oh, yeah. Like, whoa. Woe, even, as Bob would no doubt quip.
So, after the second day up there, they all go out for a night of ... relaxation, as it were. Intense relaxation, it turns out. Bob recounts pouring my father through the keyhole of the front door at the end of it all kinda relaxation.
The following day, Da calls up Bob and tells him there's no fucking way, come hell or high water, that he's making it to the work site that day. Bob, ever the easy=going individual says "no problem," despite that he's not in much better shape (Uncle Bob is between the ages of me and Da--'bout ten years or so older than me and 'bout ten years or so younger than Da).
Did I forget to mention that the worksite is a little over two hours away from the living arangements of the concerned? Sorry. That'll be quite important in a minute or two.
My family come from the southern Ohio/northwestern West Virginia region. Lexington, KY is, depending on the lead intrinsic to your foot, around two hours south west of that. And Bob has to make that drive by himself that five a.m. After a night of drinking that I, at my most alcoholic, could not match. And we ain't even mentioning any pills that might have slipped here-n-there, 'kay?
So, Bob gets somewhere down past Morehead (huh, huh), KY, which is around an hour's drive from where we lived. And he has to make a ... break. A restroom is a necessity. Not just a convenience. An outright need.
If any of you reading this have had a good drunk-on, then ya know what I mean. The man hadda supplication to the porcelain deities he just HAD to make. And not exactly a vocal one, y'see?
So, Uncle Bob gets off the Interstate at some little podunk Kentucky byway and makes for the restroom. To find that he needs a key to enter (which may be a particularly American thing, and if not ... I'm sorry, you poor bastards). He heads back to the attendant and gets the restroom key, then makes back for the restroom in what he describes as a kind of bent-leg shuffling run, although he's trying to play it cool and make it more of a saunter than a run. Even to hear Bob tell it--who can out tall-tale me like you woulrdn't believe--there is not a lick of casual in his stride. He may be trying to appear casual, but he knows he's in a race against pottytime.
Bob gets back to the restroom door. He's fighting the gastronomical biological clock. The key skitters around lockplate. Oh, boy, is it gonna be a close freakin thing. There is a fart that is trying to grow up way too fast, it's voice warbling between a childish squeak and manly baritone, as the key finally fits itself into the lockface. There is another that voices itself as what might best be described as "burble" as the lock trips in its housing.
And then, finally, Bob Wrenches the door open! Freedooooooooooom! Or, at the very least, relief of sorts is in sight. Literally. Despite that it is a blip on the US Interstate highway, the gas station at which Bob finds himself keeps the restrooms nearly pristine! Bob hears the Ode to Joy. And maybe whispers a muted "thank God" while bent nearly double and trying to hold last night's festivities in.
The man gets to the stall door. Relief, release and the saving of his dignity is not more than three feet away from him. He stiff-arms the stall door open, sees the welcoming porcelain throne before him ... and pauses. Not voluntarily. A cramp in the gut has stopped him in his tracks. He writhes. He twists. He does an unhappy little dance there in some un=remembered Kentucky gas station restroom. There is a spike twisting in his gut ...
There is a fart.
Oh, is there ever. Not a monumental fart, no. Just a fart that begins as "frt" and end as, well ... "ppbpbpbpblt."
Sad, but true.
Luckily, it also, so far as Bob knows, appears to be one that is contained merely to his tighty whiteys. Oh, halleluja. Praise the Jesus.
Then curse like the Devil when you notice that there is no toilet paper in the stall. Nor is there any toilet paper IN THE WHOLE FUCKING RESTROOM.
DAMN it.
My Uncle Bob contemplates the situation. Despite that I have said that he has a blonde streak, he reaches a decision fairly quickly (like now).
He steps into the stall--gingerly--and slams the door. He unbuckles and drops his jeans to survey the damage. There is none--a blessing. But, not heeding his mother's advice, there is no fresh pair of underpants in the glovebox of his truck. Well, some things can't be avoided, as he has so stunningly proven to himself. So, he must go commando. No big deal.
But! How to go about this?
He surveys his tighty-whiteys, briefly--oh, gawd, so briefly. There is no cure, nor hope for them. Damn.
There is also no hope that he's going to get the damn things off in the conventional way without truly fouling himself.
Therefore: Resorting to his belt knife is his only choice. But, oh, it is not a choice choice, and even Uncle Bob will admit this.
So, the poor man cuts his underwear off. Cleans himself up as best he can, in limited space and time, as he just KNOWS that at any moment someone is going to walk in and ask just what the hell is going on.
