I am generally too humiliated to tell this story, but on the occasions where I have had enough drinks to tell it at parties, it always gets a laugh at my expense, even though I am definitely, irrevocably going to hell. It is only at the request of several friends that I am writing this. And I already know I have doomed my eternal soul for it, so please don’t write me and tell me that.
Here’s the scene: I’ve been partying for two weeks in Hawaii with my brother. I managed, at one point, to fall asleep on the beach and my entire back including my ass and all, is covered in blisters. I have spent the last two days rubbing aloe vera on my ass, cursing, and wearing a muumuu. That’s right, I went fat Homer Simpson style in a flowered robe, because it didn’t touch my back much. The night before our red-eye flight home, we stay out too late and can’t sleep on the flight either, so when we get to our San Francisco layover, I have been awake for about 30 hours, my ass is peeling, I’m wearing a muumuu for the fourth day in a row, and I am in generally poor humor.
The San Fran airport is gi-normous, and we have approximately five minutes to get from one gate to the next, and they are about two miles apart. So we’re booking it through the airport as fast as our little legs will carry us, in a throng of people speeding in all directions. I’ve got a rolling suitcase and an enormous forty pound purse that I’m dragging along.
Since we were kids, my brother’s favorite trick to make me insane is, when we’re walking someplace and there’s no way I will be able to get around him, to get in front of me and slow down, forcing me to either slow down or step on his heels. I HATE when he does this, and have told him so, ergo he does it with more glee each time. So as I’m carrying my bright red ass through the airport at warp speed, he does this. Gets in front of me in this giant crowd of people and slows down. I growl “Bro, I am NOT in the mood for this.” I hear him laugh. Oooooooh, it’s on.
I say, a little louder “I’m warning you!” and flat-tire one of his shoes. (That’s when you step on the back of someone’s shoe so hard that their heel comes out and they have to walk on the back of their shoe.) I hear him laugh again. He still has not sped up. He is dragging one of his feet like he’s fucking Igor or something. I say “I swear to God, I’m going to beat your ass!” I flat-tire his other shoe, hard enough to scrape the skin off of his Achilles tendon. He is now bleeding and has two flat tires. More giggling. Still no more speed. I lose it. I bellow “Stop walking like a fucking retard!” and proceed to heft my forty pound purse and round-house him in a giant arc, right between the shoulder blades. He falls over. Only….
After he falls over and turns around to face me, I realize that IT’S NOT MY BROTHER. It is a complete stranger. And the reason he was walking funny? HE HAS A CLUB FOOT. I have clubbed a handicapped person in front of Jesus and everyone.
Mortified, I burst into tears as my brother (who was indeed who I heard giggling, but from off to one side of me), helps the poor man up. I blubber “I’m so sorry, I thought you were someone else!” The man snaps “I should hope that you wouldn’t purposely treat ANYONE that way.” At any rate, we get him dusted off and reassembled, and get on the plane, and I am still crying; I’m so humiliated. My brother turns to me as the plane is taking off and smugly says “You’re going to hell.” I said “I heard you laughing the entire time! How could you let me do that?!?” He says, as if it were the most sensible thing in the world, “Well, I didn’t think you were going to HIT HIM!” I wail “I wasn’t hitting him, I was hitting YOU!”
Yes, I am a stellar example to humanity. *sigh*