When I was a kid my best friend was Pat. That kid was absolutely FEARLESS. He would climb towering trees when the rest of us quit only half way up. He wasn't squeamish either. He took right to cleaning fish and would even throw the guts at the rest of us. He handled bugs and snakes and creepy crawlers like pets.
His mother was just as demented as he was and us kids loved her for it. One day I was up in the kitchen chowing down on one of her cookies while Pat went downstairs to get his BB gun. While he was gone she said - right outta the blue, "Filthie, did you know that Pat still shits his pants?" I remember I almost choked on my cookie. "Oh yes! There's skid marks all over his underwear! And I gotta clean the damn things when I do laundry!"
I was just flat footed. Problem was I couldn't say nothing because half the time my gonch was spackled and streaked with skid marks too! "You can help me teach him a lesson, Glen! His last pair were so bad, and I got so mad I stuck them to the wall of his bedroom! When he sees that he'll be so ashamed of himself, he'll take extra care with the TP next time! You can help me by razzing him and making fun of him!"
I couldn't say anything to that either. Any woman that can handle tarred shorts deserves the respect due an immortal. I was astonished to be hearing this.
We went silent then and listened as Pat scrabbled around in his room - and then began to shout. "Mom!!!! Mooooooooom!!! Filthie!!!! Ya gotta come see this!!! There is so much chit in my shorts - they actually stick to the wall!!! Come down and see....!!!!!" Pat couldn't have been more pleased with himself... and his mother put her head in her hands and tried not to weep.
I went downstairs and sure enough, there was a white pair of Fruit Of The Looms pasted to the wall, and Pat bragged about it for days afterward.
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