Hick strolled out of the bedroom yesterday morning in his tighty-whities, and plopped down on the living room long couch to rub lotion on his feet. He's not some dermatologically-obsessed metrosexual, nor a captive I keep in a well, urging to rub the lotion on his skin, lest he get the hose again. No, he's not even trying to pave the way for an athlete's-foot-free world. It's prescription foot medicine for aching feet. But that's not the story.
"You know how you're always writing about my antics? I never get to read them. You just ask me to sign off on them."
"I handed you a copy and said you could read it! And you said, 'Naw, that's okay' and shoved it back at me!"
"All right. I admit that you gave me a copy. But here's one for you. Even Genius saw where this one was going:
Remember when I went out east? We were in Boston, and I had to go to the bathroom. I went in, and couldn't get into a stall until I put a quarter in. I yanked out a handful of change and finally found a quarter. When I got through the door, that toilet was nasty. I took some toilet paper and cleaned it up. I threw the toilet paper in the toilet and flushed it. Then I turned around and dropped my pants to go to the bathroom. I had just sat down when the door opened. It wouldn't close without another quarter. I didn't have another quarter! I couldn't get up. I hollered for one of the guys on the trip with me. 'Bob! Put in a quarter!' He had one, or I would have been sitting there exposed while I took a dump."
"That's a really good story."
"Yeah. You oughta use that one."
Vanity, thy name is Hick.