Black Hole Discovered!
27/02/08 08:31
This
chilling tale, like so many, begins with the wrong
shorts. I was doing laundry and jogging at the same
time*, and the right shorts were dirty, so I wore the
real running
shorts with
the lining and the funky key pocket. I put all my
stuff in the dryer and jammed my ridiculously
long
skeleton key into
my wee little key pocket and took off. The sun shone,
and it was so early in the day (the dawnish hour of
10:30) that I could avoid the dog shit on the
sidewalk by jogging down the middle of the empty
streets. Pausing at a large intersection, I
luxuriated in my healthfulness and comfort. As I
crossed the street, I felt good. Too good. I realized
that the key was no longer poking me from the folds
of the pocket. I patted myself down, and the key was
nowhere to be found. I panicked. Making a skeleton
key for the door of my eighteenth-century apartment
building takes at least 30 euros and the better part
of an afternoon, neither of which I had to spare.
Stunned, I ran back to the laundromat. No key. I
walked slowly, scanning my path. No key. Suddenly
Bordeaux woke up, and the streets were full of
shoppers, strollers, tramps, bored street kids trying
to make their dogs fight, and ever single one of them
had their keys out, jangling, taunting me. My clothes
were done, and I thought my last chance was that
somehow my key had astrally projected itself into the
dryer where it waited for me, warm and maybe a hair
smaller than before.
My
key was not in the dryer, but the thoughts of hair
and warmth put me on the right
track.
In
desperation, I turned away from the other patrons of
the laundromat.
I
pulled down my shorts a little, revealing the
familiar, brassy sheen of my key, which was pulled
into my crotch by the immense gravity of, yes, my
vagina.
I
don't use the pockets in any of my running shorts
anymore.
*And
some of you call yourselves multitaskers because you
have a spreadsheet ready to cover your myspace at
work. Pathetic.
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