Toes, Colons and G-brats

   Written by on August 3, 2017 at 9:45 am
The stories in this column are true. Averett lives a dull life in rural Southside Virginia with his wife Management, two children and a rotating assortment of goats, dogs, cats, snakes and other local fauna.

The stories in this column are true. Averett lives a dull life in rural Southside Virginia with his wife Management, two children and a rotating assortment of goats, dogs, cats, snakes and other local fauna.

Last week we went to the beach with the family and Grand-brats. It wasn’t a good time for us to leave but the house rental was paid last year and I’m too cheap not to use something that is already paid for unless I can get a refund or I can sell it first.

We had a nice time, which means the G-brats had a nice time. The rest of us spent the week keeping them from drowning.  There IS a reason my bride Management calls them Fearless, Dauntless and Reckless.  We returned home with the same number of G-brats we took which was a miracle in itself.

The first night Management and I attended a sales scam I mean a seminar for vacation rentals. They guaranteed that if we gave them three thousand dollars they would save us more than that in a few years.  Since we won’t be vacationing next year and don’t have a spare three thousand I thought that might not be realistic. Besides when we do vacation we vacation cheap.  On the positive side they gave us a free seafood dinner coupon, a coupon for a free vacation (with strings attached) and another one for a free cruise (with even more strings).

We ate the dinner and threw the other coupons away strings and all.

You may remember that when I am in charge of children of any kind, and especially those who share my DNA, I wear them out counting them. I’d put them on one of those fan leashes like the Inuits use for sled dogs but they would chew themselves loose.

In any case, they were playing on the shore and I was in the water.  After counting one two three and getting ready to start over, Number One was missing. Just three seconds earlier he was on the beach and now he wasn’t.  I ran from the water leaving a wake and causing sideways waves that threatened another family.

In the process I stepped on a clump of oyster shells cutting my foot and folding my big toenail back. Fortunately, I was too intent of finding the G-brat to scream.  The G-brat was fine as they usually are but when it comes to them I don’t take chances.

Since turning 62 and becoming an official Old Codger I am attempting to avoid spending any time talking about my health which is just one of the many annoying things many of us Codgers do. I do have to admit that when I awakened on my 62nd birthday I had an intense urge to discuss my colon with anyone I could corner. So far I have resisted that urge.  It is a fact that many old codgers have that affliction which is a preoccupation with and a compulsion to discuss their colons even if nothing is wrong with them.

As a side note, last year just after he turned 62, my brother had part of his colon removed. Now he has a semi-colon.

There was once a guy named Christoforo Colombo who changed his name to Colon, discovered the West Indies for Spain and then had his name changed to Columbus. I, for one, am glad he did or we would be celebrating Colon Day every October.

I returned home from the beach with my injured toe intact although slightly lacerated and missing some of the nail.    

Anytime I injure one of my feet the people who have fetishes with my bare feet feel obligated to inform me, “If you were wearing boots that wouldn’t have happened.”  In this case that may be true.  If I had been swimming with my boots on it wouldn’t have happened. I would have drowned instead.

The odd fact is almost every time I injure my feet it is when I am doing something that normal people do while not wearing shoes.  Last year I tripped on the baby bed when getting up to change a diaper.  The year before one of the G-brats apparently named “Not Me” dropped a glass and didn’t tell anyone.

One option for the pervs who are so concerned with my bare feet is as soon as they start with “If you…” is to put on a pair of boots and kick them. The problem is that kicking them would hurt my sore toe.

This time instead of being annoyed with them,   I am just going to tie them up, put boots on them and drop them in the ocean and say, “If you weren’t wearing boots …”

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