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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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August /
September 2006 Contest Results |
The
Waterboy
By Brad Manzo,
New York
I remember as a
child my father coming home from work and the following scene unfolding:
My father would remove his shoes, grab the newspaper and head to the
bathroom with the hopes of finding a few minutes of solitude. However,
when my father seemingly reached the Promised Land (an empty bathroom
and no kids in sight), my mother would smack him back into reality.
“Before you get comfortable, can you take out the garbage?”
If it wasn’t
the garbage, then it was driving the kids to soccer or baseball
practice, or picking up the dry cleaning. Either way, as I heard him
groan, yell, “oh, crap,” and re-zip his fly, he wasn’t pleased.
Now, as an adult, my life has come full circle. I’m now the one
searching for a few minutes of peace any way I can get it. The
circumstances are slightly different but the outcome is the same.
My wife is a great, supportive woman, but just as my mother did, my wife
has a gift. She knows when I’m ready to sit and relax, and then, like a
lion that’s found its prey, she strikes. “Can you get me a glass of
water?” she says in her thick New York accent.
This wouldn’t be so bad once or twice an evening, however, my wife
drinks more water than any human being I have ever seen. I could see
being the waterboy for a professional sports team; that might actually
be cool. At least I’d get to hang out with some of my heroes. However,
when I get water for my wife it’s just a temporary fix for a water
junkie. “How long till the next water high?” I ask myself. Usually,
before I can finish the thought, I’m refilling her glass.
I must admit though, I have made progress. Several months ago, my wife
decided that she needed an office-size water cooler. This is great. I no
longer have to fill a water pitcher 10 times a day. Now if I could only
figure out a way to have water pumped into her glass continuously, my
worries would be over...or maybe not.
I’ve found that my role as waterboy takes different forms in different
places. For example, at dinner parties, I become saladboy—able to leap
small children and obese women blocking the salad dressing, in a single
bound. I even have a cape made out of croutons. Beware, saladboy turns
back into a mere mortal upon encountering Kryptonite, or if he forgets
the olives.
Saladboy then gives way to chocolateman. Cholcolateman may shoulder the
greatest responsibility of all—finding the largest piece of chocolate
cake available. If chocolateman fails in his mission, he is likely to
hear, “you call that a piece of cake?” In other words, what kind of a
man are you? It’s inconsequential that I waited in line and elbowed my
way past lesser chocolatemen. It’s the size of the piece that counts
(and the vicious cycle continues).
I’m thinking of starting a support group to champion my cause. However,
I don’t think anyone would show up. Millions of men around the world
would reach the front doors of their homes, and then be summoned back by
their wives to take out the trash, open a jar, or retrieve a bowl from
the highest shelf in the house.
“Oh well, a guy can dream, can’t he?” I mutter to myself on the way back
to the water cooler.
www.bradmanzo.com
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