Corb and I have these rituals, you see. Although my directing a play once again has kind of thrown things off a little bit, there are still things we end up doing at the same exact time and at the same exact place each and every week. Grocery shopping on Sunday morning at Wal-Mart is one of them.
It's certainly not for the ambiance. Or maybe it is? But not in the way you'd think. Because the truth is, people watching can be extremely entertaining at Wally World. I mean, what other place has a web site dedicated to just that thing?
So we're standing in line yesterday, just kind of talking to ourselves (in other words, bickering), and all of a sudden, I realize the guy in front of us at the cash register keeps looking at us. He's Latin, about 45 years old, with a Freddie Mercury kind of moustache. Smoldering eyes. And he keeps looking at us, and looking at us...
Does he know us, I'm asking myself? Corb is totally not aware of it at all, he just keeps talking on and on (I think at that point he was asking me exactly what I planned to do with the photo of Joan Rivers on the latest issue of People magazine. Nothing, I swear!), but for me, it's starting to creep me out. And then I glance down and realize.
Oh. My God.
The guy was wearing a pair of black jogging pants. You know, the kind that are all whooshy and kind of go with the flow? And at first I thought he had a flashlight in his pockets or something, but then I realized that that wouldn't really make sense given the location of the flashlight in proximity to his pockets and then...
"Corb," I whisper. "Check out the guy in front of us."
"What about him?" Corb replies, way too loudly.
"Shhhhhh!" I say, as quietly as possible. "Just look...down."
Seriously! This guy had a huge woody that was dangling there like a fishing pole in a river, waving back and forth, for everyone to see. And the guy didn't even seem to be embarrassed by it or make any effort to conceal it. He just stood there, paying for his food, loading his bags into his shopping cart, talking away, while meanwhile, his huge beef thermometer was just poking out.
It wasn't revealed or anything. No tippage could be seen. Everything was still contained in his pants. And I don't think it was because he simply had a monstrous member and there was no way to conceal it. It was simply...standing up. Saying hello. Handing out tickets to the parade.
I mean, I guess it's natural and it happens to all of us (particularly when you have two good looking hunks such as Corb and myself behind you in the line), but if I were him, I would have made some effort to conceal it. Place my wallet over it. Hide it with a photo of Joan Rivers. Maybe use it for holding up some of your shopping bags. I don't know, something.
I swear, we had to take a cold shower by the time the experience was over. And once Corb noticed it, it was all he could do not to stop staring. (I, on the other hand, have marvelous self-control, as you can clearly tell.)
I felt worse for the cashier. She was clearly not thrilled by the whole thing, although she didn't say a word to us. But her face was beet red and she kind of looked away from us and simply focused on scanning and bagging. She wasn't a young kind or anything, but even so, I'm positive this was a side of the public she really didn't need to see.
I mean, maybe we should have done something more. Called it out, I guess. Alerted security. But what in the world do you say? "Officer, that man has a huge boner in the pants! Arrest him!" And besides, have you seen the security at Wal-Mart? I'm not sure they could have done much.
So Boner Guy got his thrill for the day. Go him.
Corb was telling the story to a friend last night, and she said, "Oh, that's nothing. I'll never forget the time I was standing in line for the register and the lady in front of my squatted down and took a big shit on the floor. I still need therapy for that one!"
Class, I tell you. It takes class.