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The Bang Bang Theories


Reader, you may or may not know this about My Mister, but he is not the … tidiest…. of dining companions.  He’s the reason I can never eat at the Captain’s Table when we cruise.

Because “messy” is using a kind adjective.

Now, this isn’t meant as a bash-the-man post, it’s merely a statement of fact.  Some people have good dining skills.  Some are still working on them. He’s in that category.

Case in point.

While dining at one of our neighborhood Chinese restaurants a few weeks back, My Mister went to empty his leftovers into the to-go container and as he rushed through the process like a bull in a Chinese-food shop, he happened to spill a good portion of his rice all over the floor.

“Uh-oh,” he expressed with some regret over creating a mess for the waitress to clean.

And then?

He started kicking the rice to my side of the table.

Me: “What. The. Fuck. Are you doing over there??”

MM: “I’m kicking the rice to your side of the table so the waitress thinks you did it.”

Because that’s how we show love in our relationship. Shirk the blame on the other.

Me, sitting back in the chair, “Okay, David Chipwack!”

MM: “Who the hell is David Chipwack?”

Me: “YOU. You are David Chipwacking me!”

And then I went on to explain.

Back in elementary school, when I attended the auspicious Cleveland Public School system, I had a 3rd grade classmate named David Chipwack. He was a really large kid, with droopy pants and he sort of lumbered though the hallways, he was a little on the dirty looking side, and he was constantly digging in his butt. I think he may have even had a five o’clock shadow.

Our desks were arranged in small groups, with 4 desks to a little pod, facing each other.

Because “Bang Bang” starts with a “B” and “Chipwack” begins with a “C” we were in a pod together.

Lucky, Lucky Me.

And one day during a test I noticed David Chipwack was studying my paper very hard, and was in the process of doing an upside-down copying of my name.  On to his test paper.

Me, to Chipwack: “What. The. Fuck. Are. You DOING, Buttdigger??!”

Well, probably 3rd Grade Me didn’t say it in quite those words, but the intent was the same.

Chipwack: “I’m putting YOUR name on MY test so YOU get an F.”  And then he let loose with a heavy and way-too-deep-for-third-grade guffaw and ran his butt-digger fingers through his beard.

Reader. That is some cold, diabolical shit right there.

I was the Teacher’s Pet back then. A-student. Long hair with matching bow braided in. Eraser-clapper. Door monitor. Goody-goody two-shoes.

And Chipwack really hated me for all my glory.  To the point he was trying to help me FAIL.

Now, it wasn’t a well-thought-through plan that he devised, because then there would be two tests with my name on them and none with his, but his third-grade brain only knew that I must fail.  So I smugly turned my paper around so he could properly spell my name, gave him a “go for it, douchebag” nod, and played with my ribboned braid until he was finished.

Well, that’s how I’d like to think that ended, but it’s a lot more likely I loudly screamed, ‘STOP WRITING MY NAME, CHIPWACK!!” and the teacher came over and smacked him with a ruler.

Now? My Mister is my new Chipwack, sans the butt digging, intent on blaming his Messy-Marvin Meals on me. Except this plan wasn’t well-thought out either, because the rice got trapped by the table leg and remained on his side despite his best kicking efforts.

And Goody-Two-Shoes Me? Really did sit back and laugh and laugh once again at the foiled attempt to fail me. Because I’m the Unsinkable Trixie Bang Bang. And no amount of Chipwacking is going to bring this girl down. Or put rice under her seat. I think there’s a life analogy buried in there somewhere, if you dig deep enough. Maybe that’s what David Chipwack was trying to find all along, buried up his ass.

*Yes, Reader, of course I’ve tried to find David Chipwack on Facebook. No luck.  Or maybe that is the luck.  If he accomplished nothing else in life, he did make a name for himself, stuck in my brain all these years later. 



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