Bob manages to get himself cleaned up and composed as best he can, then castas about for a place to dispose of the evidence, so to speak. And discovers that, though this Kentucky gas station keeps its restrooms relatively clean, they appear to have forgotten to place a trash bin in the men's anywhere. So Uncle Bob is standing there with what equates to an adult shitty diaper in his hand, wondering what the fuck to do with the cotton-wrapped celebratory shit. Leaving it on the floor is not the way to go, and trying to flush it is unthinkable--he has plumbing experience, after all, and would not do that to the poor shlub called out to deal with it.
Which means he does the only thing he can with it, considering that he has the sick and twisted sense of humor that he does (and for which I love the man like you cannot possibly believe). He stuffs the package up the TP dispenser to hide it from sight.
Exiting the restroom, he tells himself how badly he feels for the poor fucker that next goes into the toilet here and reaches for the necessary paper product. All the while, Bob is chuckling like the truly bent individual he is.
*****
I just talked with the family. Bob Morris was found dead this morning in his bed. Actual cause of death is unknow. My Da was out with him last night, trying to pull him out of one of his periodic downturns. He told my mother, at one point this last week while sitting in Bob's van, "I am really depressed."
That is a state the Uncle Bob I remember rarely had to deal with for more than a couple of minutes. He always shrugged it off like you or I shrug off a breeze.
Right now there is some question about what caused his death--he was relatively young, after all. It may have been a heart attack. There is a slight--slight--chance he flubbed somewhere in his meds. No one==NO ONE--believes this could have been on purpose. And if you give me proof of it, I will curse you and fight you about it till I draw my last breath. Because Bob Morris was Uncle Bob. Whatever his faults, and there were faults, I'll admit, Bob was an example of what EVERYone wants to be.
I'm going to miss you, Bob. Hard.
Rest eay, man.
Bob Morris is not my blood uncle, but is in any other way that matters. Not least of all because of the hilarious stories and toilet humor. If Bob ever heard a fart that wasn't funny, then it wasn't really a fart in the first place. Some folks wouldn't consider that much of a compliment, but as far as I'm concerned it should be some kind of godamn medal. He should've received the US Medal of Honor for Uncommon Flatulence years ago. Bob, "blonde" as could be and rural as you like, was the first person to introduce me to Latin: "Et toot, Brute?"
Bob was in construction. In specific, a roofer, but damn near anthing involved in building something--just ask. Electrical, plumbing, drywall, Bob's yer man. I have often enterained the idea of drafting a home that Bob would build. Seriously. I'd trust the fucking thing to stand up to most things short of an H-Bomb. And if we had a few weeks to work at it, even that could be shrugged off.
I don't overstate, all that much. Bob's just that fucking good.
Be that as it may, Uncle Bob has been one of the biggest understated cut-ups of my life. I don't think there's ever been a time when I did not come away from being near Bob feeling, at least emotionally, exponentially lighter than before he showed up. There were plenty of times I felt physically heavier, but that was mostly due to putting away a lot of good food, and sometimes a significant amount of alcohol.
But I was going to pass along an Uncle Bob toilet humor tale, right? So-o ...
Bob and my Da were working a roofing job down in Lexington, KY one early summer. They were putting a copper roof on some city government building or other. This was, like, five storeys or so from ground level. Which mean they, almost obviously, were up there with no means of cooling themselves other than whatever errant breeze happened to pass, laying down a roof that is not only a metal but highly reflective, day after day through the early summer.
Fucking. Hot. Oh, yeah. Like, whoa. Woe, even, as Bob would no doubt quip.
So, after the second day up there, they all go out for a night of ... relaxation, as it were. Intense relaxation, it turns out. Bob recounts pouring my father through the keyhole of the front door at the end of it all kinda relaxation.
The following day, Da calls up Bob and tells him there's no fucking way, come hell or high water, that he's making it to the work site that day. Bob, ever the easy=going individual says "no problem," despite that he's not in much better shape (Uncle Bob is between the ages of me and Da--'bout ten years or so older than me and 'bout ten years or so younger than Da).
Did I forget to mention that the worksite is a little over two hours away from the living arangements of the concerned? Sorry. That'll be quite important in a minute or two.
My family come from the southern Ohio/northwestern West Virginia region. Lexington, KY is, depending on the lead intrinsic to your foot, around two hours south west of that. And Bob has to make that drive by himself that five a.m. After a night of drinking that I, at my most alcoholic, could not match. And we ain't even mentioning any pills that might have slipped here-n-there, 'kay?
So, Bob gets somewhere down past Morehead (huh, huh), KY, which is around an hour's drive from where we lived. And he has to make a ... break. A restroom is a necessity. Not just a convenience. An outright need.
If any of you reading this have had a good drunk-on, then ya know what I mean. The man hadda supplication to the porcelain deities he just HAD to make. And not exactly a vocal one, y'see?
