Kenneth, born and raised in the South, resides in Hamilton, Alabama. He enjoys sharing his unique perspectives on life through his writing.
I Urge You to Please
be honest with yourself and me. Guys, if you and your wife (or girlfriend), are ever siting in a nice restaurant about to dine, and your female companion has to "powder her nose" leaving you to hold down the table and you get bored. How does boredom affect you? Care to share? (Thank you for what you are hopefully about to read. Kenneth.)
It's fun. A big time. Some might argue it being my guilty humor. This happens many times when I am so bored that I seek interest in watching rain drops race down the outside window. In my mind I am the track announcer. Here comes "Wishy Wish" at the Club House turn followed by "Dampy Drip" taking second. No one can read my mind here at this restaurant trying to turn a somersalt for thinking these are Four Star digs. My wife has over-stayed her visit to the Powder Room, so these free Mental Events bring me a lot of fun and a few good laughs while I'm waiting for a dirty glass of tap water and an outdated menu with ragged edges.
Not my wife, Pam. Not President Trump, or any of his Secret Service agents can read minds, mine included, so I can have all of this fun I want--without anyone yelling, "Get your hands up! Put your hands behind your back!" Which one, I think to myself. I doubt seriously if President Trump and entourage would dare to darken the door with that annoying little bell on it--near my table where Pam has yet to come and tell our waiter, "Belk," a Mississippi State student working for his Master's Degree on Southern Agribusiness and Catfish Farming.
"Belk," a very friendly guy of 22, leaves our table. I'm already bored stiff with the raindrop races and hoping to see President Trump walk through the door where my wife and I are seated awaiting to get a bite and head home after a long day of shopping and sight-seeing in Tupelo, Miss. So what If I were to lunge at Trump with a slice of fine, Mississippi cornbread given to Pam and me from "Belk" as a get acquainted gift? Sure, I'd be wrestled to the wooden floor by Trump's muscular, swift Secret Service agents. But after I explain that I voted for Trump and helped a few hundred more now-ex-Democrats who voted for him, he grins, shakes my hand and accepts the cornbread and walks back into the dining room where he can dine in peace.
While Pam is doing whatever she is doing in the Ladies Room, I have found a more-engaging Mental Game that is very challenging and keeps my mind sharp. Crotch Challenge is my new game that I play to myself to fight off the sheer boredom that if I stop creating games, I will fall dead-on-my-face asleep on the wooden floor.
This Crotch Challenge should be a hit with college juniors who are still young enough to look for kicks if they live in Tupelo and mature enough to not be hauled to jail for improper behavior. I watch the door open and if I see a man and woman, I zero-in on the man's crotch and rate his junk from 1 through 7 with 7 being the highest number that can be won in my game. Uh, oh. A day laborer. He's wearing jeans. Yep. Construction worker. No junk to brag about. He's 30. She's 22. You get the sexual potency here. I give the worker, 5. Decent grade, but no bragging in the Men's Room.
Finally, Pam returns as I close down my Crotch Challenge. An Old South doctor or lawyer, it looked to me to be one of these, stood as his stately wife walked through the door. He flicked his white mustache. But I look at his crotch and wow! That guy had to be a young gigolo before he went to college and got a Law Degree. His wife smiles so wide that her eyes are watering. I would give anyone $59.00 in cash for information on how he does in their bedroom.
Pam has settled down and reading the menu. "Why the smile?" she asks not really wanting to know. "I had a Crotch Challenge," I reply almost whispering. "No more. Okay?" she snaps. I follow her advice, but my games are not for the Feint of Character. They are for the Clinically Bored. My mental games can be of great help for the bored people in Mississippi and throughout the south. I could write a self-help book: "My Crotch Challenge and Other Mental Games," by "Ragin' Ken Austin, the most-controversial, racy, and edgy writer to come out the south. Maybe if I get rich from the royalties I would not be bored. Unless thinking about what to do with endless wealth is boring.
Another dream that I like to play is: Build That Dream. I started a good one in the previous paragraph. I just cannot wait to write it.
Then Pam and I, and your companion, can meet me in Tupelo, Miss., tomorrow night at this place right here, the Olive Garden, and dinner is on us.
Are you game?
© 2018 Kenneth Avery