Why is the Government in my Shower?

I told my daughter to wash the dogs and she lifted a headphone long enough to say it was too cold. This is one of a litany of ridiculous excuses, but I let her get away with it until the dogs smelled so bad I could pinpoint their location when I pulled into the driveway. At that point, something had to give. “This is Georgia”, I ranted. “It’s a mild fall! They have fur to keep them warm!”

Unconvinced, my animal rights advocate negotiated the use of my shower for the canines. They got washed and I got a nice slugtrail of dog water from the bathroom to the porch. Great.

After she emerged, she had the audacity to question the water pressure in my shower. I told her it was weak because that’s where the government lives. Her eyes grew wide for just a second while she considered the implications. But as with most things I tell her, she quickly sized it up to poppycock and trudged off to interact with actual intelligence of the electronic variety. She didn’t believe the old man, but it is true.

Like mold growing over cheese in the back corner of the fridge, the government is no longer content with mattress legislation and has steadily crept into our collective bathroom. I’ve already had a fight with them over the anti-scald valve – a fight I am proud to say I won. A snip here and a tug there and I bypassed their foolish legislation so that my wife can enjoy a steamy winter shower to her heart’s content. For at least that day, I was her knight in dripping armor. But now they have forced shower head manufacturers to reduce the flow of water in my shower to a measly 2.5 gallon per minute trickle! Is nothing sacred? I’m past fifty now, I know all about reduced flow but there are some things that can be helped.

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This is the same government that finally heeded the request of veterans to issue ID cards. Yes, rather than carry your DD-214 in your wallet (which bears your social security number), congress forced the VA to create a better identification system in 2015. That was two years ago. The government has all of my information and issues ID’s for everything, but it took over two years for them to create the framework. I want my discount at Denny’s without opening myself up to identity theft!

The mandated deadline for creating the process was November 2017. On the last day of the month, the system opened… and promptly crashed. It is dead as a doornail. I assume it will take another two years to fix it. After all, they are too busy tinkering with my shower.

This discontented and unidentified veteran has a wrench. I took the nozzle off and found it clogged with calcium deposits. A quick internet search led me to a baking soda/vinegar concoction that didn’t work. A second search told me about water pressure restrictors. I don’t like restrictions! Why is the government obsessed with my shower?

All it took was needle-nose plyers to remove the governmental interference and the first test blew out enough calcium to meet the National Institute of Health’s yearly requirement for a lactating woman. It’s like standing under a pressure-washer. This morning I lost three freckles and part of a tattoo, but it was totally worth the price to live free from government tyranny.

If I could only get 25% off a Grand Slam breakfast, I would be swimming in liberty.

Mooning the Preacher

I don’t know how mooning started as a thing. Was it a prank, a stunt, or a joke? I can see a comedian bombing onstage and thinking, “Well, I’ve got nothing else left,” before reaching for his zipper. Or did some soldier looked at his enemy and decided, “I cannot beat you, therefore, I will expose my butt to you!”

In case you’re too young or too mature (doubtful since you’ve read this far) for that sort of thing, the dictionary defines it as:

Moon /slang/: (v) to expose one’s buttocks to (someone) in order to insult or amuse them.

It may have disappeared from popular culture for a time but was ushered right back in with that paragon of cinematic genius, Porkies. That movie spoke to me. There were several things my young self took away from it, one of which was a desire to moon someone.

One must wait for the right time and situation to moon properly. Or sometimes, those situations just arrive and you unwittingly share full view of your buttocks with innocent eyes. So it was for me.

The summer of 1984: my friend Andy and I had been asked to paint the interior of the youth building at our local church. It was a good job, even though we weren’t good at it. I recall that we were covering an off-white with a pale brown. Of course, the first thing we did was paint all kinds of bawdy words on the walls, giggle, and then cover them with paint to make them disappear. And we almost got caught. Luckily Andy was able to distract while I played Letter-man and brushed over a consonant or two.

That should show the maturity level of the paint crew. If more evidence is needed, what happened when these paragons of sophistication go to the other building to wash their brushes and find a 35mm camera sitting on a shelf?

Naturally, they moon it. They moon it from every angle!

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Andy didn’t think there was film in the camera so he became the photographer. He was snapping away while I posed like a butt model – if there is such a thing.

“The camera loves you!”

“Yes, to your left a little. A little more. That’s perfect.”

We were hamming it up when we heard two sounds that stopped us cold.

The first was the sound of the door opening.

The second was the unmistakable sound of the camera rewinding a roll of spent film!

Andy quickly put the camera back up on the shelf while I covered my bum and we hurriedly resumed our brush-washing. Luckily, the film finished rolling up before the preacher peeked his head around the corner. We made small talk and scuttled back to the other building as soon as possible.

Grace is a remarkable thing.

We finished painting over the next few days – a little more serious about our work than before. While we expected a hand of justice at any time, it never came. I found out later the church used that camera to take pictures of new members. Can you imagine what happened when they got that roll of film developed? I have a vivid mental picture of that kindly preacher sitting in bed with his wife and the pictures fresh from the Fotomat.

“Oh, honey look – the Clements. What a nice couple.”

“And the Jenkins. They’re a handsome family. This could be their Christmas card. I think I’ll give them the negative.”

“Mr. Adams – he’s such a stoic man but I think he’ll be a good usher…”

And then… my butt… over and over again from many different angles. Still, he never said a word. Grace… or perhaps he is waiting for me to get famous and then he’ll blackmail me over my butt-tape.

Rationally I know the market for that would be nonexistent. I just like to think that he chuckled about the clowns he’d hired and threw the pictures out. But maybe, maybe the preacher was a Porkies fan, too!