The Shot

So I think my delicate flower of a southern Granny might be secretly reading this blog because I got an e-mail from her OUT OF THE BLUE suggesting that I might want to have some sort of gastro-intestinal surgery to correct my abhorrent flatulence.

This makes me realize that I have spent a lot of time writing about my public announcement system and / or poo recently, and that I have failed to point out that while I am able to achieve great VOLUME, it is not in the least bit offensive because I produce a smell quite like Night Blooming Jasmine.

Ask anyone.

Ahem.

At any rate, I think I should leave all subjects related to butts alone today and focus instead on underwear.

Specifically, fun with men’s briefs…

Here at House of Joy we are avid fans of the book, “A Prayer for Owen Meany” by John Irving.

We’re such big fans, in fact, that if my husband and I were being honest we would have to admit that our son The Mayor is named from the book.

“I am doomed to remember a boy with a wrecked voice- not because of his voice,
or because he was the smallest person I ever knew, or even because he was the
instrument of my mother’s death, but because he is the reason I believe in God;
I am a Christian because of Owen Meany”

John Irving

I remember the first time I read the book thinking, “What IS Owen’s obsession with THE SHOT about?” only to sob and sob at the book’s end.

But I digress, this is not a literary review, this is a story about underwear.

The King of the House of Joy (also known as He Who Does Not Live in Spain) has his own SHOT.

Like Owen Meany, K has been practicing and working on his SHOT for YEARS. Each night, when he is getting undressed for bed, he takes off his underwear, balls it up in his hands, calculates the exact trajectory from the ceiling fan to the hamper, does some advanced mathematical problem solving related to triangulation and then… he shoots.

He flings the underwear up towards the ceiling fan in the hopes that they will catch on a blade, take a flying spin around the room, fly off, and land in the hamper.

(Need I say, “Oh, The Joys” here?)

Night after night, THE SHOT.

Obsessed, I tell you. Obsessed.

Last night…he shoots… HE SCORES!!!!!

The husband paraded around the room completely naked, both hands in the air, head thrown back like a true champion.

The crowd went wild.

He is an instrument of God.