Pops shows up at my house yesterday and throws a bag at me, telling me he made a big score. I know it ain't weed and it's really got my curiosity up, so I open it up. There's a box of 22-250 Boattails, a fly box, and a set of desert camouflage - shirts and pants.
"I know you're hunting high desert in a couple of weeks, so I thought these might come in handy" he says.
I thank him, he steals a six pack and leaves.
Today I got around to trying on my new hunting britches and shirt. What the fuck? I can't even get the pants up around my ass and forget about buttoning the shirt.
So I check the size. The pants are a 30 inch waist and the shirt is a medium long.
Nice try Pops, but I haven't been able to fit into those clothes since I was like maybe 12. I mean, I wear a 34 inch waist and an Xlarge shirt and a 2X if I want to carry my 45.
Now I'm wondering if he still thinks I'm his little boy, if he finally caught that Alzheimer's that I hear is going around, or if he was just fucking with me.
Is it possible they're HIS size? "Oh, They don't fit? Well, let me try 'em"
ReplyDeleteKinda like buyin' your old lady a that cordless drill, the one you've been wanting, for her birthday.
Heh
Totally fucking with you. Well played, pops.
ReplyDeleteyou KNOW he was laughing his ass off all the way home, and then later while drinking your beer!
ReplyDelete