So, Uncle Bob gets off the Interstate at some little podunk Kentucky byway and makes for the restroom. To find that he needs a key to enter (which may be a particularly American thing, and if not ... I'm sorry, you poor bastards). He heads back to the attendant and gets the restroom key, then makes back for the restroom in what he describes as a kind of bent-leg shuffling run, although he's trying to play it cool and make it more of a saunter than a run. Even to hear Bob tell it--who can out tall-tale me like you woulrdn't believe--there is not a lick of casual in his stride. He may be trying to appear casual, but he knows he's in a race against pottytime.
Bob gets back to the restroom door. He's fighting the gastronomical biological clock. The key skitters around lockplate. Oh, boy, is it gonna be a close freakin thing. There is a fart that is trying to grow up way too fast, it's voice warbling between a childish squeak and manly baritone, as the key finally fits itself into the lockface. There is another that voices itself as what might best be described as "burble" as the lock trips in its housing.
And then, finally, Bob Wrenches the door open! Freedooooooooooom! Or, at the very least, relief of sorts is in sight. Literally. Despite that it is a blip on the US Interstate highway, the gas station at which Bob finds himself keeps the restrooms nearly pristine! Bob hears the Ode to Joy. And maybe whispers a muted "thank God" while bent nearly double and trying to hold last night's festivities in.
The man gets to the stall door. Relief, release and the saving of his dignity is not more than three feet away from him. He stiff-arms the stall door open, sees the welcoming porcelain throne before him ... and pauses. Not voluntarily. A cramp in the gut has stopped him in his tracks. He writhes. He twists. He does an unhappy little dance there in some un=remembered Kentucky gas station restroom. There is a spike twisting in his gut ...
There is a fart.
Oh, is there ever. Not a monumental fart, no. Just a fart that begins as "frt" and end as, well ... "ppbpbpbpblt."
Sad, but true.
Luckily, it also, so far as Bob knows, appears to be one that is contained merely to his tighty whiteys. Oh, halleluja. Praise the Jesus.
Then curse like the Devil when you notice that there is no toilet paper in the stall. Nor is there any toilet paper IN THE WHOLE FUCKING RESTROOM.
DAMN it.
My Uncle Bob contemplates the situation. Despite that I have said that he has a blonde streak, he reaches a decision fairly quickly (like now).
He steps into the stall--gingerly--and slams the door. He unbuckles and drops his jeans to survey the damage. There is none--a blessing. But, not heeding his mother's advice, there is no fresh pair of underpants in the glovebox of his truck. Well, some things can't be avoided, as he has so stunningly proven to himself. So, he must go commando. No big deal.
But! How to go about this?
He surveys his tighty-whiteys, briefly--oh, gawd, so briefly. There is no cure, nor hope for them. Damn.
There is also no hope that he's going to get the damn things off in the conventional way without truly fouling himself.
Therefore: Resorting to his belt knife is his only choice. But, oh, it is not a choice choice, and even Uncle Bob will admit this.
So, the poor man cuts his underwear off. Cleans himself up as best he can, in limited space and time, as he just KNOWS that at any moment someone is going to walk in and ask just what the hell is going on.
Bob manages to get himself cleaned up and composed as best he can, then castas about for a place to dispose of the evidence, so to speak. And discovers that, though this Kentucky gas station keeps its restrooms relatively clean, they appear to have forgotten to place a trash bin in the men's anywhere. So Uncle Bob is standing there with what equates to an adult shitty diaper in his hand, wondering what the fuck to do with the cotton-wrapped celebratory shit. Leaving it on the floor is not the way to go, and trying to flush it is unthinkable--he has plumbing experience, after all, and would not do that to the poor shlub called out to deal with it.
Which means he does the only thing he can with it, considering that he has the sick and twisted sense of humor that he does (and for which I love the man like you cannot possibly believe). He stuffs the package up the TP dispenser to hide it from sight.
Exiting the restroom, he tells himself how badly he feels for the poor fucker that next goes into the toilet here and reaches for the necessary paper product. All the while, Bob is chuckling like the truly bent individual he is.
*****
I just talked with the family. Bob Morris was found dead this morning in his bed. Actual cause of death is unknow. My Da was out with him last night, trying to pull him out of one of his periodic downturns. He told my mother, at one point this last week while sitting in Bob's van, "I am really depressed."
That is a state the Uncle Bob I remember rarely had to deal with for more than a couple of minutes. He always shrugged it off like you or I shrug off a breeze.
Right now there is some question about what caused his death--he was relatively young, after all. It may have been a heart attack. There is a slight--slight--chance he flubbed somewhere in his meds. No one==NO ONE--believes this could have been on purpose. And if you give me proof of it, I will curse you and fight you about it till I draw my last breath. Because Bob Morris was Uncle Bob. Whatever his faults, and there were faults, I'll admit, Bob was an example of what EVERYone wants to be.
I'm going to miss you, Bob. Hard.
Rest eay, man.