Sherry and I had a discussion about beans recently.
Sherry said, “I don’t cook beans for you because they give you gas. The last time I fixed beans we spent more on Febreze than we did on food.”
“You’re exaggerating,” I told her.
“No, I’m not. We didn’t even clean the old air conditioning filters. I threw them away and bought new ones. I’ll compromise, though. I’ll make beans for you on special occasions and holidays.”
Yesterday as I drove past El Fogón Restaurant I smelled stew beans and could not resist stopping in. “It’s my birthday and I deserve this,” I said to myself as I ate three bowls of those delicious beans.
At home Sherry said, “I have a birthday surprise for you.”
She sat me down at the table and said, “You’re going to love this.”
“Oh, God, no!” I thought. “She’s made beans! What am I going to do?”
She slipped a blindfold over my eyes and said, “Now, don’t move. Oh, my phone is ringing. I’ll be right back.”
I knew I was in trouble because as soon as she walked out of the room it felt like a World Cup football player had kicked me right in the gut. I passed gas that sounded like a motorcycle with a bad muffler and made me check my pants to make sure they weren’t ripped. I could hear Sherry still on the phone in the bedroom so I raised one butt cheek off the chair for relief. The result sounded like I had sat down on a cat and the room suddenly smelled like cooked cabbage. One more made noises like the big water jug when it’s turned upside down and brought tears to my eyes even under the blindfold. I felt for the napkin and waved it around and Sherry soon walked in.
“Surprise!” she said as she pulled the blindfold off.
Twelve people standing around the table started singing, “Happy birthday to you . . .”
Share
Read more
