The Misinformationarium of Hick Thevictorian

Hick has a habit of speaking to people as if they can read his mind. Giving only the bare bones of details, then seeming as if he wishes to shoot the message-receiver when they don't understand. He has had this habit since I met him, so it's not a recent build-up of Hickretirementitis that is fueling my tale.

I'm sure this habit is one that led to many of Hick's own tales of how the people at work didn't listen to his instructions. They were probably listening, but not mind-reading. When asked for clarification, one of Hick's tactics is to repeat the exact same words, only louder. Several times. Eventually, he throws up his hands, declares, "There's no talking to you!" and stalks away. Perhaps retirement has mellowed Hick, or perhaps his Poparm prevents the arm-throwing. Here's a mild example from Saturday's casino trip.

We were rushed for time, because we left later so Hick could do more business at his Storage Unit Store. I'm not complaining. I actually suggested the later departure. Now that warmer weather has arrived, more people are flea market shopping. Instead of our usual time of 11:30, I picked up Hick at 1:15. Only it was 1:30 when we left, because he was trying to close with 4 customers nosing around his unit. Heh, heh.

This time change would not have mattered much, except that Hick HAD to be back in time to get to the auction, because "They're selling some good stuff tonight." Okay. I'm not even complaining about my limited casino playtime. It takes us an hour to get to this casino. Hick decided we would eat right before leaving, rather than halfway through our visit. He decreed that we'd meet at Burger Brothers at 4:15, eat, and start home by 5:00. Since his car was at the Storage Unit Store, we'd be there by 6:00, which is when he usually leaves home for the auction. Again. Not complaining.

Of course Hick decided to try something besides a burger. He ordered the Italian Sausage, without peppers. It came covered with onions, and Hick said it was good. He ate every crumb. We were about 15 minutes into our trip home when Hick said

"That Italian sausage ain't sittin' well in my stomach."

"Do you want a Pepcid? Here. I have one in my pocket."

"No. That's okay."

"Go ahead. I have it right here. It always works."

"I don't know..." Hick took the proffered Pepcid, though he didn't look convinced. "I feel like I need to stop and poop. My stomach's churning."

"Oh. Well. You didn't say it was your LOWER stomach! Pepcid won't help THAT!"

"I know. I might just go when we get gas."

"Are you sure it was the sausage? Maybe it's just your Hepatitis A kicking in!"

"It's not Hepatitis, Val."

Getting gas took a long time. T-Hoe guzzled $47.58 worth, 18.889 gallons. I will admit that I let him get down lower than my usual half tank, because I knew Hick would put gas in him for me on this trip. We stopped right after we got off the main interstate, and onto the lesser interstate that takes us south to Backroads. It's about halfway for us. Even though Hick paid at the pump, he hustled into the building. I heard the story once we got a few more miles down the road.

"Whew! I really needed to go. The bathroom was FULL!"

Of course, that made me think of overflowing toilets, but being a longtime listener to Hick's mystery-speak, I figured he meant that it was occupied to maximum capacity.

"So the lady working there told me to just use the women's bathroom. I DID! Because I was in a hurry."

"That's hard to believe. It took you so long."

"I had to poop, Val! You can't hurry it. Even though it came out fast. I felt really bad when I came out of there. There was a pregnant woman waiting."

"ACK! That's TERRIBLE! Imagine the smell! Poor pregnant woman."

So...I actually deciphered Hick's intent with this one. The main stumbling block being how his stomach was upset. He should have just said he thought the sausage gave him diarrhea. Or that it made his intestines rumble. Or, like one of my former colleagues from the teacher lunch table, been a little more specific of his "stomach" ailment: "By 2:00, these chicken nuggets are going to be pecking their way out of my descending colon."

We had another visit to the Misinformationarium this morning, but that tale will be told elsewhere. Hick could make a pretty penny if he could sell tickets to that attraction.