DATE: 7/28/2002 09:56:00 PM
Speaking of funny stories (was I? I'm sorry. I'm on my third can of Coke right now and I can't remember), this past week, while visiting my illustrious boyfriend Steve in beautiful Somerset, I witnessed what has to qualify in about the top twenty or so funniest moments of my life.
Now that I've built that up for you and you're sure to be disappointed, let's begin.
A little background: Steve's mom has a health problem or two every now and then, and on the day in question, Friday, she hadn't been feeling well. She said she was thinking about checking herself into the hospital (where she works and is regularly admitted for brief stays, so that was not that big a deal) if she didn't feel better. Meanwhile, Steve has a black lab named Jack, a scrawny little thing due to Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever he contracted during puppyhood, which spared his life but stunted his growth. So the dog has a regular size head and a body that hasn't grown since he was six months old, and a big heavy tail that wags his whole body back and forth almost constantly. It's a goofy dog to begin with.
So Stephen and I had been enjoying a lovely dinner in Newport and a romantic walk along the beach at Brenton Point, before retiring to a rousing evening of Comedy Central Presents at his house. When we walked in the door, Steve, who was ahead of me, let out a horrified gasp that immediately made me think: Oh shit. His mom's passed out on the floor or something.
Steve gasped and fumed and hemmed and hawed and blustered wordlessly for a few moments in disbelief, and I was still trying to peek over his shoulder at what was going on when he finally let out a half-angry, half-incredulous, "JACK!"
Shit, it's the dog that's passed out, I thought next. Until I finally got a look into the far end of the combination dining room/kitchen of the house, and there, wagging his tail and grinning like an idiot (if dogs can grin, that is), is Jack. This was nothing unusual, but for the fact that Jack was greeting us with characteristic enthusiasm from the top of the kitchen table. He was trying to play things off, but, as my dad likes to say, one thing's for shit sure--that dog knew he was busted.
This was where the real fun got going. Storming over to the table, Steve commenced to yelling, flailing his arms about, and Jack started to do a doggie-panic dance on the table, tail still wagging, whining and making weird mewling noises of contrition.
"JACK!! GET OFF THE TABLE!! YOU BAD DOG!!" Steve was yelling. Jack gave him a look as if to say, "I'm workin on it!"
You see, Jack had somehow gotten himself onto the table, but he was damned if he was going to be able to get down. He also seemed aware that this was a hell of a time for that circumstance to make itself clear. Steve kept yelling and flailing, and soon the dog was flailing right back, bouncing from one side of the table to the other, coupons, circulars, mail, newspapers and other kitchen-table detritus spraying out beneath his paws, some of it flying as far as into the living room. The more Steve yelled and flailed, the more perplexed the dog grew, until finally with a mighty leap, he sailed off the table, landing on all four paws with a grunt, and turned to Steve, wagging his tail and licking his chops as if to say, "We cool now?"
Meanwhile, I was giving myself the shits laughing. And no, they were definitely not cool. Jack got banished to the back deck, and it took Steve a good half hour to calm down. My laughing every time I thought about it didn't help much.
"It's not funny!" Steve finally burst out at me. Which, of course, made it that much funnier.
P.S. I think this story, Andy's cellphone story, and just about every funny story, is that much funnier when it ends with one of two things: a) someone saying angrily, "It's not funny!" or b) The heavy-metal guitar riff from Beavis and Butthead. Just a thought.