The Naked Running Man

One morning when I lived in my old apartment, the one with all the elderlies, I decided to walk down to Benny's Bagels for a breakfast sandwich, some coffee, and a newspaper. I used to go to Benny's a lot, because the bagels are pretty decent there, and because the guy who works there is nice. We don't know his name, we just call him Chef because he looks like Chef on Southpark. He is also the lowest of all low talkers in the histrory of low talkers. He makes Kev seem like a real loudmouth. Chef's mouth moves, but all that seems to come out is a low-frequency series of grumbly sounds. We learned quickly that we have to be very clear when placing our order with Chef, because if he has any questions, we won't know what he's asking. Anyway, I don't go there much anymore, because one day I was sitting at the bar by the window and I saw some ants. I don't care for ants, especially when they are near my food. But on this day, there were no ants, so I enjoyed my sandwich, coffee, paper, and visit with Chef, and headed home happy.

For some reason, I took a different route home than usual. I decided to walk up La Vista, which is a sort of busy street with mansions and stuff to look at. As I was walking, I noticed that a girl was walking toward me on the other side of La Vista, kinda by Swiss Ave, if you know the neighborhood. She was wearing a black t-shirt dress, which reminded me of high school. It got me to thinking about how during our junior year, a couple of times a week, Mrs. Harper, our first period Bible as Literature teacher, would parade my friend Whitney out into the hall and make her stand with her arms at her sides to see if her fingertips went beyond the bottom of her t-shirt dress or mini skirt. Inevitably, Whitney, who was lucky enough to be tall with long arms and fingers, would be sent home to change, while the rest of us discussed the literary merit of Jesus' parables, or somesuch. If I had been wearing the same thing, my fingertips wouldn't have come near the bottom, and I'd have had to stay. No danger of that, though. I pretty much only wore jeans and concert shirts that year.

So anyway, as I was thinking of poor Mrs. Harper, I started to notice that something about the girl across the street didn't look quite right. She looked very beaten down and forlorn, as if she'd had a really bad night the night before. Then, on closer inspection, I saw that she wasn't a girl at all. She was a dude! In a dress!. Now, this was too much.

By now, the dude in the dress was approaching the car wash, where a girl was spraying her car. I was just about directly across the street. Suddenly, the dude grabbed his dress at the bottom, and pulled it up over his head and took it off, and underneath he was COMPLETELY naked. All he was wearing now was some black tennis shoes, which he used to run down the alley behind the carwash, never to be seen again, at least by me. And thank goodness for that! It was quite a shocking sight on that nice sunny Saturday morning.

Anyway, then I saw some people a few houses up. They were having a garage sale, and they had a little kid, so I went and told them to keep an eye out because there was a naked man running around. And then I went home and probably called Kev.

I hope I haven't told this story before. I am starting to forget what I've already blogged. Have a good weekend, and watch out for streakers.