It’s Not Lost, It’s Just Misplaced
by Ken Carpenter
The time has come for all good men to be afraid, be very afraid. There is boobery afoot Watson, and anybody who brushes up against it is in danger of losing their mind. Or their wallet, shoes, rake, underwear or anything not tied down with a locked cable some doof has already lost the key for.
Before I get into the specifics of the boobery in question, I should lay a little groundwork. I have been single now for going on five years, and during that time I have reached at least one irrefutable fact. Most men, mainly meaning me, cannot find their own rear end with both hands once they enter their own house, car, shed or anything else belonging to them.
There are things in my house that have been lost for, oh, about five years, and I have little hope of ever finding them unless I pay a female to come in and sniff them out. Of course, I can’t remember what they are so there is really no point in pursuing it any further, at least until I misplace something else in an hour or so.
The problem is, if I don’t get a sniffer in here within an hour after the misplacing I will have forgotten what was lost, so I have gotten use to writing things off as gone for good as soon as they come up missing.
A couple months ago I went to a softball tournament in Troy, Montana, when a team had a sudden need for an old, slow, dude with no power and knew just who to call. I survived the weekend with no new divots in the body, packed my gear, and came home.
The next night I went to my men’s league game and made a revolting discovery. Some fiend had stolen my expensive, stinky, hotter than Hades but very necessary knee brace! I ransacked the car, then tore the house apart when I got home, and it was nowhere to be found. Saints preserve us from thieving wretches!
My son, eternal skeptic, told me I did something dumb with it. The next day at the office one of the ladies I work with, another famous skeptic, listened to my tale and informed me in no uncertain terms that nobody stole my brace and that I probably did something dumb with it. I snorted and left.
Three weeks later, after taping my knee up like a mummy for every game, I slid my bat into its long narrow chamber of the bat bag and met some resistance. Peering in the opening I was mortified and relieved all at once to see my stolen knee brace down in the bowels of the bat chamber.
My son shook his head with disgust when I told him, and I still haven’t told the other doubting Thomasina. I imagine after today she will have a snort or two for me to deal with.
Last week I went to another softball tournament, in Kalispell this time, and within five minutes of arriving at the campground I lost my wallet. Once again I was reduced to totally ransacking everything in the car, but to no avail. Deep down I knew it was there, but eventually I gave up and wrote it off.
The day after getting home I was driving to town when suddenly a white parking tag fell out of an opening under the stereo and landed up against the shifter. Hellllo, I thought. Isn’t that the tag that was missing with my wallet? I felt in the little slot and was once again was mortified and relieved to feel my sneaky wallet hiding at the back.
The thing is, that should have been the third or fourth place I looked and I somehow never did. If I had any sense I would have let a woman sit in the driver’s seat for two minutes after I lost it, and they would have found it easy. Instead, I devote another few days of my life announcing my moronic talents to the world.
I think maybe I am beyond all help at this point, but I guess there is nothing else to do but keep winging it. It didn’t help my confidence any to lock up the car last night, thief protection you know, and come out the next morning to discover both front windows wide open.
Hey, somebody stole the garbage out of my car!