By Sunday whatever shreds of dignity I had left were tenuous at best. My third night straight of going out, of laughing way too much at my own humor (ok, the humor of Jake Kasdan and Judd Apatow, “One, I’m the King. Two, watch out!”), and dancing like a drunken extra in Pulp Fiction. Actually, I was drunk, and I have been an extra, although not on Pulp Fiction, on 21 Grams, so I think that does give my body of work some credibility and honesty.
Unfortunately, my rear of my jeans was being held together as tenuously as my dignity as I held my nose and went under for the second time, doing a poor impression of the swim while dancing with a pretty young woman.
The rip was audible.
I stood immediately and clasped the hole together with my left hand while moving around the wall back to our table. The rip felt like, and was later confirmed by independent witnesses, to be approximately six inches long. Have I mentioned that I rarely wear underwear? It’s a habit I learned while in Viet Nam and I don’t want to talk about it.
There was no way to hide the rip except to stay seated the rest of the night, and I didn’t see that happening as the only other male at the table was already acting like Eeyore and refusing to dance, so I concocted a crazy story, “Hey, I ripped the hell out of my pants with my huge ass. I’m going to change, I’ll be right back.”
They bought it, and I walked out of Lucy’s with my head held high, my rip flapping, and as I walked back to the Café the cool breeze felt really, really good on my bare ass.
24 minutes ago