586. In the pub
© Bruce Goodman 19 May 2015
Yeah, well, I was sitting in the pub at a table over by the window with some mates, and this really old guy, about sixty I reckon, is walking around with a cardboard box and collecting the rubbish from the tables. Then he comes back and collects empty glasses, and wipes the tables. But the thing is, his trousers are halfway down his backside and you can see his crack.
And he keeps pulling his trousers us a bit with his spare hand, but by the time he starts putting stuff into the cardboard box with both hands the trousers slip down again and you can see his crack.
“That’s one hell of a huge crack you got there mate,” I said.
“What is it to you?” he said.
“Nothing,” I said. “I just said you got one big fucking crack.”
“Well it’s none of your business,” said the old man. “If you don’t like it, look the other way.”
“No need to go ape-shit at me,” I said. “I just said you got a big crack. Don’t you think,” I said to my mates at the table, “don’t you think he’s got a huge fucking crack?”
Anyway, I’m writing this from my hospital bed where I’ve got a broken nose and they’ve wired up my jaw.