Wednesday, August 30, 2006

Just another Day at the Swim Club (part I)

It’s been one the hottest summers I can remember on the east coast. It's been the kind of summer you wished you owned a house at the beach. But I don’t own a house at the beach; in fact I’m another missed mortgage payment from not owning a house inland either. The next best thing to the beach is the pool. I don’t have a pool and you’ve probably surmised since I can barely afford the house, I sure as shiite can’t afford a pool. If so, props on the stellar detective work there, Sherlock. However, thanks to massive Home Depot discounting I can afford a garden hose; which like mopeds and fat chicks are real fun until busted while partaking by friends or neighbors.

For the last three summers we’ve belong to the community pool. In that time, it’s dawned on me that the concept of the community pool is to join then just occasionally show up. You never want to be seen at the pool too often. You want to make it seem like joining was just an afterthought, “if we get there, we get there” type deal. To be seen too often implies that you never get invited to weekend barbeques and have no friends with beach houses to feel sorry for you. Of course, the people making such judgments must not have friends either since they are at pool the same amount of time as you.

My wife asked “Are you going to drop the kids off at the pool today?”. Puzzled, I replied “I’m pretty regular so I’ll probably take a dump today, same as yesterday” “Why the sudden concern over my daily output?”

“I meant the swim club, you dick” she countered.

I told her I think all of us should go, since I’m home anyway.

The swim club is an interesting gathering of both people who you’d like to see with less clothing, balanced out by the searing visual impression of people who you’d wish would wear more.

It’s also a place where wives freely bitch about their “useless” husbands to other women with equally useless husbands. They all sit together around a collection of picnic tables all day to do nothing more than bitch and eat from noon to late afternoon. The pool and lifeguards function as the daycare. I happened to be the only useless husband there with his wife on a sunny and warm mid-July Wednesday afternoon. To the other wives that didn’t really matter. I was just collateral damage as they trashed their spouses equally without taking many breaths between rants. The only thing stopping my wife from filibustering in the penis hating session was my presence.

After ball bashing, the girls started trashing the women who were lucky enough not to be there that day. “Jill is fat and lazy”, “Barbara, that skinny bitch is anorexic” “Lisa pops Vicodin like Aspirin” “Marianne’s husband Bob, is banging his secretary”, “That’s because she’s doing the lawn guy, and don’t forget the exterminator”. “Jesus Christ”, I thought to myself. “Did the UPS guy happen to join in on the gangbang over at Marianne and Bob’s place?”

That’s when Michelle, the youngest and the hottest wife (next to mine, of course- she just bought a new laptop with wireless internet) stood up three-quarters facing the other way in her yellow two-piece in full stretch. I don’t think her bikini bottom was supposed to be a thong. But it twas’. The top was slightly undone, so I conveniently dropped one of my son’s toys to the right for a fast lecherous gander. Real or fake? Who cares?

WOW. I was stiffer than George Will at a Ludicrous concert.

Michelle then nonchalantly declares to the foul mouthed Brownie troop “I’m getting my tragi pierced”. Equally stunned and concerned I offer “Do you have to see the gynecologist for that?”

Kim, the big mouth with the big ass to match shoots daggers toward me and barks “It’s the cartilage in the ear, you asshole!!”

I feebly shot back “I take it that’s a no then?”........

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