Fletchmonster was singing with his grandmother the other day. I tend to teach the boys classics like Cash's "Ring of Fire" or Van Halen's "Jamie's Crying." She, on the other hand, opts for the standards. The Fletchmonster, ever the pragmatist, stood his ground and made me proud.
Grandma: It's raining, it's pouring. The old man is....
Grandma: Nooo. Snoring! It's raining, it's pouring. The old man is...
Now I could have just chalked this one up as one of those "cute things kids say" kind of thing that would yield mindless guffaws from Bill Cosby's fan base, except I think the boy was trying to tell me something... Kind of like in a f*cked up "The Shining" vein, with the "Red rum... Red rum" mantra.
Me: You're darned right, Fletchmonster. The old man was wet!
I make my way upstairs to take a quick shower and wash the thin layer of grime that's coated my skin. As I step out of the tub, I grab the first and only towel in the bathroom. Laundry's a little backed up so the only towel left was the decorative one that nobody uses - only it was a little damp.
It was at this point that I recalled that my father-in-law had just taken a shower and realized that I had contingently just buried my face in his wrinkled, wet ass.
I got back in the shower and scrubbed. Vigorously.
"Red rump. Red rump."