Walking the stumbling crabby old man's walk that I had somehow acquired after 40-something years on this earth, I made my way into the living room and like a zombie made my way to the nearest computer for my first cyber-fix of the morning. Forget food, forget coffee, I need something electric to get me going in the morning! So I sat down next to the living room desktop, shook the computer awake using the mouse, and there I discovered...
Hmmm, this is interesting. Corb had forgotten to close out his Facebook the night before.
A wicked thought went through my head. So many times, Corb has found my Facebook open. Has he shown mercy? Has he kindly closed my Facebook out as a gentle courtesy?
No. Each and every time, he's made it a point to pretend to be me and posted something ridiculous, I've announced that I once pooped a lampshade, that I have furry man hands, that I want to have Justin Beiber's love child. Sometimes, he's posted four or or five things in a row! And every time I confronted him about it, about the stream of humiliating responses I'd get, he'd just chuckle and think he was the funniest person in the world.
Now, I had access to his Facebook. I had some time for a little revenge.
Giggling to myself, I sat there for a moment, and then I began typing:
"I love Christmas so much that I'm thinking of hanging holiday ornaments from my nipples. What do you think?"
There. There you go. Take that, Corbster! Satisfied with my little post, I closed out of his Facebook and moved on to searching the internet for porn.
About twenty minutes later, Corb came out of the bedroom.
Another twenty minutes later. "Oh, aren't you funny?"
I just smiled innocently. But here's the thing...he couldn't delete it, exactly. Every time he's hijacked my Facebook, he's yelled at me if I tried to delete his ridiculousness, telling me I couldn't take a joke, that I was taking it too seriously, that it didn't matter if people at work or reporters I was friendly with or small homeless waifs could read something like, "I like to fart at traffic lights" and think I was the person who posted it, they'd figure out it was Corb and think he was so cute and funny and mischievous that all would be forgiven and understood.
In other words, Corb was bound by his own rules. And I was loving every minute of it.
About an hour later, it began. "Ted, my cousin Shelley just texted me from church," he said. "She wants to know why I want to hang holiday ornaments from my nipples."
I turned around, serious as could be. "You know, I've wondered the same thing, Corb. Why do you want to hang holiday ornaments from your nipples?"
Corb frowned. "Ted."
"I mean, I know you're filled with the holiday spirit and all, but really now? Wouldn't they be kind of bulky and painful?"
"And who would really see them, anyways? I mean, unless you go shirtless, which I know you're not going to do. Right?"
Another half an hour went by. Corb is sitting at the computer, slurping down a bowl of Cheerios. Suddenly: "Oh my God, you're not going to believe what my friend big gay Matt posted. He read the post and told me not to forget about the Christmas cockwreath!"
I turned away, trying not to grin.
"Ted, what if the people at my work read this? I just became a supervisor there, after all! I can't let them think I want to dangle holiday ornaments from my nipples. Ted, that would be really bad!"
I looked over, saw the stricken look on his face. I relented and allowed him to delete the post.
I am, after all, a kind and gentle man at heart. But let me tell you something...it really did feel awfully good to have that shoe on the other foot for just a few hours of my life.