Good Luck Summer

A dog sneezed and I heard its tongue slap off of its lips and snout as it walked by. The sun rested heavy on my body like the extra blanket my grandma would always insist I use over an already sweltering down comforter, “just in case it got chilly.” The group to my right was laughing and drinking beer and so was the group to my left. I felt the former were having a better time––topical humour and a charming duo of duelling Scottish accents swung it in their favour. I didn’t need to open my eyes to see how beautiful it was outside. The park was teeming with sounds of life, the grass was soft and the only thing I had to worry about was maybe getting shit on by a bird.


Initially I thought he was slurring the word “Camel,” like maybe he wanted a cigarette and decided to proposition all in attendance, but after being asked by the comedian on stage to repeat himself several times the words finally came out; fully enunciated and surprisingly clear, like a patio door to a black bird:

“Cameo, lemme do a cameo.” That’s when he approached the stage and the comedian, seemingly in awe of his stupidity, handed him the microphone.

Then began a rambling flop of a joke that had no beginning or destination, just a clump of words falling from his drunken, blathering lips. Eventually his face froze as if it had short-circuited. He had hit a wall. A Tim Allen-esque grunt voided his body like the bowels of the recently deceased. He returned the mic and wobbled over to his table while the comedian jumped back into her set while grappling with the incredulity of what had just happened.

When the host took the stage he made the very important observation that the cameo comedian bore a striking resemblance to Draco Malfoy. As Draco loudly appealed to those who were cursed with sitting near him the reasoning behind his interruption (“…things felt tense, I wus jus’ tryin’ to lighten the mood.”) I took out my phone and Googled “spell from Harry Potter that makes people shut the fuck up.”


At first it was sincere excitement, I had finally found a quality pair of pants. The rarity of this should be noted––for me to find a pair with the right fit, loose but not saggy around my bulbous ass and thighs, is hard enough as it is, but to find ones that also stretch––this was momentous. I told the cashier that it was tough to decide between the “Modern” and the “Classic” fit but that I thought I ultimately made the right choice. He was surprisingly dismissive, responding only in grunt, which forced me to dive into greater detail.

“You know, sometimes you just need a little more space for your legs and I really believe the Classic fit does that for me.”


“I mean look at the stretch on ‘em! Look at how far I’m squatting down! Look! These are brand new! Didn’t even have to break ‘em in!”


“And this colour, what is it, like a deep navy? This is perfect. Not dark enough for the sun to bake my legs when I’m outside but dark enough to hide any stains.”


“You know how when you pee but you don’t pee it all out and you dribble a bit in your pants? I do that sometimes. I don’t think it’s a prostate thing. Either way, no one will be able to tell in these!”

“What? Yah, sure, they’re nice pants.” He finally conceded. Satisfied, I paid and left.